Page 27 of The House That Held Her

I lean back, running my fingertip over the boy’s photo on my laptop screen. Michael Lark. The name feels like a puzzle piece. I snap the laptop shut, the quiet hum of the house amplifying the sudden rush of my thoughts.

I grab my keys and slip on my shoes. If Michael’s disappearance is linked to the sixteen skulls, I won’t solve this stuck behind a screen. I need to see where he lived, breathe the air of that place, and try to feel what happened.

The Lark residence is easy enough to find. Its paint is chipping, and the grass is left to grow wild like no one’s cared for the property in years. My heart thrums as I knock. I can’t predict what I’ll find or what I’m supposed to say.

For a long moment, silence. Then the door creaks open, and a middle-aged woman peers out. Exhaustion etches her face, her eyes sunken in with dark shadows beneath them. She looks at me like she’s trying to guess if she’s seen me before.

I manage a polite smile. “Hi, my name’s Margot, and I’m looking for Ms. Penny Lark. Have I got the right address?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yes.” Her voice is guarded. “What do you want?”

I keep my tone gentle, producing my old CPS badge just enough for her to notice. It’s unethical—maybe outright illegal—but I need her to talk about Michael. “I’m investigating a missing persons case, and I think it might be tied to your son’s disappearance. I was hoping you could tell me about the day Michael vanished.”

Her eyes widen, and I see pure fear behind them. She shakes her head, voice trembling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any children.”

That hits me like a punch. I blink, fumbling my words. “I’m sorry, but you are Penny Lark, right? Isn’t Michael your son? He disappeared from here fifteen years ago. Please, I only want to help. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

Penny’s expression hardens. “You need to leave. Now.” She tries to shut the door, but I press my hand against it, desperation in my voice.

“Please, Ms. Lark. He was your son. Something is happening in this town.”

“No!” she snaps, her voice breaking. “You don’t know anything. I never had a son, and I don’t know who Michael is.”

She forces my hand away, slamming the door. I hear the bolt and chain lock behind it.

I stand there, stunned, staring at the notes in my hand and the printed article. The address clearly matches. Penny Lark must be so overcome by PTSD that she’s erased the memory of her own child’s existence. I’ve seen survivors do strange things, but never to this extent.

I walk back toward my car in a haze, my mind replaying the look on Penny’s face when she denied ever having a son. That look wasn’t defiance—it was terror.

Through my dusty windshield, I watch the battered house. It looks like a sad house full of sad secrets, hiding an even sadder woman.

I hover a moment, my hand on the key, but I can’t turn the ignition. I feel that same surge of focus I had at home when I put on my CPS badge. The last time I ignored a gut feeling like this, a child paid the price. I can’t do that again.

Quietly, I slip out of the car and circle around to the left side of the house.

At the first window, I can just barely see into what must be a dim kitchen. I hear Penny moving somewhere inside, her footsteps echoing in the hush. I follow the sound until I find a second window, this one taller than the last.

A small paper sailboat is taped to the bottom of the sill as if riding the window frame. My heart beats faster. Cautiously, I peer inside.

It’s a little boy’s room. There’s a bed with a blanket covered in bright cartoon rockets. Toys spill across the floor. On a small desk, crayon drawings are strewn about in disarray. The walls are decorated with pictures of a bright-smiling blond kid, his name—Michael—drawn in cheery letters above the bed.

It’s like a time capsule, frozen in place from the exact day he vanished. My pulse thuds in my ears. I’m staring at a life left in limbo, and for the first time, I feel the cold chill of realization that I may be on the brink of something bigger than I’ve ever imagined.

15

Irun my fingertip along the painted seam of the window, testing for any give. It’s sealed tight. I slip my car key out of my pocket and carefully wedge its edge between the window frame and the casing, digging into the layers of latex paint. The paint clings stubbornly, and sweat breaks across my forehead as I work it loose.

I know I’m exposed like this, perched on the side of Penny Lark’s house with nothing but a half-baked lead. If anyone drives by, they’ll see me immediately. And given my previous run-ins with the local police chief, I doubt he’d believe anything I have to say. I push harder, prying at the frame, feeling the paint finally crack. The window groans in protest as I ease it open, an ugly shriek of old wood and Florida humidity. But it budges enough for me to squeeze inside.

I pause, listening. My heart hammers, but I force myself to be patient, to make sure Penny isn’t about to come rushing in. After a few seconds of silence, I pull myself up and through.

Squatting low, I take in my surroundings. I wait, body tense, but no footsteps approach. Slowly, I straighten and move deeper into the room. A child’s bedroom. The sight of it tightens my throat. My fingertips brush over the crayon drawings scattered on a small desk. One of them shows a little boy playing with a sailboat—Michael; I recognize him from the news article. He was real, and he lived right here. But why would his own mother pretend he never existed?

My unspoken question is answered by a faint whimper that rises from somewhere in the house, a tiny, frantic sound stifled before it can fully escape. I freeze, glancing around—the open doorway, the vacant bed, the dusty rocking chair in the corner. Could it be an animal outside? But then I hear it again, except this time it doesn’t stop. The whimpers roll into hushed whispers, the sound twisting my gut. I feel a prick of fear that tells me I’ve gone too far, crossed a line I shouldn’t have. Why do I keep doing this to myself—these reckless moves and impulsive decisions aren’t like me.

I back toward the window, trying to stay calm, to keep from bolting in panic. Then, just as I’m about to exit the same way I came, I see a face staring at me from under the bed.

Penny Lark’s face.

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