Page 46 of The House That Held Her

The floorboards creak as he moves across the room. I press myself deeper into the darkness, stomach churning at how close he is. My heart thrashes so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

“Is Margot in my room?” he murmurs, voice turning almost reverent.

Terror seizes me. A moment of breathless silence stretches, and then his fist slams against the wall. A thunderous crack reverberates through the wood, sending a shockwave that rattles me. I gasp, stumbling backward and smacking my spine on the edge of the drafting desk. A cry lodges in my throat.

“Shannon, Shannon…” he mutters, switching tactics. “She’s such a sweet friend, isn’t she? Isn’t that why you’re so desperate to find her?”

Tears leak down my cheeks.Focus.I let my hands explore the cramped passage, feeling for the path. If Shannon got lost in here, maybe I can pick up on something—footprints in the dust, or an echo of movement. The memory of how she once teased me about being too stubborn to give up sparks a flicker of determination. She might still be alive. Shehasto be.

Walter’s footsteps shift, moving across the floor. I force myself deeper, ignoring the tightness in my chest. The corridor is black as tar. I can’t see an inch in front of my face, so I press one hand against the wall, letting it guide me. The air is dense, smelling of dust and stale secrets.

Behind me, I hear Walter leave my room, his voice fading. Maybe he assumes I’ll come out eventually. Maybe he’s searching for a quicker route to corner me.He knows these passages, a dreadful voice in my head reminds me,maybe better than I ever will.

Still, I keep going, step by slow step. The space twists, branching off in corners that feel impossible to navigate blind.I have to find Shannon.If I can’t, I’ll at least look for an exit—a loose board, a gap to the outside, some way to get out and call for help.

Behind my eyes, I see Nate’s face, recalling the violent discovery of him in the bathtub. I think of Lila, Penny—so many names swirling in the darkness. Walter took them all from me. Not Shannon. Not again.

My hand meets a solid wooden panel. No latch, no doorknob—just more wall. I curse under my breath, leaning my forehead against it, swallowing the anger and grief. On the other side of this panel, Walter could be waiting, or Shannon might be unconscious, or…

I inhale slowly, pressing on. Darkness or not, I refuse to stop searching. Walter might own these walls, but he doesn’t own my will. I won’t give him the satisfaction of submission.

Somewhere up ahead, the tunnel splits. My fingertips graze a corner. I pick one direction at random, hoping it leads me closer to where Shannon might be. Behind me, faint echoes of Walter’s methodical steps filter through the old timbers.

I take another trembling breath, gather what courage I have left, and plunge deeper into the blackness, determined to find Shannon—or an escape—and to bring this entire nightmare to an end, one way or another.

34

Istumble through the cramped, suffocating darkness of these hidden passageways, straining to stay just out of Walter’s reach. Hawthorn Manor has turned into a twisted labyrinth, the very walls seemingly conspiring to trap me. Each time I think I’ve found a path, it veers into another dead end. My breath comes in ragged bursts, and the only relief I find is through the tiny peepholes carved into the walls—brief, taunting windows into a home I once thought was mine.

I press my eye against one of those openings, my heart racing. Beyond it, I see the kitchen, still achingly familiar yet warped by all that’s happened. It feels like years ago now, since Nate and I first stepped foot into this kitchen, imagining the Thanksgivings we’d spend here together, cooking and baking our favorite foods. The memory slams into me, nearly overwhelming me with grief. Then, before I can process the pain, a giant, bloodshot eye fills the peephole from the other side.

Walter.

“Peek-a-boo, Margot,” he says in a singsong murmur. “I see you.”

I jolt backward, stifling a yelp, hand clamped over my mouth. My back hits the rough wall, reminding me just how cornered I am. The echo of Walter’s footsteps drifts along the corridors, sometimes seeming to come from right beside me, as though he’s walking parallel on the other side of these panels, waiting to snatch me if I slip. Other times, I swear he’s in here with me, only steps behind, his breath just inches from my neck.

The pathways twist left, then right, then left again, a demented puzzle with no obvious solution. I’m losing track of how long I’ve been trapped in this claustrophobic warren. Each second drips into the next, exhaustion gnawing at my bones. I can’t stop, or he’ll catch me. So, I push on, adrenaline fueling my every shaky step.

I pause to press my face against another peephole, desperate for some idea of where I am. This time, the living room slides into focus—and my heart wrenches. Shannon and I were just in this room together, looking for an answer to a puzzle I wish we had never found.

An old memory grips me: Shannon, defiant and protective, arms crossed as she argued on my behalf back home—when the courts pinned me with partial responsibility for Lila’s death. Shannon was my shield back then, unwavering. She saved me from sinking beneath all that guilt, stood between me and the world’s pointed fingers. And now I had dragged her into whateverthiswas.

Tears fill my eyes, shock warring with disbelief, grief curdling into anger. In my heart I know he’s done something to her. I just can’t admit it out loud to myself. My rage burns through my tears: Walter will pay. I clench my fists, pressing them against the wall.

Movement flickers in the living room. Walter steps into view, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look so calm anymore—his motions are jittery, his expression coiled. He paces, mumbling to himself, glancing at some unseen presence beyond my narrow line of sight. Is there…someone else in the house?

My pulse spikes. Walter is flailing, gesturing around the room like he’s trying to explain something. He looks desperate—terrified, even. I lean closer, ear against the wall, struggling to catch a word or name, but I only hear the low rumble of his voice, one-sided and agitated.

Then Walter steps to the very center of the room. He sighs, hanging his head, and for a moment, he looks sad—until he lifts his gaze and locks eyes directly on the spot where I’m hiding.

My blood goes cold. He stares at the wall that conceals me, eyes narrowed, a small smile curling his lips, like heknowsI’m watching. Then, silent as a predator, he slips out of sight.

I suck in a shaky breath, heart pounding. I realize in a flash: these passageways have more than one entrance. He’s going to hunt me down from some other route. I can’t stay here; I have to move.

Turning away from the peephole, I edge forward, hands ghosting along the rough wood. Every muscle tenses, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. My mind spins with the question of how large this hidden network is, how many corridors crisscross the house’s foundation. Suddenly, the ground drops beneath my feet. I lurch forward, nearly pitching headlong into empty space.

A series of steps descends into darkness—leading downward, and I know for a fact Hawthorn Manor doesn’t have a basement. Not one I’ve ever seen, anyway. Fear collides with a raw, urgent need to escape, and that need wins. I scoot onto the top step, lowering myself carefully. The air grows damp, carrying a rank odor that sets my nerves on edge.

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