Page 19 of The House That Held Her

No tub. No blood. No figure.

The space is empty.

I sway on the stairs, my knees buckling beneath me. A broken sob claws its way out as the phone nearly slips from my fingers. Isawit. Iheardit.

Hadn’t I?

I collapse onto the cold cement, my back against the wall, the weight of it all crashing down. If it wasn’t real, then what is happening to me?

A sharp laugh breaks from my throat, edged with panic. My hands tremble as I wipe at my face, but the tears keep falling.

I’m losing my mind.

11

The hot water scorches my skin, but I don’t care. I need it—the sting, the burn—something tangible to ground me. Steam fills the room, dense and suffocating, but I let it cocoon me as I stand beneath the relentless stream, eyes closed, my hair plastered to my scalp. I haven’t slept. Not a damn wink. The night terrors claw at the edges of my mind—twisted flashes of the basement, the bloated body in the tub, and that gnawing sound, still burrowing deep in my ears. I tip my face into the spray, hoping it will wash the images away. It doesn’t. They cling to me, just beneath the surface, waiting.

I think of Nate. God, I need him. His voice. His arms. Some tether to reality. I remember calling him last night, my hands shaking, but the phone just rang and rang. No answer.

I’m not stupid. I know what this is. Nate is probably with someone else—has been for a while now. The distance between us hasn’t just crept in; it has carved itself out, bit by bit, over time. I know that. I just don’t want to admit it.

My mind drifts, thinking about the last few years. My push to start a family, Nate’s big promotion at CirroSystems, Lila’s death—and the brutal legal battle that follows. I’m not sure when exactly Nate stopped loving me, but I have a suspicion. It was probably right after I failed to protect Lila. I mean, what screams ‘unfit mother’ more than letting a child get abused for months under your watch?

Shame curls tight in my chest. I feel… unlovable. Broken in a way I can’t fix. And this move—from Maryland to Florida—is our last-ditch effort to salvage something that’s already rotting. Nate’s idea, actually. A clean slate. A fresh start. And for a few brief weeks, it feels like he’s all in.

But then the storm. His disappearance. The hollow, half-hearted efforts at communication. He’s not here. Not really. And deep down, I know it. Our marriage is over. Has been for a while now. I just haven’t had the guts to say it out loud.

The water cools, snapping me back. I twist the tap off and step out, the cold air prickling my wet skin as I grab a towel. The house is too quiet. Heavy with it.

I wipe the fog from the mirror, my reflection pale and hollow-eyed, before reaching for my phone. A notification blinks—voicemail from Nate. My chest tightens as I hit play.

“Good morning! I don’t know about you, but I slept like a baby last night. Being with you always helps me rest easy… I love you, Margot.”

Click.

I blink back tears, the lump in my throat swelling until I can’t swallow. His voice is everything I need, soft and grounding in a way that twists the incoming guilt tighter in my chest. Here I am, ready to throw in the towel on our marriage, and I step out of the shower to this—his voice, his warmth, like he still cares. Maybe he does. Maybe his head is just caught in its own storm, same as mine.

I call him back. Once. Twice. No answer.

“Dammit,” I mutter, slamming the phone onto the nightstand. I can’t stay here—not today.

I dress fast, yank on jeans and a sweater, and grab my keys. The Hawthorns—the house—there’s more to this place, layers I haven’t peeled back yet. And if no one else will help me, I’ll dig until I find the truth myself.

Sunlight spills across Mount Dora, illuminating the cobblestone streets and century-old lampposts with a golden glow that feels almost too pristine. The town looks like a preserved postcard from another era—brick storefronts with ivy creeping up their sides, wrought-iron benches tucked beneath towering oak trees draped in Spanish moss, and flower boxes bursting with petunias and marigolds. The gentle clink of wind chimes echoes from a nearby café patio, where early risers sip coffee beneath striped umbrellas. The air is crisp, carrying a faint hint of lake water and freshly baked pastries from the bakery down the block. It’s all so charming, so picture-perfect—far too cheery for what I’m setting out to prove today.

I walk through town until the Mount Dora Library comes into view—small, brick, with a faded “OPEN/CLOSED” sign swaying in the breeze. Inside, it smells of old paper and something burnt, maybe coffee. I approach the front desk, my voice barely there.

“Hi. I’m looking for anything you might have on the roots of Mount Dora—town records, deeds, newspapers.”

The librarian, an older woman with kind eyes, tilts her head, her smile soft. “Local history’s in the back room, dear. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

I make my way through the stacks, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzing in my ears. My head pounds, exhaustion digging its claws deep. The skulls claw their way back into my mind—the hollow sockets, the twisted grin of desiccated flesh clinging to bone. I rub my temples, trying to force the images out. Not now. I need to focus.

The records room is small, dusty, and cluttered with binders, old ledgers, and rows of metal filing cabinets. Wooden shelves groan under the weight of town archives, thick with decades of local history. A series of tall drawers house microfilm canisters, each labeled by decade—1920s, 1930s, 1940s—some even older, their paper labels curling at the edges.

I flip through the drawers, my fingers trailing over dusty canisters labeled with events—“Founding Families,” “Mount Dora Citrus Boom,” “Lake Dora Regatta 1966”—but none of them seem specific enough to help. I open another drawer, this one packed with newspapers meticulously organized by month and year, their edges beginning to yellow. I start scanning, flipping through front-page stories, sifting through decades of town history—parades, festivals, scandals—each headline a breadcrumb from another life.

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