Chapter 49 The Interview (Evelyn Cross POV)

Chapter 49 The Interview (Evelyn Cross POV)

The television lights are too bright.
I sit in a hotel conference room converted into a makeshift studio, three cameras pointed at me, a woman in her forties with perfect hair and a concerned expression sitting across a small table. Behind us, a backdrop with the network logo. Around us, maybe twenty crew members adjusting lights, checking sound, whispering into headsets.
"We're live in thirty seconds," someone calls.
The interviewer, Catherine Walsh, investigative journalist, three Emmys, reputation for taking down corrupt politicians—leans forward slightly.
"Are you ready for this?" she asks quietly. "Once we go live, there's no taking it back."
"I'm ready." My voice is steady. I'm wearing the only professional clothing I own—black slacks, white blouse, Margaret's silver cross necklace. My hair is pulled back. No makeup except what they insisted on applying. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who's lost everything and has nothing left to lose.
"Ten seconds."
I place my hands on the table. Margaret's diary to my right. Grace's journal to my left. A folder containing photocopied financial records, ritual documentation, photographs of victims. Everything I need to destroy Hollow's End's reputation in under an hour.
"Five, four, three..."
The final two counts are silent. A red light appears on the center camera.
Catherine's expression shifts from concerned to professional. "Good evening. I'm Catherine Walsh, and tonight we bring you an exclusive investigation into what authorities are calling one of the largest conspiracy cases in recent history. A small town in rural America. A two-hundred-year-old pact. And a pattern of ritualistic murders that's left at least five people dead."
She turns to me. "With me tonight is Evelyn Cross, sole survivor of a family that's been targeted by this conspiracy for generations. Ms. Cross, thank you for agreeing to speak with us."
"Thank you for giving me the opportunity."
"Let's start with the most recent victim. Your ten-year-old niece, Emma Cross. Can you tell us what happened to her?"
I've rehearsed this. Practiced keeping my voice level. But actually saying the words—
"Emma was abducted from the Rosewood Inn on the night of October twenty-third. She was taken to Larkin Island where she was drugged with scopolamine and ceremonial wine, then subjected to a ritual sacrifice that resulted in exsanguination over approximately forty-five minutes." The clinical language helps. Makes it bearable. "Her body was recovered by federal authorities on October twenty-fourth."
"And you believe this wasn't a random crime."
"I know it wasn't." I open Margaret's diary. "This belonged to my mother, Margaret Cross. She documented decades of family history related to what the town calls 'the Hollow'—an entity created in eighteen forty-seven by the founding families of Hollow's End."
I read from the marked passage: "'Every Cross woman for generations has been bound to this curse. One sacrifice every twenty years to buy the town's prosperity. I choose to starve it by offering myself willingly, out of love rather than obligation. Perhaps my death will finally break the cycle.'"
"Your mother died by suicide in two thousand five."
"My mother died attempting to end a pattern of ritualistic murder that spans two centuries." I correct her gently. "She believed sacrificing herself voluntarily would save me. It bought me ten years. When I returned to Hollow's End for my father's funeral, the killings started again."
Catherine flips through notes. "Federal investigators have confirmed five deaths in the past month with similar ritual characteristics. Sarah Kellerman, Marcus Webb, Lisa Chen, Victoria Hayes, and Emma Cross. All marked with your family's sigil."
"Yes."
"Ms. Cross, you're alleging an organized conspiracy involving dozens of residents, county officials, even law enforcement. That's an extraordinary claim."
"I have extraordinary evidence." I open the financial folder. "The Hollow Community Trust has been making payments to county employees for over a decade. Deputy Mills received monthly deposits totaling forty-two thousand dollars over six years. County Clerk Robert Henshaw received thirty-eight thousand. I have bank records, trust documents, testimony from multiple participants."
I slide copies across the table. Catherine examines them, her professional composure cracking slightly.
"These appear to be legitimate financial records."
"They are. Federal investigators have verified every transaction. The trust was established in eighteen forty-eight by seven founding families. It's paid out over forty million dollars across its existence, all derived from properties and businesses that thrived under what participants believed was supernatural protection."
"Supernatural protection." Catherine's tone is carefully neutral. "Ms. Cross, help our viewers understand. Are you claiming an actual supernatural entity was involved?"
Here it is. The moment where credibility lives or dies.
"I'm claiming that dozens of people believed in a supernatural entity and acted on that belief for two hundred years. Whether the entity was real or not, their belief made it functionally real. Children died. Women were sacrificed. Entire families were destroyed—all because people chose to believe they needed supernatural protection more than they needed to stop killing."
