Page 1 of The House That Held Her

PROLOGUE

He watched from the shadows, still and patient, blending seamlessly into the dark. He listened to the rhythm of the couple’s breath, slow and steady, feeling that same pull toward them as they slept in their bed.

They didn’t belong here.

The silence was almost suffocating, broken only by the woman’s soft sighs as sleep took over. He waited, unmoving, until the stillness felt absolute. Then, slowly, he moved forward like a speck of dust floating through the darkness, unheard and unseen.

He knelt beside the bed, his gaze flickering between the two figures. The room was shrouded in a dim glow, moonlight spilling weakly through the curtains while a quiet, persistent whistle of wind slipped through a crack in the window. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting the woman’s ear, whispering words too faint to hear, tears slipping down his face.

They were caught in a charged stillness: an unholy balance of innocence, oblivion, and malice. He pulled back, a fleeting smile curling his lips. She murmured something in her sleep—a tiny, incoherent sound—and he leaned his head in, listening.

The specter abruptly turned, staring into the darkness behind him. His ear tilted, listening intently, and then, as quietly as he had arrived, he faded back into the shadows as if being called back home.

The room returned to its stillness—the only trace of him a lingering chill already slipping into the sleeping woman’s dreams.

1

MARGOT, PRESENT DAY

Idon’t know much about hurricanes. Having grown up in Maryland, I’m used to the rhythm of four predictable seasons—snow-dusted winters, humid summers, and crisp transitions in between. What I’m not accustomed to is the kind of storm that could rip roofs from houses and submerge entire streets under water. Yet here I am, barely three weeks into my new life in Florida, bracing for the arrival of a Category 4 hurricane with the deceptively sweet name of Barbara.

I stand at the window, my hands resting on the frame as I stare at the heavy, oppressive sky. Storm warnings echo relentlessly—across news stations, radios, and worried texts from family back home. And while each passing hour heightens the tension of Barbara's arrival, nothing had prepared me for my husband, suitcase in hand, ready to walk out the door as the historic storm barrels toward our new home.

“I don’t understand this, Nate,” I say, my voice taut, struggling to mask my frustration. “Companies everywhere are working remotely. Zoom, Skype, Teams. How is none of that feasible for your company? This is a record-breaking hurricane, for God’s sake.”

The strain between us is tangible. I follow him through the half-renovated house, my words reverberating in the unfinished rooms. What should be our sanctuary feels more like a battlefield, with exposed drywall and a thin layer of construction dust coating the air.

Nate pauses, his back turned to me, adjusting his tie in the reflection of a smudged window. The quiet man I once admired for his restraint now seems distant—less a partner, more a stranger passing through my life. I wait for some acknowledgment, a sign that he grasps the gravity of the situation. When he finally speaks, his words feel rehearsed, as if he’s played this scene out in his mind well before now.

“We’ve been over this already, Margot. I carry the financial burden of our entire household on my shoulders right now. Give me a goddamn break here.”

I freeze between the kitchen and hallway, dissecting his words. Arguments between us weren’t new, but this one carries a sharpness I haven’t felt before.

The resentment has been simmering for months. But true cracks only began to show when we moved from Maryland to Florida. I believed in our mutual decisions and our shared dreams. But now, each step toward our supposed future seems to deepen Nate’s bitterness towards me, towards the new life we're trying to build—a bitterness I honestly don’t understand.

There had been a time when I wasn’t just Nate’s wife. I’d spent a decade working in child protective services, advocating for vulnerable children. It was my calling—a mission that once defined me. But the endless battles and heartache wore me down. I had confided in Nate, yearning for something different—a family, a life where I could offer the kind of love and stability my foster children never had.

Back then, it all made sense. Nate’s career at CirroSystems was flourishing; we could finally afford our dream home. I thought I could step back, focus on building a family, and return to my career someday. Everything seemed perfect– until it wasn’t.

My mind drifts to Lila, my last placement before everything unraveled. Lila—seven years old, with wild curls and a smile that could melt stone. When we first met, I saw a beautiful need to be loved in her eyes. I believed I was providing that when I placed her with Robert and Dawn Thompson. Their sprawling, picturesque home had seemed ideal—warm, inviting, the perfect environment for a young girl needing support and care.

The bruises had seemed minor. I had convinced myself they were to be expected—children fall, they bruise. Lila had been quiet and withdrawn, but that wasn’t unusual for foster kids. Adjusting took time. I ignored the unease gnawing at me, the fleeting moments of doubt. I had been too preoccupied with my own life to see the warning signs.

I had convinced myself Lila was safe. I needed to believe it. But standing now in my unfinished Florida home, I can admit the truth to myself - but only silently: I prioritized myself and the desire for a family of my own over my CPS responsibilities. I let Lila down; it's my fault she's dead.

“Margot, are you even listening to me?” Nate’s sharp voice jolts me back to the present.

I blink, shaking off the memory, but the pain lingers. “I heard you.” My voice is soft, almost hollow.

Nate grabs his suitcase, shaking his head. "Right, of course you did. They just downgraded the hurricane to a Category 3. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back next week.”

As Nate reaches for the door, I swallow hard, my throat tightening painfully. "I love you," I mumble, the words barely audible, fractured and weak.

His hand hesitates on the doorframe. He takes a slow, deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling before he turns to look at me. "I love you too."

For a fleeting moment, I think he may say more. I silently plead for it—for him to open up, to show something, anything. A crack in the cold wall that had been building between us. But instead, he closes his mouth, swallows whatever words had almost surfaced, and steps outside into the darkness of the oncoming hurricane.

The shadows of my past have followed me from Maryland to Florida, no matter how far I’ve tried to run from them.

---