I pop the trunk with my key fob, and when I get to the back of my car, Hugo is already there, lifting my small suitcase and setting it on the ground. Without a word, he heads for the sidewalk and sets off.
"So, what do you?—"
"This is a silent walk," he clips, cutting me off.
Silent walk? What kind of horseshit is that?
I want to talk. Ask all the questions. I'm brimming with queries. Dying to hear him speak about almost anything, because there is so much to be gleaned from idle chatter.
But, no. The guy is a fortress.
One block down and to the right, sits the Olive Inn. I pause when we reach it, but not Hugo. He pivots, begins retracing his steps. I take a deep breath, knowing this might be my final opportunity, and I have to exhaust every last option.
"Hugo," I call after him.
He stops. Turns around slowly. Looks me in the eyes.
With finality, he says, "No, Mallory."
Hugo leaves me in front of the small hotel with little more than a gesture at the place and a tersegoodbye. Our first in-person meeting was only marginally better than all those deleted emails.
The check-in process is smooth,consisting of little more than producing a driver's license and credit card. Olive Inn is quaint, as the name suggests, but not out of date. The lobby has gleaming wood floors, a stone fireplace, and charcoal drawings of olive branches on the wall above a plush leather couch. It's homier than a typical hotel check-in, and smells of something resinous and earthy. A peek at the candle burning on the check-in desk tells me the scent isDesert Rain.
The day manager, Karen, wears a warm smile and gestures with her hands as she spouts directions to my room. Her right hand lifts when she tells me to make aleft, and her left hand lifts when she tells me to make a right. It's endearing. I like her immediately.
"Unfortunately, the hotel doesn't have its own restaurant," she says, like it's an afterthought as I'm stepping away. "But there's a guide to the town on the table in the room. And if you need anything, the night manager's name is Braxton. He'll be here soon."
I thank her and walk in the direction she's pointed me, hoping to find my room despite her jumbled instructions. It's a small place, maybe twenty-five rooms. Turns out, I could have found room seventeen without a single direction from anybody. I let myself in, giving my wheeled luggage a push with my foot. It's a basic room with a king bed, a nightstand, and a small desk and chair. The only thing of note is a framed original town map on the wall opposite the bed. Sidestepping my luggage where it has rolled to the middle of the room, I stand before the map.
Olive Township, 1959.
Summerhill Olive Mill stands proud in the west, peering over the rest of the town. The main road, Olive Avenue, runs through the center of town, and reminds me my car is still parked in one of the spaces on the street. A few store names buffet Olive Avenue, and a mass of house-shaped boxes designate a neighborhood. One large home takes the space of all the other houses, the scrawl beneath it readingHampton House.A hotel, maybe? To the east, a farm spreads, with the wordsSt. James Farm.Smaller roads crisscross the map, but are notnamed. Is one of these the road where Simon was murdered?
There is so little I know about what happened to Simon De la Vega, and it seems I'm not the only one. The investigation was closed following a lack of evidence. A man was strangled in broad daylight on an open road, but there was no evidence. No witnesses. The only person of interest had an alibi.
If it hadn't been for the Reddit board and my late-night phone scrolling, the cold case from twenty years ago wouldn't have caught my attention.
What Arizona murders remain unsolved?
It pulled me in. Not only because ofCase Files, but because I was morbidly curious if my sister would be on it. She was all over the news for so long, the shy smile of a twelve-year-old girl who still had baby fat in her pink cheeks.
It made my chest ache to think of her, but I kept scrolling. Halfway down the list, I saw her name. And then, in another comment, was Simon De la Vega. The person called him anOlive King. I was curious, my mind running. Was he killed for money? His land? Was it something less nefarious? A crime of opportunity?
A quick type of his name in my internet search bar revealed story after story, all variations of the same report. But then, on a true crime message board, was the dissection of the case. The anonymous poster had details that weren't included in the bland news reports.
Details that were consistent with my sister's cause of death.
There had been nothing to go on with Maggie. No cameras in that area of the water park, especially not in the bathroom where she'd been killed. Because of all the parkgoers, there was no way to separate one set of footprints from any other. No signs of struggle. It was a well-used public space and the cleaning staff had neglected the bathroom the night before, there was no way to connect the various DNA lifted from the scene to the murder.
Whoever killed my sister walked away, and here I am fourteen years later, sitting on a hotel bed in Olive Township, chasing a lead that might turn out to be futile.
But I have to try. For so many people, I need to see this through. My mother, for starters. Maybe if I can bring her healing, she'll get her life back. I'll get my mom back. For Maggie. For me. For this little peanut in my belly.
Chapter 5
Hugo
Friday night familydinners have been a staple of the De la Vega family as long as I can remember. At one time they were loud and bustling, a cacophony of forks scraping plates and excited voices talking over one another. Our numbers have dwindled over time. The first departure was my dad's, followed by my grandparents over the next ten years. My dad's parents were the glue that kept our family together, and with them gone, the connections withered. Aunts and uncles began to move away, and cousins, too. For jobs, for love. Now it is only me and my sister, Vivi, and her two kids. My mom and my aunt.
