Or so I told myself, over and over, repeating the decision like a newly acquired mantra and willing it to burn into the fabric of my mind.
Before leaving my seat, I finished setting up my new phone. As I entered the profile information, I hesitated before typing in my name.
Olivia R. Taylor.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, Olivia,” I said to myself, then continued in my thoughts.Let’s make your stay something to remember. Something to tell your grandkids about.I typed in my encrypted email address and chuckled.Well, maybe not the grandkids. Probably not anyone. Ever.
On my way to the terminal exit, I didn’t stop at the baggage claim area. There was no luggage to pick up. I always traveled light; the spinner with my laptop, my jewelry, and a few personal items amounted to everything I owned worth taking from one place to the next. If I wanted to belong to my new home, to look and feel like I’d lived there my entire life, I wanted to dress like the locals, wearing clothes they’d seen in the windows of local stores. Shoes they’d seen worn in restaurants and casinos they visited. Jewelry they recognized from familiar retailer names. And based on what I was noticing at the airport, those names were quite numerous and distinguished. I had plenty of options to choose from.
Living here is going to be fun,I thought, stepping out into the desert heat in front of the airport terminal.
I filled my lungs with the dry air, taking in the scents of the city, and smiled. I’d never been to Las Vegas before, but in the past few weeks, I’d studied it in detail. I’d “roamed” its streets with Google Earth. Looked at thousands of pictures taken by other people, both tourists and locals, who’d experienced it firsthand. I’d read about it, seen movies about it, and heard stories. But nothing had prepared me for the experience of being there.
It was high noon when I climbed into a cab and instructed the driver to take me to ARIA, where I’d made a painfully expensive reservation. The drive was short but fascinating. The lights, the colors, and the sounds of Sin City were perfectly devised to lift spirits, to instill in tourists the idea that anything is possible. To make them believe they could touch the sky, standing right there on the Strip by the fountains, and live a little. Eat too much. Drink themselves stupid. Gamble their last dime. And still, somehow, feel great about it.
No, I’d never been to Vegas before, but it felt like home. The people there were no strangers to me.
I’m Olivia R. Taylor, and Las Vegas is my home.
It rang true.
My smile widened as the words took root in my mind. TheRin my name was my anchor to the past, and the only one I’d kept. It didn’t stand for Rose or Rachel or Grandma’s middle name. No ... It stood forRogue, a name inspired by a movie I’d seen. That Rogue, the character in the movie, was a survivor. A fighter. Someone who couldn’t get close enough to others to love but yearned for it nevertheless. TheRwas always there so that I’d never forget the fateful night when I’d run away from my father’s farm—a wretched, barren eighty acres of misery on the southern outskirts of Abilene.
As I got out of the cab and waited for the driver to retrieve my spinner from the trunk, I breathed in the hot midday air. It smelled a little like Texas in the summer, and the familiar scent unfurled a sense of unease in my gut that chilled my blood. An overwhelming foreboding darkened my view of the city for a brief moment, until I willed it gone. Damned into oblivion forever.
For better or worse, I was home.
District Attorney Mitchell:What can you tell us about the moment you discovered the body?
Camilla Reyes:I knocked twice, and there was no answer. I said, “Housekeeping,” then used my card to enter the suite.Dios mío, he was lying there ... Blood was smeared all over the floor. Blood from hiseyes,señor!
District Attorney Mitchell:Was he dead when you found him?
Camilla Reyes:Sí, señor. I still have nightmares. Someone must’ve—
Defense Attorney Blake:Objection, Your Honor. Speculation.
Judge Thomas Antunez:Sustained.
4
Harassed
Life was about to get interesting. My heart thumped in my chest as I readied myself for what I was about to do.
In the few steps before I reached the hotel entrance, my appearance shifted swiftly without anyone noticing. The Seahawks ballcap landed in a trash can. My purse found its way into the spinner’s side pocket. My hair, freed from the scrunchie that had held it in place, bounced on my shoulders as I shook my head and ran my fingers through it. Finally, my denim jacket landed on top of the spinner, woven through its handle.
In about twenty feet, I’d become a different person. Still anonymous, but no longer the woman with the Seahawks ballcap. Now I was the woman with the long, wavy blond hair and a tightly stretched, deep V-necked T-shirt. No one cared to look at my face anymore—not when they could plunge their eyes down my cleavage.
As I entered the hotel, the conditioned air flowed at me with the strength of a small icy tornado. The soaring ceilings and expansive windows stopped me in my tracks for a moment.
I walked over to the reception desk, carved from polished stone and staffed by uniformed personnel. A receptionist invited me to approach with a smile. I smiled back.
“Welcome to ARIA,” she said in a pleasant voice. “How can I be of assistance?”
I raised my sunglasses to the top of my head. “I have a reservation for Olivia Taylor.”
Her eyes darted to the screen. “Yes, Ms. Taylor, we have you here. Two weeks in a Sky Suite, is that correct?”
