Page 12 of The House That Held Her

The metal dumpster towers like a rusted beast, filled with splintered wood and rusted nails. I scramble up the side, hauling myself in, my hands clawing through the debris, breath tight in my chest. The sharp stink of old wood and metal fills my lungs, but I keep digging.

Minutes stretch, my pulse pounding in my ears, until?—

A glint.

I dive for it, but my foot slips. Pain explodes as a nail pierces my sneaker, driving deep into my foot. I cry out, tears springing hot and fast, but I yank my foot free, blood slick against the torn fabric. I don't stop. I can't. My fingers close around cold, heavy metal.

The key. Except, it isn't a key at all; it's a nail plate—rusted and jagged. My heart sinks.

For a moment, I just stand there, my breath shallow, blood still seeping from the hole in my sneaker.

The ache in my foot sharpens, reality crashing back in. I look around the dumpster—splintered boards, shards of wet wood, the head from a broken hammer—but nothing else gleams beneath the debris. Nothing that could be the key.

Defeat coils tight in my chest. I'm bleeding, tired, and the damn chest is still locked. Crawling to the edge, I haul myself out of the dumpster, boots scraping against rusted metal, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through my foot.

I land heavily on the pavement, staggering before limping toward the house, utterly embarrassed. The cool air inside barely registers as I drag myself through the foyer, the weight of failure pressing in heavy. I rest a hand against the wall for balance, feeling the warm trickle of blood through my sock.

No key. No answers. Just me—lost, bleeding, and more confused than ever.

I'm half-hunched over the sink when Walter appears, his face a perfect blend of concern and disapproval.

"Oh no, what happened this time?"

I hesitate, the sting in my foot sharp and unforgiving, but I muster a smile. "Lost something in the dumpster," I lie, my voice light despite the throbbing pain shooting through my ankle. I wince as I shift my weight, the pain betraying me.

Walter's brow furrows, and before I can wave him off, he steps in closer. "Sit down," he instructs, his tone soft but unarguable.

I don't fight it. I sink into a dusty chair as he crouches in front of me. His hands, rough from years of manual work, surprise me with their gentleness as he inspects my foot. Every dab of the cloth, every careful swipe cleaning the wound, makes my throat tighten. This was the kind of care Nate should be giving me—the kind of presence I miss. But here I was, with Walter, the landscaper, the stranger, showing me more kindness than my own husband had in months. My chest aches, and I blink hard, refusing to let the tears win.

Looking for something, anything to distract me, my eyes fall on Walter's baseball cap. It dawns on me that I've never seen him without it. "Walter, without sounding rude, can I ask about your hat? It's the Yankees, but I always assumed you grew up here in Florida."

A small smirk crosses his lips. "Born and raised here, yes ma'am. But my dad was a huge baseball fan, adored Babe Ruth. 'Love a team for its players, not its location, son' is what he'd always tell me."

He pulls the hat from his head and flips it upside down for me to see. "He even met Babe once, had him sign this very hat right here." He points to a faded marking that says "Bambino."

I don't care about baseball at all, but seeing Walter cherish something of his father's adds another layer of depth and kindness to the man in front of me.

"But enough about me.You, Mrs. Margot, shouldn't be digging through dumpsters," Walter teases, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I let out a soft laugh, the tension easing for a beat. "Yeah, clearly not my brightest moment."

He wraps the bandage neatly, his hands still steady and sure, before rising to his feet and dusting off his khakis. A wave of gratitude washes over me, but it comes laced with sadness—how starved I'd been for even this simple, human connection.

I bite my lip, debating whether to speak up as Walter starts gathering his things. But curiosity claws at me, the thrill of the hunt outweighing caution. "Walter?"

He pauses, glancing down at me. "Yes, ma'am?"

I swallow. "What was George Hawthorn like?"

Walter's expression shifts, softening into something nostalgic. "George? He was a good man. Real generous. Kind. But there was always this… weight on him. Had a rough childhood, lost a lot early on. I think that's why he loved games and puzzles so much—like he was trying to reclaim something he'd been robbed of."

My heart beats faster. "What do you mean by games? Like children's games?"

Walter chuckles under his breath. "No, no. He'd turn everything into a mystery. Loved hiding things, leaving riddles. It was his way of making life more interesting. Like, one time, there was this roadside library in town—you know, those little book boxes? —and one morning, all the books inside were gone. Instead, there was a single note left behind, and before noon, half the town's kids were running around, solving riddles, trying to find the missing books. Took them hours, but they finally found them stashed in a P.O. box at the post office. And get this—every single book had a dollar bill tucked inside as a reward."

Walter's stories paint such a vivid picture that I couldn't help but laugh, the sound escaping me before I could stop it. "George sounds like a great person," I say, the warmth of admiration threading through my voice. "Creative, generous… a mind that loved giving as much as it loved the mystery."

"Absolutely," Walter confirms with a nod. "It was like a constant treasure hunt around here."

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