Page 45 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

“No. That’s the thing. I think it was completely genuine. Remember, he wasn’t even the one who mentioned it first. It was Marissa. And then he confirmed it when he came over. And I talked to a couple of people in town who I thought would be prominent enough to get invitations, and they got them. None of them went to the open house, but they got the invitation. So, why didn’t I get mine?

“Who was supposed to send it? And why didn’t it get to me? It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I know our phone number and address aren’t listed. Nobody could just open up the Yellow Pages and find us. But this isn’t just some random person; it’s a huge company. It wouldn’t be all that hard to look into it and be able to find my address. Not to mention that if they couldn’t find the address, you would think whoever was supposed to send the invitation would then mention that to Keilan and he wouldn’t think that I had gotten it.”

“Unless they just didn’t want to get in trouble,” Sam offers.

“And they wouldn’t think that anyone would notice I didn’t get it?” I ask.

“Maybe they thought you just didn’t show, like the others.”

“Maybe.”

A thought occurs to me and I walk over to the phone. My father answers on the second ring. “Hey, Dad, it’s me.”

“Hey, honey. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just have a weird question for you. Have I gotten any mail there recently?”

Ever since resurfacing from the shadows, Dad has lived in the house in DC. It’s technically in my name because he transferred it all to me, but even for all the years I lived there, I never felt like it was fully mine, anyway. It has always felt right with him living there, with it being his home again. There were elements of my father that were always there. His office stayed right where it was. I couldn’t bring myself to change it. Or to ever go inside. It’s good to think of him sitting in there again.

“You got a couple of junk mail things from places I swore I already called to tell them to stop,” he says. “And a coupon for an oil change that I used.”

I laugh. “Good. Nothing else? No envelopes or anything?”

He makes a thinking sound. “No. Not that I’ve noticed. Why? Are you expecting something?”

There’s a slight edge to his voice that tells me the question is about more than the anticipated mail. It’s about who could have sent it. I’m no stranger to receiving mail from unwanted sources and my father is sensitive to my tendency to minimize and not tell him when I might have captured the fascination of a serial killer.

“Just an invitation that I was supposed to get but didn’t,” I tell him. “Nothing serious.”

I can hear the relief in his voice as we chat for a few moments longer and then hang up.

“You thought it might have ended up at your father’s house?” Sam asks.

I shrug. “It was just a thought. Maybe if they couldn’t find this address they’d be able to track down that one. It really is strange. It seems like I was purposely skipped. That someone put effort into making sure I didn’t get that invitation. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. But we all know how you feel about that.”

“They don’t exist,” Sam says.

“Exactly. Which means someone didn’t want me there.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Speaking of people tracking you down, the hospital called. Mindy is ready to talk.”

Mindy looks small and fragile against the pillows when we go into her room. The pillows seem to be holding her up, as if the rest of her body simply doesn’t have the strength. It wouldn’t surprise me. Considering the horrific condition she was in when she was discovered in that tunnel, I’m stunned she is even sitting up and willing to talk. She’s not a big person and her body went through so much. It’s incredible to see her fighting the way she is.

“Hi, Mindy,” I say. “I’m Emma. This is my husband, Sam. Thank you for talking with me.”

“Are you the police?” she asks.

“Sam is the sheriff. I’m FBI,” I tell her.

“So, you’re going to figure it out,” she says. “You’re going to find out who did this.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. An assertion to which she has given no margin of error. I don’t mind. I haven’t given myself one, either.

“Start from the beginning and tell me everything you remember. Even if you don’t think it means anything, if it comes to mind, tell me.”

I expect her to take a second to steady herself. Usually people about to talk about something extremely difficult need some preparation to ready themselves for the emotional challenge of bringing those experiences and senses up to the surface again. They’ll take a deep breath, close their eyes for a second, whisper a prayer.

Mindy does none of it. She launches right into her story and barely pauses to take a breath. I listen as she tells me about her best friend Gloria. About how Gloria was the one who entered the contest and won the invitation to the shopping party. Of course, she brought Mindy. They were best friends. They’d always been best friends. For as long as she could remember and before. From this moment until forever. On this plane and beyond.

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