Page 38 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

George lifts his head and looks back and forth between us. “FBI? I hope that the Bureau wasn’t called in on my account. I know my visibility and prominence stand out among the other victims, but I don’t want that to color the investigation or sway the emphasis. I want all the time, energy, and resources to go toward the other victims. I will be alright. I promise.”

He sinks back against his pillows like the applause-worthy speech has tired him out and he needs to regain his strength before he can continue. I stare at him for a few incredulous seconds.

“Yes, you will,” I say. “The doctor assures me you are in no need of extensive treatment for the cut you sustained. On the other hand, many of the people in the mall last night didn’t make it out alive. Including several of your colleagues. You are so magnanimous in your wishes for the other victims, so I’m sure you’ll appreciate knowing the ones who were murdered are my top priority along with the ones who barely made it through. They will get all of my time, energy, and resources.”

George can sense the sarcasm in my voice and I wonder if he can hear the disdain, but he nods, even going so far as to muster up a sniffle and the beginnings of a tear that doesn’t quite make it all the way down to his cheek.

“Good. Good. I’m so glad to hear that. I’ll be of any help I possibly can.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. I take out a notebook and a pen and settle down into a chair near his bedside so I can take notes about what he tells me. “Oh, and before we get started, no, the Bureau didn’t get involved because of you. I’m involved because Sherwood is my home.”

George’s shoulders tense slightly, but he gives another nod.

“Alright,” Sam says, turning on a small recorder he always carries with him for interviews and setting it on the table beside the reporter. “Let’s get started.”

By the time we leave George McCarthy’s room half an hour later, I feel like I’ve been to a night at the theater.

“That was certainly something,” Sam mutters as we walk down the hall.

“I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t realize anyone could be that dramatic just in his regular life. It made it really difficult to figure out how much of what he’s saying is actually true,” I say.

“We’re going to have to try to compare it to as many other statements as we can to narrow down what really happened,” Sam says. “But I have a strong feeling neither one of us is going to be surprised to hear that he wasn’t quite the heroic figure he is trying to present himself to be.”

“The heroic figure who left his cameraman to die and hid,” I add.

“I was interested in what he had to say about the unseen footage, though,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “He mentioned that guy screaming about his brother. He presented it as a guy came and disrupted his broadcast rather than there actually being something wrong that provoked him, but we’re just going to go with this. I want to know what that’s all about.”

“Me, too.”

We’re on our way out of the hospital with the intention of going to the news station to request to view the footage that was cut out of the pre-recorded segment when I see a familiar face turn the corner ahead of us.

“Keilan,” I say, surprised to see him coming down the hallway holding a hospital cup of coffee close to his face like he’s trying to absorb the warmth of the steam.“Hello.”

He looks up. Seeing me standing there seems to startle him just slightly, like it breaks him out of deep thoughts.

“Oh. Hello, Agent Griffin. Sheriff.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We lost two employees and several were injured,” he explains. “Cary and I are here to support their families and provide any comfort we can.”

I nod. “That’s really kind of you.”

We walk past a room just as a nurse is coming out and Keilan pauses. He’s looking inside and I realize it’s the room of the girl who was found in the tunnels. She’s still fully under sedation. I haven’t had a chance to review the full extent of her injuries, but I can tell from here they are very serious.

“That’s Mindy Smith,” he says.

“Smith?” I ask. “Any relation?”

His eyes flicker toward me, back into the room, and then settle on me.

“Hmm?” he asks. “Oh, no. No relation. Just a common name. But it is what first stood out to me about her. When we first started development of the mall, her school participated in a young entrepreneurship program the Calloway Group designed. Students were able to create videos presenting their idea for a business, who it was geared to, and how they would advertise to their target audience. From what I remember, several winners were chosen from different age groups and given small scholarships.I remember seeing her submission and immediately noting the name. But she was also really compelling when she talked about her idea.”

“What was her idea?” I ask.

“A flavored cotton candy truck,” he says, nodding slightly. “She wanted to make cotton candy in different flavors and drive around selling it.”

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