"But you personally witnessed—according to your statement to federal authorities—events you describe as 'manifestations' and 'supernatural phenomena.' You claim an island disappeared. That people aged to death in seconds. That your mother's ghost appeared."
"I witnessed events I can't explain through conventional means." I meet her eyes. "I saw things that violate physics and biology. I experienced trauma that defies rational explanation. Whether that makes it supernatural or simply phenomena we don't yet understand—I'm not qualified to say. What I am qualified to say is that people died because of a conspiracy, and that conspiracy must be exposed."
Catherine nods slowly. "Let's talk about the conspiracy itself. You mentioned seven founding families."
I pull out Grace's journal. "This belonged to Grace Cross Whitmore, my great-great-grandmother. She survived an attempted sacrifice in nineteen twenty-seven by discovering the truth about Hollow's End's founding."
I read from Grace's entry: "'The land where Hollow's End now stands was the site of a massacre in eighteen forty-six. Thirty-seven Lenape people—including women and children—were slaughtered by white settlers. The guilt and rage from that violence manifested as something the settlers called the Hollow. Rather than face what they'd done, the founding families made a pact: offer one Cross woman per generation, and the entity would protect them from consequences.'"
"So you're alleging the conspiracy originated as a response to genocide."
"I'm stating documented fact. Town records confirm the massacre. Church archives contain confession letters from participants. The founding families—Henderson, Miller, Phillips, Hale, Johnson, Cross, and Warren—all benefited from properties seized during or after the massacre. They built their wealth on stolen land and blood."
Catherine is leaning forward now, her skepticism shifting to something else. Interest. Recognition that this story is bigger than she expected.
"You mentioned the Cross family is one of the founding families. Your own ancestors created the curse that targeted your family?"
"My great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Cross, led the massacre. The other families chose his descendants to pay the price. Collective guilt transformed into generational punishment." I'm surprised how calm I sound. How clinical. "It's convenient. The family most responsible provides the sacrifices. Everyone else profits while pretending their hands are clean."
"And this continued for nearly two hundred years."
"Until three weeks ago when I destroyed the physical anchors binding the entity to this reality. The island collapsed. The Hollow was destroyed. But not before it claimed my niece, the acting sheriff, and seven more people who participated in the conspiracy."
"Sheriff Jonas Hale." Catherine checks her notes. "He was one of the founding family descendants. Yet he helped you?"
Jonas's name creates a crack in my composure. I take a breath. Steady myself.
"Jonas Hale was manipulated by the conspiracy his entire life. He was Cross bloodline through his great-grandmother, which made him susceptible to the entity's influence. But in the end, he chose to sacrifice himself to save me. To break the cycle. His final words were 'Tell her I chose love over everything. Tell her I was finally free.'"
My voice breaks on the last word. Catherine sees it. Gives me a moment.
"You've lost a great deal, Ms. Cross. Your mother, your father, your niece, someone you clearly cared about deeply. Why come forward now? Why expose yourself to scrutiny and potential backlash?"
"Because if I don't, they win." Simple. Absolute. "The founding families still exist. Their wealth still exists. If I stay silent, if I let them bury this as mass hysteria or cult activity, then everyone who died becomes a footnote. A tragedy people forget. I won't let that happen."
"What do you want people to know?"
I look directly into the camera. "I want people to know that Hollow's End, Pennsylvania, built its prosperity on ritualistic murder. That county officials accepted bribes to look away. That ordinary people participated in conspiracy because it was easier than standing up. That my ten-year-old niece died screaming for me while adults who could have saved her chose not to."
I'm not crying. Not raising my voice. Just stating facts in a tone that makes them devastating.
"I want people to know that monsters aren't always supernatural. Sometimes they're your neighbors. Your teachers. Your law enforcement. People who smile and wave and go to church on Sunday, then attend ritual meetings on Tuesday nights. People who chose comfort over conscience for two hundred years."
Catherine is silent for a moment. "What happens now?"
"Federal prosecutors are building RICO cases against fifteen primary conspirators. I'm filing civil suits against every participant for wrongful death—Emma's death, the other victims' deaths, my mother's death. Every penny recovered will go to organizations combating ritual abuse and supporting survivors of conspiracy crimes."
"You're not keeping any settlement money?"
"No." The word is hard. Final. "That money is blood money. Built on my family's suffering. I won't profit from it. Better it goes to helping others who've survived similar trauma."
"Ms. Cross, you understand this interview will make you a target. The town will turn against you. People will call you a liar, attention-seeker, someone destroying a community for personal revenge."
"Let them." I meet her eyes. "I've been called worse. I've lost more. They can't threaten me with anything that matters anymore because everything that mattered is gone. All I have left is truth. And I'm weaponizing it."
