Page 29 of The House That Held Her

My voice begins to shake with pent-up fear, the intensity of the day’s events still thrumming in my veins. “Yes, okay. You’re right. I didn’t choose the most ethically sound pathway, but I’m not calling for you to absolve me of my sins, Shannon. There’s something going on in this town. It wasn’t just the fear in her eyes,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “It was like a whole history she didn’t dare mention. Like if she even breathed the truth, something horrible would happen.” My stomach twists. “What could be so scary, that you’d rather deny your only child ever existed versus tell the truth?” I inquire.

I hear Shannon sigh, and I can practically see her sitting on her back deck in Maryland, red wine in her hand after a long day at the office. “I don’t mean to pry,” Shannon says softly, “but… where’s Nate in all this?”

My heart squeezes. Shannon has never liked Nate, and for good reason—as my best friend, she hears all the worst parts of our relationship.

“He’s in DC,” I say. “His company sent him there for a customer meeting.”

She hesitates. “So… you went to this woman’s house by yourself?”

I can almost hear the continued disapproval in her voice. “He doesn’t know about any of this. He’s been busy,” I mumble.

A moment of silence. “Margot, your move was supposed to help you put distance between your past CPS work and a new life. Sun, beaches, bikinis, lots and lots of fruity alcohol; those were your assignments when leaving Maryland,notmissing persons cases. Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Shannon, come on. I was going stir crazy in that house all alone. I needed something to do. I needed some reason to get out of bed in the morning.” I say with more shame in my voice than I intended.

“I’m sorry, but I think you just proved my point. You’re digging up cold cases, all alone, in a big creepy house, far away from home because you’re bored? That’s it. I’m getting on a plane.”

“No!” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I’m okay, it’s okay, everything’s okay, really. It’s been… intense, with the move, the fallout after… the trial, but I’ve been doing well. The depression has eased up. No new nightmares, and I’m continuing my therapy. I’m healthy. I just… I missed it. I needed to be helpful.” God, I’m such a liar. None of the things I just said are true. Who am I?

She sighs, and I hear her rustling around. “If you say so. But there hasn’t been that much time since you moved, since everything that happened… I love you, Margot. You know that. I’m just worried.”

A tear slips down my cheek, surprising me. “I know you are. I just don’t want to drag you into this mess. It’s probably a giant nothing-burger. The Lark thing was just… it really freaked me out.”

Shannon’s voice softens. “Uh, hell yeah it did. That sounded fucking terrifying! But listen, I’d always rather be there for you than sit on the sidelines imagining the worst. So, if you need backup, or if you just need someone to talk to—anything—you call me, and I’ll show up.”

I grip the phone tighter with my left hand. “Thank you. I just needed to hear a friendly voice. I’m already feeling better. I promise I’ll make good decisions from here on out.”

“I believe you… twenty-five percent, with the other seventy-five leaning towards absolute bullshit, but alas, what is a girl to do…”

I laugh, a genuine, strong belly laugh which feels so good. Although the guilt of withholding information from her, such as the chest of skulls I’ve recently discovered, minimizes the laughter and leaves me questioning who I am again.

“Would you be willing to help me with this missing persons case from afar if you have some time?” I ask.

I hear her crack her knuckles, which has always been an awful habit of hers. “Oh, hell yes. I’ll do some digging from my end. I still have contacts in law enforcement, people who owe me favors. Let me see what I can find on Mount Dora—missing persons, sealed records, anything juicy or interesting. We’ll get to the bottom of whatever is happening down there. But Margot—promise me you’ll stay safe. No more solo investigations without a plan.”

I exhale, the tension easing just a bit. “I promise. No more breaking and entering.”

“Good,” Shannon says firmly. “I’m here for you, always.”

A wave of relief washes over me, and I’m blinking back tears when I end the call. I let my head fall against the headrest, exhaustion flooding every muscle in my body.

Before I know it, I’m parked in front of Hawthorn Manor. The rain is thicker now, beating a furious staccato on the car roof. Through the windshield, the house rises up in dark shapes and angles, looming and secretive. The shadows seem to move with the storm’s flickering light, like the house is breathing, alive.

I suck in a shaky breath, gathering the courage to push open the car door. I dash through the downpour and up the porch steps, finally stepping into the stale warmth of the foyer. Water pools around my ankles, and my heart thuds with leftover adrenaline. My mind is a cacophony of half-formed thoughts, questions, and fears, but I’m too drained to pursue any of them tonight.

At the same moment I close the door behind me, approximately one and a half miles away, a heavy droplet of rain strikes an old roof. It slides beneath a loosened slate tile, slipping silently through the ceiling and landing on the cold, swollen face of a man I love very much. He lay on a cold, dirty floor, fear in his eyes, waiting for the monster to fulfill its promise—to add Nate Bennett to the pile of skulls waiting in the center of the room.

17

Iwalk into the kitchen, the gentle hum of the old refrigerator blending with the crisp click of my shoes on the tile. I set the kettle on the stove, waiting for that soft whistle I find oddly comforting, even in the midst of Hawthorn Manor’s creeping unease. Morning light seeps through the curtains, painting the walls in warm, golden hues—like the sunrises back home. For one fleeting moment, it reminds me that there’s still beauty in this world, despite the dark shadows closing in.

The kettle’s call snaps me out of my thoughts. I pour hot water into the French press, steam fogging my view of the citrus trees outside. In this moment, I can almost believe this is the peaceful retreat Nate and I imagined when we first moved in—something simple, far from the nightmares that took over after Lila’s death.

As the steam clears, I look out at the yard. Part of me wonders if Cecilia Hawthorn ever stood here, at this exact time, gazing out at the same trees. Did she sense the secrets buried within these walls? The hidden room behind the bookshelf, the floorboards, that chest, and the key I found? Could she have known?

I stare past the glass, thinking how Cecilia’s story intertwines with mine. From what I’ve learned, she struggled to conceive, just like me. Even though times have changed, that deep-rooted expectation that a woman should be able to bring life into the world still lingers. The pain of wanting something so natural and being denied never goes away. The ache ties me to her, transcending decades. I picture her in this kitchen, grappling with the same doubts and fears I do now. Was she ever convinced she wasn’t enough?

A flutter of wings catches my eye. A bird settles on the spindly branches of a once-thriving citrus tree, now merely a skeleton. I imagine how bountiful this grove must have been before a blight took hold: bright oranges dangling from branches, workers laughing and gathering fruit under the Florida sun. Echoes of those joyful days seem to hover out there in the overgrown yard, but stop short of entering the manor itself.

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