Page 13 of The House That Held Her

I force a grateful smile. "Thanks, Walter. That really helps me understand the legacy Nate and I have inherited here."

He studies me for a moment, a flicker of pride warming his features. He doesn't say it outright, but it's there— the small, almost imperceptible smile in the way his eyes soften. He was proud to have known the Hawthorns. Then he pats my shoulder gently. "Just… be careful, alright? And stay outta dumpsters."

I laugh more genuinely this time. "I'll try. Thanks for everything, Walter."

As he leaves, my mind is already racing. George Hawthorn loved puzzles. If he'd hidden the map beneath the floorboards, perhaps the key was never under the floor to begin with. Maybe it was hidden somewhere equally clever. Somewhere, he'd want someone worthy to find.

I push myself up, limping toward the stairs, each step a dull throb in my foot. I scan the living room—the aged bookshelf in the corner, the ornate wooden fireplace, the old grandfather clock near the window. So many possibilities.

George wouldn't make it obvious. He'd want it to be a challenge. My gaze drifts over the intricate carvings on the front entrance's doorway—maybe one of the flourishes twists or slides open to reveal a hidden compartment. The heavy curtains hang awkwardly near a vent—could something be tucked behind them? I scan the chandelier overhead, wondering if George had ever tampered with its base, hiding something in plain sight. Even the old grandfather clock seemed suspicious; perhaps its hollow base held more than gears and springs. The possibilities multiply, each one more tempting than the last.

I can feel it in my bones—there is a puzzle here waiting to be solved. And I am going to solve it.

8

With a renewed sense of determination, I dive into my search. If George Hawthorn had hidden the key, it would have been somewhere clever, somewhere that fit a man who thrived on mysteries and games—just like the map.

I start in the library. It's grand—towering bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, dark wooden panels gleaming under dust-speckled sunlight that filters through heavy curtains. The scent of old paper and varnish lingers in the air. The shelves are a blend of the Hawthorns' books, left behind when George disappeared, and the ones Nate and I brought with us. Making this library my space was the first thing I did when we moved in. I wanted somewhere that felt like mine, somewhere I could breathe. I run my fingers along the spines, a mix of dusty old volumes and my own well-loved favorites, feeling the weight of two histories colliding. I randomly pull out a few titles, hoping for that telltale click of a hidden mechanism. Nothing. I sigh, replacing the books, and step back, scanning the room.

This house is stunning. It radiates a kind of elegance from a long-gone era—intricate moldings, hand-carved details in the woodwork, stained-glass windows painting fractured rainbows on the floor. Even as I move through the halls, there's this sense that the walls remember everything. I trace the graceful curve of the banister, run my hand over the delicate carvings framing the doors, and I can't help but admire the craftsmanship. The Hawthorns loved this place. It's obvious. And somehow, that only deepens my pride in being this home's latest owner.

Next, I head to the study—smaller and cozier. A heavy oak desk dominates the room, its surface littered with papers. I push them aside, rifling through drawers, my fingers hunting for anything out of place. I yank open the central drawer, my hand brushing inside, searching for something, anything different. I freeze as my fingertips roll across a foreign shape. It's smooth and round, much like an old-fashioned doorbell, recessed in its metal housing.

Heart hammering, I press it.

A faint click echoes in the silence. The right side of the desk slowly crawls open, revealing a hollowed-out compartment. I can't help but think about how insane this actually is—a treasure hunt in my own home. I dig inside—there's a worn baseball glove, probably George's from his childhood, a photo of a little girl with "A.H. 1976" scrawled on the back, and a stack of old newspaper clippings about George's citrus grove business. It's like holding pieces of his life, fragments of someone I never met but somehow feel connected to.

But this isn't what I need.

I replace everything carefully and keep going. I'm not about to stop now—not after finding a hidden compartment tucked away in plain sight. My hunch was more than just a feeling—I'm actually onto something. If there was one secret here, how many more are waiting for me? I mentally scan the house, picturing every nook and cranny that could hold the next surprise.

I find myself in the next room, where giant windows flood the space with soft light. A built-in bench stretches the length of the far wall, with a backdrop of rich, deep red brick. I run my hands along the rough mortar binding the bricks, running my fingertips along the uneven lines, feeling for anything out of place. One brick shifts under my touch—a subtle, almost imperceptible give. My pulse spikes. I wedge my fingers in and work it loose, dust swirling in the air as it comes free. Tucked behind it, in a hollow pocket, sits a tiny, carved wooden box.

I pull it out, my heart racing, and pry it open. Inside, there are only a few tarnished coins and a delicate, dried flower pressed between brittle parchment. Not what I was hoping for, but still, it tugs at something deep inside me. Every discovery here feels like unlocking the past, peeling back layers of lives that once filled these rooms with laughter, love, and loss.

Hours slip by. I lose track of them, following hunches, studying the house like it's a living, breathing thing. I circle back to the study eventually, frustration tightening in my chest. I sit at the desk, fingers drumming out a restless rhythm. I have to be missing something. I scan the room again—my gaze lands on the bookshelf. I checked the library's many shelves, but not the two large bookcases here.

I stand, moving toward them.

A specific book catches my eye on the top shelf, almost out of reach. Its spine is marked with a golden towering tree. I reach out with the intention of pulling it down for further inspection, but the book stops before it can be pulled out entirely. Instead, the top corner pulls towards me about an inch, followed by an audible click.

Bingo.

I scan the room, searching for any change. What shifted when I pulled the book? What was different? I search high and low, but nothing stands out. Frustration creeps in. There's something I'm missing—I can feel it. I take a step back, eyes narrowing at the bookcase.

I skim through the other titles:The Princess Bride,The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,The Divine Comedy, and evenThe Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Then, tucked between two hefty encyclopedias, I spot another book like the one I pulled before. But instead of a flourishing tree on its spine, this one shows a withered, skeletal version. Of course—it's a sequence.

Adrenaline kicks in. I scramble across the two cases, scanning the shelves, until I spot a third book—this one showing a tiny sapling. Perfect. I push them all back into place, then pull them in order: sapling, full-grown tree, dead tree.

A deep click echoes through the room. A hidden gear shifts, followed by the low creak of the bookshelf as it slowly swings open, revealing a dark passageway. My throat tightens as I stare into the black void. My hand trembles slightly as I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight, the narrow beam slicing into the shadows.

Holy shit, this is really happening.

I step through.

The passage is narrow, stale air brushing against my skin. It leads to a small room—musty, forgotten. The walls aren't plastered; instead, the laths are visible, featuring exposed wiring, cobwebs, and dust. Newspapers hang from the walls, yellowed and curling at the edges, mixed with faded photographs and handwritten notes pinned in a chaotic collage. It honestly feels a lot like the Mount Dora Historical Museum—endless layers of history hanging on the walls. But I barely give it a second thought.

Instead, my eyes are drawn straight to the center of the room. There, resting on a low pedestal is a box—almost identical to the chest I dug up earlier. There's no question—it's linked to the larger chest. My pulse races as the pieces fall into place.

---