Catherine sits back. I can see her reassessing. Recognizing this isn't just a story about a conspiracy. It's a story about what happens when someone has nothing left to lose and chooses to burn down the system that destroyed them.
"One final question." She leans forward. "If you could say something to the people of Hollow's End, what would it be?"
I don't hesitate. "I'd tell them that prosperity bought with blood isn't prosperity—it's theft. That protection gained through sacrifice isn't protection—it's complicity. That you can't build a future on buried bodies and expect it to stand."
I pick up Emma's drawing from the folder—I brought it, couldn't leave it behind.
"And I'd tell them that my ten-year-old niece drew sunflowers. She was afraid of the dark. She loved stories about magic and adventure. She deserved to grow up. To have first loves and heartbreaks and dreams and disappointments and all the messy beautiful parts of being human."
My voice is shaking now but I don't stop.
"You took that from her. You took it from my mother. From Grace, from Eleanor, from Sarah and Rebecca and every Cross woman who died believing their deaths served purpose. You took everything. So now I'm taking everything from you. Your reputation. Your comfort. Your ability to pretend you didn't know."
I set the drawing down gently.
"Welcome to accountability."
Catherine lets the silence hang. Lets my words resonate. Then: "Evelyn Cross, thank you for your courage in coming forward."
"Thank you for listening."
The red light goes dark. Someone calls "We're clear."
The crew erupts into motion but Catherine stays seated, looking at me with something like awe.
"That was—" She stops. Starts again. "I've been doing this twenty-three years. I've never seen anything like that. You just destroyed an entire town on national television."
"Good." I'm already standing, gathering the documents. "They deserve it."
My phone buzzes. Multiple times. Text messages flooding in.
Daniel: That was perfect. Expect the arrest warrants to be accelerated.
Father Marcus: The town is furious. Be careful.
Unknown number: You just signed your death warrant, bitch.
I delete the last one without responding. Empty threats from people whose power I just shattered on camera.
More texts: reporters requesting interviews, lawyers offering representation, advocacy groups asking if they can help. The story is already exploding beyond this one interview.
Catherine's producer approaches. "Ms. Cross, we're being flooded with calls. CNN wants you tomorrow. The Times wants a print exclusive. 60 Minutes is offering—"
"No." I cut him off. "One interview. That's all I agreed to. Everything else can go through federal investigators."
"But this story—"
"This story isn't about me. It's about the victims. Direct media to Daniel Ward at the FBI. He'll provide official information."
I'm walking toward the exit when my phone rings. Unknown number but I answer anyway.
"This is Evelyn."
"Ms. Cross?" A young woman's voice. Nervous. "My name is Rachel Henderson. I'm—I was Mrs. Henderson's granddaughter."
I stop walking. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Don't be." Her voice hardens. "I just watched your interview. Everything you said about my family—it's true. My grandmother participated. My parents knew. And I'm calling because I want to help."
"Help how?"
"Testimony. I have documents my grandmother kept hidden. Letters from other founding families. Ritual schedules going back decades. I want to give them to federal investigators. I want my family held accountable."
Another crack in the conspiracy. Another person choosing truth over loyalty.
"Contact Agent Daniel Ward at the FBI field office. Tell him I referred you. He'll take your statement."
"Thank you." She's crying now. "Thank you for being brave enough to speak. For—for making it possible for the rest of us to do the same."
She hangs up. I stand in the hotel hallway, phone in hand, processing.
The interview aired twenty minutes ago. Already the conspiracy is cracking further. Already people are choosing exposure over complicity.
Maybe justice is possible. Maybe accountability can happen.
I'm almost to the parking lot when a hotel employee approaches.
"Ms. Cross? A package was delivered for you. The gentleman said it was urgent."
He hands me a small box wrapped in brown paper. No return address. Just my name in handwriting I recognize immediately.
Father Marcus's handwriting.
I open it carefully. Inside, nestled in tissue paper: Jonas's sheriff badge. The silver metal is tarnished, scratched from years of use. His name engraved on the back.
And a note in Marcus's careful script:
"He saved us all. He chose love over fear, truth over comfort, sacrifice over safety. This belongs with someone who understands what that means. –Marcus"
The badge is heavy in my palm. Solid. Real. Proof Jonas existed. Proof his choice mattered.
I'm crying. Finally crying. Not the numb shock from the lake. Not the hollow grief from the church. Real tears for someone who loved me enough to die so I could live.
"I won't waste it," I whisper to the badge. To Jonas. To everyone who died so truth could survive. "I promise. I won't let your sacrifice mean nothing."