I get Knox situated in his chair, and on the other side of me, Everly is using crayons to draw a picture on a piece of paper.
Everyone is quiet as they process this information, and I start to feel bad. I hope I didn't ruin family dinner. Vivi makes one more trip to the kitchen for the warmed taco shells, and on her way by me, she flicks my ear with her middle finger.
I sigh, hating that I'm having to bring this up, but I know I have to get all the words out, so my mother understands why I've said anything. And Vivi, too.
"The host, Mallory Hawkins, claims she only wants to have a conversation with me about Dad. According to her, her show has helped family members work through their grief about unsolved cases, and in some instances, has helped solve a few." This is from her most recent email, verbatim. The one I read, then promptly deleted.
My mother's hands are in her lap, her eyes on me. "But you've ignored her?"
I nod.
"Why?"
"Because I don't see the point of talking with her. The past is in the past. Why drag it back up?"
"Exactly," Vivi snaps, losing her patience. "Why are you telling Mom all this?"
"Because she's here, in Olive Township." At Vivi's obvious confusion, I add, "The host, I mean. Mallory." My elbows meet the table, my chin resting on fisted hands. I might appear calm on the outside, but on the inside, I'm a wreck, trying to reconcile the person who wrote those emails with the person I met today in Sammich.BeforeI knew who she really was.
Vivi blows out a harsh breath. "Of course she is. Apparently you ignoring her for months wasn't enough of a message." Vivi grabs a taco shell, roughly spooning beef inside. The hard shell cracks in two, and she drops it onto her plate.
"Mommy's making her taco into a tostada," Everly comments. She picks up a piece of diced tomato, removes the seed, and eats it. I hand her a napkin, but she wipes her hand bearing the seed on her pants, grinning at me.
I shake my head in warning, fighting an indulgent smile.
"Why can't she leave us alone?" Vivi moves forward with fixing her plate. "What is her interest in Dad's case, specifically?"
"I don't know if it extends beyond basic curiosity." There have been people over the years, true crime junkies who have shown up at Summerhill. Mostly, they pretend to be here for one of the tours we offer, or meander through the store on our property.They pretend to be interested in the olive mill, but inevitably conversation and questions take a turn to Simon De la Vega. It's exhausting, and a poke at a wound that will never fully heal. In these moments, I would love more than anything to knock the overly curious people onto their asses, but I think of my dad and how he would want Summerhill to be represented. And then I shake my head and politely say,"That topic is not up for discussion. I hope you enjoyed your tour."
I understand the allure. It's the same reason people slow down to look at car accidents. Part morbid fascination, part learning opportunity.What did they do wrong, so I don't make the same mistake?Only, my dad didn't error. He did nothing wrong that day. The best the detectives could tell, it was a crime of opportunity. Someone depraved.
It sickens me to think of it, a repugnance that hasn't faded with time. I cannot comprehend taking someone's life, especially when they are unarmed, and non-threatening.
Hurting nothing, and nobody.
Only once in my life have I hit somebody, and it was to defend a woman from unwanted advances. Even the sport I chose was civilized. As the saying goes, I'm a lover, not a fighter.
But on nights when I can't sleep, my mind drifts, and I envision meeting the person who killed my dad. In my imagination, I become somebody I don't know if I could ever be. The violence I'm capable of in my fantasy is frightening.
“Find out why she’s here.” My mother speaks with a calmness that unnerves me.
"Mom, are you sure?"
We've never given interviews, or spoken with anybody about my dad. As a family, we decided enough was enough. All the so-called journalists invading our town, the true crime shows, the amateur sleuths, we've said no to them all. There's only so much mud a person can stand to be dragged through, and bringing it up time and time again was stunting us. You can't heal from such a horror if you constantly relive it.
I glance at Aunt Carmen, attempting to get a read on her reaction. She might be my dad's sister, but she's my mom's best friend. She’s the reason my parents met. Her face is blank now, watching my mom carefully.
"If she has emailed you four times, it's more than typical curiosity," my mom points out. "And then for her to come here?" She ends her sentence with raised eyebrows.
"She says she’s here for the spa." It could be a lie, but it's one that is easily verifiable. I know the owners, and the girl who works the front desk. Vivi knows the kitchen staff who work at the on-site café.
Vivi gives me acome onlook. "That cannot be true."
I shrug. "She claims to have a massage and a facial scheduled for tomorrow."
Vivi crosses her arms.
"Mommy is mad." Everly giggles.
