Page 36 of The House That Held Her

Marty leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We Bugs grew up. We drifted apart, but we still lived in the same town. George, Andrew, Cecilia, and me—we were all woven into Mount Dora’s tapestry. George took over his father’s citrus business; Cecilia poured her heart into Hawthorn Manor, dreaming of kids they never managed to have. Andrew joined the police department, rose through the ranks fast as lightning. And me… well, I eventually inherited McMyers Corner Candy Store, turned it into a general shop with a pharmacy. The four of us essentially provided for the town in different ways—food, medicine, safety, hope. For a long while, it felt… good.”

He hesitates, and there’s a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “But then Cecilia died, and it shook everyone. The funeral was closed-casket; her body was in no condition for viewing. George was devastated, but it was different from the heartbreak I’d seen him bear as a kid. He wasn’t angry this time, he was empty. He cut himself off from the community. Stopped tending the grove, stopped showing up for meetings. His business started crumbling, and the town felt the blow.”

Shannon leans in, her brow creased in concern. “What happened next?”

Marty’s gaze shifts, like he’s peering into a distant memory. “Mount Dora was quiet, hardly any crime. Sometimes we had minor theft, mostly from Freddy Bahn—a guy a few years behind us in school, fell into addiction. But, two months after Cecilia’s passing, Freddy disappeared. At first, no one even noticed. But eventually people asked questions. No leads surfaced, and it became this hushed mystery.”

A heaviness settles in my chest. I know where this is going—I can feel it, and every nerve in my body bristles at the implication.

“Andrew and I started to worry,” Marty continues, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “We knew George’s history, knew what he was capable of when grief and anger mixed. We decided to visit him at Hawthorn Manor. Strangely, we found him in high spirits—warm, almost nostalgic. He looked different, had grown his hair and beard out. He hugged us, poured us whiskeys in front of the fireplace. We laughed about old times.”

His voice drops, and I see the pain in his eyes. “It was the best night we’d had in years. Then, as we were leaving, Andrew spotted a wallet on the entry table—that wasn’t George’s. George always carried a worn leather wallet with a tiny orange stitched into it, a gift from his father. This one was different. Andrew distracted George, and I peeked inside. The ID belonged to Freddy Bahn.”

Shannon sucks in a sharp breath. My own heart thunders so loud I think they might hear it. Marty draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“That’s why I left town,” he says, voice thick with regret. “I’d kept George’s secret because I understood what he’d gone through. I loved him like a brother. But a second murder? I couldn’t handle that. It broke something inside me. So, I packed up my family and moved to Winter Haven in 2009, and I’ve steered clear of Mount Dora ever since.”

He looks up at me, eyes drained, and continues quietly. “My gut says Andrew had something to do with George’s disappearance after that. Maybe he confronted George about Freddy, and things went south. Andrew was always the type to protect the community, even from his best friend if it came to that. And George… after the deaths of Amelia, Dot, then Cecilia… I can’t imagine what was left of his sanity. I think they had it out—maybe Andrew killed him, or maybe he instructed George to vanish. Either way, Andy is still there in Mount Dora, and George is gone.”

An uneasy hush stretches between us. My thoughts whirl around Marty’s theory: if George is truly dead, who’s behind the events in Mount Dora?

Marty must read the turmoil on my face because he murmurs, “I don’t have all the answers. I only know that once, my friend killed someone to avenge his sister. And it might not have ended there.”

He leans back in his chair, exhaustion carving lines into his features. I glance at Shannon, who’s scribbling frantic notes in her legal pad. She lifts her eyes to me, and I can see they’re shining with a mix of fear and resolve.

She turns to face Marty again, and voices the same exact thought I just had: “If George really is gone… then who’s causing all this chaos now?”

Marty rubs his palms on his thighs as if he can’t get them clean. “I wish I knew,” he says softly. “Or maybe I don’t. All I know is, whatever’s happening in Mount Dora, it’s bigger than all of us.”

I nod, trying to steady myself.Bigger than all of us, I think. The phrase bounces in my mind, echoing with a hollow ring. Because if George Hawthorn isn’t the monster lurking in the shadows of the manor anymore, then someone—or something—else is.

24

Igrip the steering wheel as Shannon and I drive home, both of us reeling from everything we just heard. My thoughts tumble in a clash of disbelief and excitement: George is a killer—there’s no escaping that fact. But did he continue killing? Is he responsible for Michael and Penny Lark? Those questions feel substantial and unanswered.

Marty’s theory keeps echoing in my head: George might have died after killing Freddy Bahn. If that’s true, there’s a second murderer in Mount Dora, and yet the idea of multiple serial killers operating in a quiet little town feels improbable. The more we dissect the situation, the more Shannon and I realize how little we actually know.

One certainty grips me: Andrew Miller, the Chief of Police, is corrupt. Maybe not to a diabolical degree, but he clearly knew about several murders and disregarded the law because the murderer had been his friend. If he killed George, for whatever reason, he qualifies as a dirty cop. Plus, he never left Mount Dora, unlike Marty, which seems even more suspicious.

This means the Mount Dora police force can’t be trusted. If Andrew is dirty, that rot might run through the department. Our earlier instinct to avoid law enforcement was on point. The local police aren’t only incompetent when it comes to solving these murders—they also pose a threat to us. I don’t trust them, and I don’t feel safe with them.

My gaze drifts out the window, and my thoughts keep racing. I replay every word Marty said, the tightness in my chest still there. I recall the way his face crumpled when he remembered his friends.

Suddenly, something clicks in my mind, and I blurt out, “Holy shit, Shannon!” I sit bolt upright, practically throwing my hands in the air.

Shannon, focused on her phone, jerks in her seat. “You can’t do that to someone, ya nut job!”

I’m too excited to care. “There are two houses, Shan. Two. Houses.” I stare at her, waiting for the realization to dawn.

“Yes... but Marty said one burned down during that Christmas fire, didn’t he?” she asks, sounding skeptical.

“He said there was a fire, yes. But he never said the house burned down. How could it have, if George returned there and killed Dot?”

Shannon’s frown deepens, and she glances at me, her eyes going wide as the implication sinks in. “Wait... Are you saying there’s another house still standing?”

“That isexactlywhat I’m saying.”

By the time we pull into Hawthorn Manor’s driveway, the sun is sliding below the horizon, casting deep shadows across the property. I kill the engine, and we hurry inside, straight to the study. I lead the way, my heart pounding with anticipation.

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