Page 11 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she says as if she didn’t hear the very obvious argument that just unfolded down that hallway. “He’s just here for the Open House like Mr. Smith.”

I point in the direction of the hallway and walk toward it, peering down. There’s a set of large gray doors with metal crash bars across the front at the very end and another curve in the hall that brings it further into the unseen portions of the mall.

“What’s down there?” I ask.

“The restrooms are around that corner,” Marissa tells us. “We pride ourselves in offering large, clean restrooms for men and women, as well as a family restroom modified for the convenience of families with young children.”

She smiles through this detail with the same enthusiasm as she had when presenting the fountain and the sun-filled atrium. I stare at her for a second, somewhat taken aback by her ability to maintain this level of cheer and hospitality for such an extended time. I can only imagine the exhaustion she experiences after one of these events.

“How about through the gray doors?” I ask.

“That area is off-limits to guests of the mall. It’s used for storage and access to the transport tunnels.”

“Transport tunnels?” I ask.

“To maintain a seamless experience for our guests and provide ease and efficiency for the team of workers who support all operations within the mall, the building features a network of tunnels that lead to various points throughout the building.”

She manages to have a brochure-ready response to everything, but I can tell by the look in her eyes her patience with this impromptu detour from the outlined tour is wearing thin. She likely has a timeline she’s supposed to follow and probably doesn’t want to risk getting in trouble for not only running too long, but also talking about things that aren’t in her script. I’m sure the crashing sound was the man she called Mr. Rainey coming out of the employees-only area at the end of the hall, but no one else has come out so I turn my attention back to the rest of the tour.

Marissa looks relieved as I follow her over to the salon and peer inside as she describes the list of services that will be available when the mall opens.

“Reservations for holiday season appointments open next week,” she advises me. “I have a feeling they’re going to fill up fast.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I tell her.

I imagine there will be plenty of women eager to take advantage of the convenience of getting primped for holiday parties and welcoming guests in the same place they are already doing their shopping. Come spring the salon will be overrun by local high school girls getting ready for prom. This is going to be a very popular area of the mall.

We visit a few more destinations and learn about plans for an elaborate Christmas display and pictures with Santa Claus coming after Thanksgiving before making our way back toward the spot where we started the tour. We encounter Keilan in the food court. He reaches his hands out toward me again in the same ambiguous potential handshake/hug gesture as when he first approached.

“Agent Griffin, Sheriff Johnson,” he says. “How was it? Did you enjoy your tour?”

“It was great,” I tell him. “Marissa was very knowledgeable.”

Keilan sends a smile toward the young tour guide.

“Yes, she is a fantastic member of our team. I’m glad she was able to show you around. Do you have any questions or comments?” he asks.

Sam takes a partial step to the side to get closer to me as if hoping the increased proximity will send the message not to say anything about the argument we overheard. He knows me well. I still want to ask, but there’s little chance he would give me an answer anyway, so I just smile.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I look forward to coming back after it’s open.”

“Perhaps you’d like to enter for a chance to participate in our pre-opening party,” he says. “Many of the shops will be open and the food court will have offerings available for our guests all night.”

I can’t help but smile at his eagerness.

“I did hear about that. But, no, I don’t think that’s my scene. Thank you, though.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “The sign-up form is right over there.”

He glances over at a table surrounded by people filling out slips of paper and dropping them into a large glass canister sitting on the corner.

“I’m sure,” I tell him. “I think my neon dance party days are over.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Rainey hurry past, the smile stretched across his face not touching the tension in his eyes.

“Babe?” Sam says, getting my attention away from watching the man.

“Hmm?” I say, looking up at him.

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