Page 31 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

“I know you’re here.”

Other than the soft laugh when he ran after her in the Eileen’s department store before she was able to get out, it’s the first of his voice that she’s heard. It’s not familiar enough for her to know it, but not strange enough to be completely foreign.

He walks to the back of the store and pauses at the end of the aisle. He looks in either direction like he’s trying to decide which half of the store to explore first. She has to hold back a sigh of relief when he goes the opposite direction and she can see his back moving away from her. He reaches up and slowly pushes a large bright pink lava lamp off the edge of the shelf where it’s sitting. It strains against its cord for an instant before crashing to the floor, shattering and spilling bright liquid goop everywhere. Mindy bites her tongue to stop the gasp that tries to escape.

He continues to walk around the shop, occasionally knocking things over or triggering a movement-activated decoration or toy that emits a nerve-shredding sound. She plans to stay right where she is. She’ll stay hidden and ride it out here.

But that plan doesn’t last long. Only until the next time he speaks.

“Where are you, Mindy?”

Grabbing the nearest object of any heft she can get her hands on, she jumps out of her hiding spot and runs for the entrance to the shop. He sees her and comes for her, but Mindy swings, hitting him with whatever she grabbed. She doesn’t even know what it was, but it makes him stumble back and drop down to the carpet.

He won’t stay down long. She doesn’t have the kind of strength it would take to incapacitate him completely. But the blow bought her at least a little bit of time. Enough to run.

She runs for the food court. Those are the doors closest to the main parking lot. They’re the first anyone would go to when arriving at the mall. Someone has to be coming. She hasn’t seen George McCarthy since she ran past him on the mezzanine. The studio must know. They have to have noticed. Where are the producers? By now, they know something’s wrong. Maybe they’ve called for help from the organizers and revealed they didn’t actually stay at the mall all night the way they said they would. Maybe they’re having to wait until they can get there to reopen the doors.

Mindy rushes at the door and collides with it, her hands pressed to the glass as she stares out at the soothing white light on the sidewalk and the cars parked in neat rows in the lot. She balls her fist and strikes, already knowing it’s useless. On a whim, she grabs one of the metal chairs from a nearby table and smashes it against the door as hard as she can. It does nothing. She hits it again, letting out an angry sound as she does. Still nothing.

She glances toward the entrance to the food court and sees him. He no longer cares about anyone else there. He’s coming for her.

Dropping the chair in front of the glass marked by her bloody handprints, Mindy runs.

Emma…

The drive feels like it’s taken three times as long as I know it has. The minutes have dragged by on the clock and I know we’ve made it in just under twenty. It’s still too long.

Sam pulls into the same parking lot we did when we came for the tour and goes to the front, skidding to a diagonal stop next to the sidewalk. My seatbelt is off and I have the door open before it stops rolling, my feet on the ground while the engine is still on. I run for the doors.

“Oh, god. Sam. Look at this.”

I rest my own hands against the glass just under the outline of others made in blood still fresh enough to drip down in thick rivulets to the ground.

“We need to look for the officers on duty,” he says.

I nod and take my gun into my hand. “Go that way. I’ll see you around the other side.”

With his own weapon poised, Sam runs down the sidewalk toward the other side of the mall while I head in my own direction. There’s plenty of light so I should be able to see anyone who is near the building. It bothers me that only two officers were assigned to provide security tonight. This mall is not only massive, but the unusual architectural design means it’s not as easy to cover as a simple square or rectangular building. The separate wings and strategically placed food court and anchor stores create a multitude of corners, curves, and hidden spots that would be all but impossible to properly monitor by only two people.

Which tells me Glen Nielsen didn’t actually intend on the officers providing any type of security for the event. The officers didn’t come here to protect anyone or prevent anything. They were security theater, there to make a good showing for the police department and enable him to say that he’s standing firm against the protests.

It’s a popular sentiment among police forces to want to make a show of force in the community. But in situations like this, it truly has little effect in the moment. It’s designed to be a story told later. That’s what he thought was going to happen. He thought tonight would go smoothly and tomorrow he’d be able to talk up his officers and how everyone is safe because of them.

It’s a hypocritical juxtaposition, considering other things he’s said about the project and the way he’s approached controlling the protests. He seems to be playing both sides and it has bitten him in the ass.

I’ve gone halfway down the second side of the mall when I see the mass in the hedges. I hurry up to it and see that it’s the body of a police officer, still in uniform. There’s blood coming from an injury to the side of his neck and his radio and gun are missing. I take off back in the direction I came. It will get me to Sam faster than tracing the entire perimeter of the building.

I eventually find him nearly at the back of the mall, crouched at the edge of the parking lot where another body is sprawled across the pavement.

“Babe,” I call out to him to make sure he knows it’s me approaching. “Is that the other officer?”

He looks up and nods. “He’s dead.”

I nod. “The other is a few yards around the corner from the food court. His radio and gun are gone.”

“His, too.” Sam stands and pulls his radio from his chest. “I’m going to call in to the station.”

The words make both of us pause. Our eyes sweep across the parking lot to the news vehicles still sitting there. I’m about to go over to one of them to check on the people who should be inside when a frantic pounding pulls my attention to the door of the nearest store. A man on the other side is slamming both fists against the glass as hard as he can and shouting, occasionally looking behind him.

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