Page 51 of The House That Held Her

I’m spitting curses at the darkness, scrabbling for any solution. The water’s climbing. Soon, we’ll both be forced underwater entirely. I rest my forehead against the bars, the cold metal biting my skin. If I had any tears left, I’d sob them all out right here. Shannon’s alive—but not for long if I can’t save her. The knowledge of that is a gnawing terror far deeper than any fear I’ve ever known.

I grab her face between the bars, pressing my forehead to hers. “I’ll get you out,” I vow, my voice trembling. “I promise. Just hold on!”

I’m nearly out of breath, but I force my body back out of the tunnel, water sloshing around my chest. Shannon’s voice hits me like a physical blow—she’s begging me not to leave her behind—but the storm rages too loudly, swallowing her cries as soon as they form. I hate myself for turning away, but I have no choice. I need something to free her from the handcuffs keeping her anchored to the tunnel.

Rain whips across my face as I swim and thrash, desperate to reach the embankment. My heart lurches when I realize it’s too high, the concrete lip slick with algae and water. There’s nothing to grip, no ledge to leverage. I push at the wall, sobbing with frustration, then shift toward the dock instead, but it’s also too high for me to hook my elbows over. My muscles spasm, halfway giving up. Lightning stabs the sky, illuminating the battered pier as waves threaten to pull me under.

A surge of panic electrifies every cell in my body: I can’t get out. Water floods my mouth as my head slips beneath the surface. I’m going to die right here—both Shannon and I lost to this violent, swirling night. Then a hand plunges through the dark water, gripping my arm hard. Before I can register what’s happening, I’m dragged upward in a rush of air and thunder, landing on the soaked dock with a painful thud.

I choke and sputter, water gushing from my nose and mouth. My eyes sting from the salt of my own tears. A flash of lightning reveals Chief Miller’s face hovering above me, lines of worry carved into his features.

“Breathe,” he shouts, voice raw against the wind. “You’re okay, Margot. Breathe!”

My lungs claw for oxygen, each breath a victory over the suffocating fear that was closing in. He hovers there, repeating himself—telling me I’m safe, to inhale, to calm down. It feels like an eternity before I manage a full breath that doesn’t tear at my throat.

“Shannon,” I croak, voice cracking over the rain’s roar. “She’s in the tunnel—handcuffed, the water—” I can’t form the words fast enough. My entire body quakes with desperation as I scramble upright. “We need bolt cutters—she’s trapped?—”

I stop dead. A thick shadow rises behind Miller, like an apparition swelling out of the night. Lightning flares and illuminates him: George Hawthorn, still wearing the cuffs that Chief Miller locked around his wrists. His eyes are wild, teeth bared in a hateful grin.

“Miller!” I cry, lunging forward. But I’m too slow; George slams his chained arms over the chief’s head, hooking his wrists around Miller’s throat in a vicious chokehold. Miller’s feet leave the dock for a split second, his arms flailing, and then both men crash down onto the boards. The storm devours every sound except the primal struggle of them thrashing for control.

Chief Miller claws at George’s arms, legs kicking wildly, but George’s grip only tightens. Horror grips me, but I force my legs to move. My wet sneakers squeak against the wood as I stumble over, reaching out to pry George’s arms off Miller. The darkness is crushing, the pounding rain blinding. Just as I get close, another burst of lightning shows me George’s face twisted in savage triumph. He smashes a kick into my ankle—pain flares bright and hot, jolting up my leg like fire.

My vision washes and I teeter backward, arms windmilling, bracing for the splash that will seal my fate. Summoning every scrap of strength, I fling out a hand, my fingers catching on a dock pylon. The momentum nearly wrenches my shoulder from its socket, but I hold on. My foot dangles over the storm-tossed water.

Shannon. My mind howls her name. I can’t see the tunnel, but I know the water is only climbing, possibly seconds away from submerging her. Yet Miller is choking, eyes bugging in terror as George tightens the chain around his windpipe. Lightning flares again, revealing Miller’s face, veins bulging.

He releases a final, choked whisper—“Margot…help…”—but I can’t. I have to choose. My chest burns with guilt as I hobble across the slick dock, ignoring Miller’s strangled pleas. My best friend is drowning in that tunnel. I lurch off the platform, stumbling through the mud toward the police cruiser, the door still hanging open.

My fingers claw frantically at the interior, throwing aside the radio, pushing papers, searching every compartment. My lungs can’t keep pace with my pounding heart. Finally, I spot a latch under the steering column. I yank it, hearing a faint pop behind me. The trunk.

I slip on the soaked ground but manage to fling myself upward, grabbing the trunk lid. Inside is a chaotic collage of police gear: extra cuffs, flashlights, evidence bags, road flares, a battered shotgun, a set of maps. No bolt cutters. My stomach wrenches, cold dread hollowing me out.

“No,” I whisper, voice almost lost in the deluge. “No, no…”

Shannon’s going to drown if I don’t free her. I spin in a dazed circle, searching for something, anything, but all I see is that shotgun. My heart seizes at the idea. I’ve never fired a gun, never even held one. But if I can’t cut the chain, maybe I can blow it off.

I grab the shotgun with trembling hands. It’s heavier than I expected. I pump it once, the solid thunk making me flinch. I crash the trunk door down and turn—only to find George standing right in front of me.

Lightning reveals his face, soaked hair matted to his skull, blood trickling from where the cuffs had dug into his wrists, one now dangling freely. He’s breathing hard, but his eyes are wild with purpose. If he’s here, I know that Chief Miller is dead. The guilt soaks into me and I wonder if I did the right thing.

I raise the shotgun, voice high with fear. “Back up!”

He just smiles, water streaming down his jaw. “You’re too late. She’s already gone.” He points toward the tunnel as thunder shakes the sky. “It’s full now. She’s drowned, Margot. It’s over.”

“Shut up!” My voice cracks. “Get away from me.”

I shuffle back a step; he takes one forward. “We were meant to be here,” he screams, voice raw in the downpour. “Right now. This moment. It’s fate, can’t you see?!”

Lightning ignites his face again, madness carved in every line. My stomach flips, tears stinging my eyes. The storm saturates every breath, my hair plastered to my neck, heart thundering in my ears. I take another step back, shotgun shaking in my grip. He laughs, closing the distance to a mere three feet.

“You won’t shoot me,” he growls, voice low and certain.

I tighten my jaw, adrenaline roaring through my veins. My finger curls around the trigger. “Wanna bet?”

I pull it.

The world explodes into thunder and light.

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