Page 9 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

“Yes,” I confirm.

“I thought that was you. We were hoping you would come today. I suppose you received the invitation from the board?” she asks with that kind of wide, excited grin that says she already knows the answer but wants to ask so she can hear it.

Only, I don’t think she actually knows the answer coming to her.

“No. I didn’t receive any kind of invitation.” I look over at Sam to see if he knows what she’s talking about, but he shakes his head. “This is my husband,” I say, gesturing toward him. “Sheriff Sam Johnson.”

“Of course,” she nods. “Sheriff Johnson. Could you give me just one second?”

She hurries away as Sam and I step to the side and watch other tour groups roam past. I hear the same snippets of speech coming from them as they walk past. The guides are clearly following a script. Right down to the strategically placed light laughter and faux, off-the-cuff jokes. This is corporate friendliness, designed, polished, packaged, and sent out to consumers just like all the other products lining the shelves in the glittering new stores. A brief flicker of displaced jaded thought has me wondering if the names etched on the red name tags pinned to the front of each guide’s blue jacket are even their real names or the ones chosen for the character they are portraying during this open house.

Red and blue. Strategic colors if you trust the concept of psychology of color: how different colors elicit specific responses, emotions, and thoughts and can be utilized to control those in other people.

Red for impulse and action, encouraging speed and progress while walking through the mall and the urge to spend money without thinking critically about each purchase.

Blue for dependability and trust, making the guides seem knowledgeable, friendly, and reliable so those impulses don’t seem like manipulation or the result of shady sales tactics.

We wait for a few minutes, watching the tour groups drift down through the impressive food court where we entered and turn either right or left to venture deeper into the mall. A few go straight ahead to the short walkway with one of the huge anchor stores at the end. A couple of other groups, ones that had already begun their journey before we arrived, pass through the space going in the opposite direction they went at the beginning to tour the other side. The tour is a clearly well-choreographed process.

They want visitors to feel like they are getting the chance to explore, but there’s no freedom. Guests can’t just wander where they want to go, dip into the shops, or toss things in the fountain. They’re shepherded through so they can see just enough and miss just enough. The perfect balance to make them want to come back when the mall is fully open while also preventing anybody from causing any mischief that may dim the pristine shine prematurely.

When the tour guide returns, she has a man in a very expensive, custom-tailored suit walking ahead of her. He already has a smile plastered to his face, but it broadens as he gets to within a few steps of us and opens his hands out in a gesture that leaves me wondering if he is going to try to shake my hand or hug me. I have a very distinct preference. He doesn’t do either.

“Agent Griffin,” he says. “Wonderful to see you.”

He’s put us in a strange space. Just human nature makes me want to reciprocate the sentiment. Not knowing who this man is or why he knows our names makes that awkward.

“Hello,” I say.

Sam, always good at sensing moments I’ve abandoned to swing in the breeze, reaches his hand out toward the man.

“Hi. Sheriff Sam Johnson,” he says.

“Her husband. Of course,” the man says.

A lot of men would be offended by how frequently that kind of exchange happens, but it doesn’t bother Sam. I believe that’s partly because he knows that while I’ve started to make my name in Sherwood as an adult, around most of the families who have their roots there the way Sam’s family does, I’m the one who’s getting acknowledged that way. We are far more likely to hear “you’re Sheriff Johnson’s wife” than “You’re Agent Griffin’s husband” around town.

“Yes,” Sam replies.

I admire him for not giving me the side-eye right here and now.

“I’m Keilan Smith. I’m representing the development company responsible for the new Village Square Mall. Welcome!”

“Thank you,” I say.

Now I admire myself for not cringing at the name of the mall. Considering we already have a real village square, choosing that for the name isn’t a great look.

“Marissa here tells me you didn’t receive your invitation for today’s Open House,” he says.

“I did not,” I tell him. “I wasn’t aware there were invitations for an Open House. I thought it was just… open.”

A boom of laughter as carefully honed as the maneuvering of the tour guides bursts out of him and he rapidly recovers with little residual effect to his eyes. It strikes me that looking at this man is very much like looking at the outside of the mall when we approached. Everything about him is just slightly too pristine, too put together and perfect.

“It is. We’re happy to welcome everyone from town to come see what we have to offer. But we also sent out special invitations to some specific people we especially hoped would attend today’s event. Prominent members of the community whose opinions are respected by others. And you, of course, were at the top of our list,” Keilan says.

I have my doubts it was actually my name teetering on the top of whatever list of people he came up with, considering there are people like the mayor, city board, and even a couple of high-level, retired military personnel available. But it’s a nice sentiment.

“Thank you,” I smile politely. “I didn’t receive the invitation, but we were curious and decided to come.”

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