Page 10 of The House That Held Her

"I'm still here," I whisper. "And as long as I'm still here, I'm going to keep searching—for answers, for purpose, for whatever parts are left of me.”

7

Istare at the map, its worn edges curled from the sticky Florida humidity, the red "X" almost taunting me—daring me to try again. Walter's warning rings in my ears, his low voice reminding me of the gators, the danger. He made me promise not to go back to the lake. But here I am, already plotting my way there. I don't even know why I care if he finds out. But I do. There's something about him—the way he genuinely seems to care—that makes me want to keep that promise. But I can't, not today.

I peer out the kitchen window. Walter's out front, orchestrating the arrival of the contractors, his hands gesturing as he talks to them about the new hardwood install. Perfect. I slip out the back door, staying low, my heart hammering with a childlike mix of fear and excitement. The house looms behind me, its dark windows hollow and knowing, like it's watching.

I dart to the remains of the old shed, where tools are scattered around like forgotten relics. My fingers close around a shovel handle, cold and rough against my palm. I glance back—Walter's still out front, distracted. Good. I wrench the shovel free and take off across the yard to my car, my breath coming in heavy waves.

I pull out the keys to my old, yellow VW Beetle, the shovel hidden beneath a tattered blanket in the backseat. The engine sputters to life with a familiar, comforting rattle. Rolling down the window, I spot Walter out front, still deep in conversation with the contractors. I lean out and shout, "Running into town for some groceries!"

Walter barely looks up but gives me a thumbs-up before turning back to his clipboard, scribbling signatures onto work orders. Perfect.

I pull out of the gravel driveway, my heart racing. The tires crunch over the drive as I steer toward the narrow road leading back to town, back to good 'ol Donny at the Rusty Anchor. The Florida sun cuts through the trees in sharp beams, dappling the windshield as I descend the winding road.

I park the Beetle behind a thick cluster of trees by the shoreline, tucked far enough to hide it from casual view. Even though I'm an adult, fully capable of handling what I'm about to do, the thought of Walter finding out sends a ripple of anxiety through me. I can't face his disappointment. So, I leave the car there, hidden, just in case.

I step out, pulling the shovel from beneath the tattered blanket in the backseat. I head back toward the dock, where I hope I'll find Donny. The scene is exactly as it was yesterday—same creaking boards, the same faint smell of gasoline and lake water—but today, the air is different. The wind's died down, the sky a flawless stretch of blue.

Donny spots me before I even call out. "Back again, huh?"

I give him a half-smile. "Can you take me to the same spot as yesterday?"

He squints at me, running a hand down his weathered face. "Forty bucks this time."

I hand him sixty.

He frowns, holding the bills up like he's checking for counterfeits. "I said forty."

"The extra twenty's for you to stay this time."

His eyes flick to mine, gauging whether I'm serious, and then he shrugs. "You got it."

I climb into the boat, the lake's stillness stretching out before me, beautiful and unnerving all at once. I don't say anything else as Donny cranks the engine, steering us toward the far shore. I grip the shovel's handle tighter, bracing myself for what's next.

The shoreline finally comes into view, with the Hawthorn's overturned boat to my right, with Hawthorn Manor still jutting out above the trees for another few moments before disappearing. Donny slows the boat, cutting the engine with a low grumble.

"Hang tight, Donny," I say, gripping the handle of the shovel tighter. "Hopefully, I'll be back in just a few minutes."

He tips his cap back, squinting at me. "You got it. But don't take too long—on a nice day like this, someone else is bound to want a tour."

I offer a small grin before hopping out. My boots sink slightly into the damp shoreline as I make my way inland. I am grateful for the larger shovel in my hand this time, as opposed to the tiny trowel I left behind yesterday.

I follow the same path I took before, weaving through the tall grass and low-hanging branches, each step stirring the familiar scent of wet earth and moss. The sun filters through the canopy above, casting fragmented shadows on the ground, and the stillness of the day feels both peaceful and unnerving.

Before long, I find it—the gumbo limbo tree, its red, peeling bark unmistakable against the green. And there, right beside it, is my freshly dug hole from yesterday, the dirt still loose and dark around its edges.

This time, I don't jump right in. I crouch low, my body tense as I scan the area. My ears strain for any sign of movement, any low hiss that might betray a gator lurking nearby. Minutes stretch thin as I wait, the air soft with the faint rustle of leaves.

Nothing.

Releasing a slow breath, I rise and plant the shovel into the dirt. The blade sinks deep, and I begin to dig, muscles straining as the ground gives way under the steady rhythm of my efforts. The sun climbs higher, its heat heavy on my back, but I keep going—this time without hesitation.

My hands blister, dirt wedges under my fingernails, but I keep going, the same relentless rhythm as before. And then?—

Thud.

Metal hits wood. My pulse skyrockets. I drop to my knees, clawing at the dirt until the edges of a chest emerge. It's real. My hands tremble as I clear more soil, revealing the ornate metal fittings. Worn but elegant—like something out of another century.

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