Page 31 of The House That Held Her

The change in the Chief’s eyes from pity to fury is instantaneous and it catches me by surprise. “Call who you need to, I’ll be waiting inside.” He turns away from me slamming the cruiser’s door, hard.

Now shaking and numb, I pull out my phone and begin dialing one of the two phone numbers I still know by heart. It rings once, twice, and then her familiar voice fills the line.

“Margot, this better be good. I was about to deep-condition my hair.”

My voice trembles. “Shannon? You remember how I told you not to come to Mount Dora? I need you to ignore that. I need you right now… I need my best friend. But more importantly, I need my lawyer.”

18

Isit in the Mount Dora police station, my senses assaulted by the stale odor of old coffee mixing with the tang of sweat. The building is old—like much of this town—and the low ceilings seem determined to press me down into the scuffed linoleum. Every scrape, every chipped corner, tells a story of decades of use. Officers buzz around with paperwork, their usual banter smothered by the grim tension following Penny Lark’s death. I catch the quick, sidelong glances they throw my way, as if I’m some foreign object in their midst.

A moment later, they lead me to a small interrogation room. No cheer in here—just exposed brick that might once have been charming, now only claustrophobic. Memories of the Lila case slam into me. Back then, I spent hours in a frigid, windowless room, too scared and too ignorant of my rights to stand up for myself. I know better now, but I also don’t want to look uncooperative. At least this room is warmer, which is something; I’ve always hated the cold.

Eventually, Chief Miller and Deputy Jenkins walk in. Jenkins has an unsettling smirk, with narrow, darting eyes and a stooped posture that reminds me of a rat creeping through the shadows. I’ve decided I don’t like him. Miller, on the other hand, offers me a sympathetic look.

“Margot, are you comfortable? Need anything? Water, maybe a blanket?” he asks gently, but I’m not fooled. His voice might be kind, but his eyes are a little too focused, a little too eager. This is a tactic: act friendly, get me talking. I shake my head, throat dry. They hover, offering coffee, a phone call, anything to loosen my guard.

Miller clears his throat. “Margot, can you tell us why you went to Penny Lark’s home yesterday?”

My stomach twists. I’m not supposed to talk without Shannon here. I know exactly how this works: they hope I’ll slip up and say too much. My pulse drums in my ears, but I force myself to look calm. The fear from earlier pushes back into my chest, and I realize how badly I misread this situation when I came here for help. Now I’m the one under scrutiny, ensnared in a web of suspicion.

I swallow hard and speak, careful with my words. “I’ve been researching Hawthorn Manor,” I say. “I heard Penny might have information on its history, so I wanted to ask her a few questions. That’s all. I was curious.”

Jenkins leans forward, that nasty smirk deepening. “You just happened to drop by her place the day before she drowns in the Lake? Sounds like more than plain curiosity.”

My palms sweat against the armrests, and I can feel how flimsy my story sounds out loud. Jenkins opens his mouth again, but before he can spew more accusations, the door swings open with a sharp creak.

Shannon strides in, posture straight and eyes blazing. She’s in a sleek outfit—skirt suit, crisp blouse—and she radiates a confidence that seizes the whole room. “All right,” she snaps, “that’s enough. You boys have had your fun. You know you can’t question my client without me present. Out. Now.”

Jenkins looks ready to argue, but Miller holds up a hand, sighing wearily. He leads Jenkins out, leaving the door to click shut behind them. All the tension in my body rushes out in a wave of relief.

“Shannon,” I whisper, fighting tears. “How in the world did you–”

She crosses the space in a heartbeat, pulling me into a firm hug. I bury my face against her shoulder, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel the crushing weight on my chest lift, even if just a little. She’s here. Maybe this nightmare is finally going to end.

“I may or may not have immediately gotten on a plane when you called me last night. The fear in your voice just didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t leave you alone to manage whatever is happening here.” She pulls back, looking me squarely in the eyes before motioning to the room we’re currently in. “And it seems like I made the right decision.”

We both giggle and then she refocuses, her gaze intense. “Listen, before we get into anything that’s happening here, I need to share some information with you.” She puts her briefcase on the table and pops it open revealing a trove of loose papers and folders, featuring handwritten notes on almost every surface.

“After we talked yesterday, I started digging into everything I could find about this town. And to be quite honest, I’ve even impressed myself. There isa lotof information here. And while a lot of it is interesting, there are a few items you must know.”

I frown. “Okay, I may be more nervous now than when I was being interrogated by the cops a second ago. What is it? What did you find?”

She takes out a thick folder, her expression both excited and scared. “George Hawthorn had a sister—Amelia. She died when she was six, back in 1976. Their father, Normand, appeared to have one priority, and one priority only, which was his citrus business. This often left both kids alone with their mother, Dot, who allegedly was an alcoholic. There were rumors of domestic abuse, some of them even reported, but nothing ever came of them.”

My heart skips. I think back to the photo I discovered in that hidden desk compartment—“A.H. 1976.” That must have been her. The little girl in the photograph was George’s sister, and she died that year.

Shannon flips open the folder, revealing what looks like a newspaper clipping. “Check this out. It’s Amelia’s obituary photo—she’s with a group of other kids. The caption reads, ‘The Bugs: (left to right) Andrew Miller, George Hawthorn, Amelia Hawthorn, Cecilia Doyle, Marty Hughes.’”

I blink at the grainy picture, not recognizing the majority of the names or faces. Shannon leans close, her tone dropping to a hushed whisper. “Andrew Miller. As in Chief Miller—the guy I just asked to leave this room.”

My jaw falls open. “They were childhood friends?”

She nods, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Even better, they were a ragtag group of treasure hunters inspired by some short story by Edgar Allan Poe. And look at who else is there. Cecilia. George's future wife. They were all friends at one point, getting into mischief, hunting for treasure, and clearly falling in love.”

I stare at the photo, my mind racing. Chief Miller, Cecilia, and George had all been photographed together. They had all known each other when Amelia had died.

This changed everything. Or maybe it changed nothing. But one thing was certain—bad things were happening in this town. Amelia, Cecilia, and Penny were dead. George was missing. And it looks like the police chief was right in the middle of it all.

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