Page 52 of The House That Held Her

38

Isqueeze the trigger, but all I get is a hollow click. Shock slams through my body so hard it feels like I’ve been kicked in the chest. My frantic finger pumps the trigger again, and again that sickening click mocks me.

George’s laugh rips across the night. It starts low, almost playful, then rises into a manic howl that drowns even the hammering rain. My stomach twists in a way I’ve never felt before. And then, as if he’s flipped a switch inside himself, he cuts off the laugh. His eyes lock onto mine through the curtain of rain. He inhales sharply through his teeth, drawing saliva back into his mouth, and scowls.

“You were actually going to shoot me,” he says flatly. It’s not a question, and it’s not an accusation. It’s like he’s marveling at the idea. There’s hurt and fury shimmering behind his gaze, and I can’t decide which side of him is more terrifying. Suddenly, I want to bolt, to fling the useless shotgun at him and run. But my limbs refuse to cooperate.

He leans in a fraction, reading the panic flaring in my eyes. “You’re scared,” he murmurs. “You should be. Everyone is dead. The storm’s too loud, the town’s shut inside. And you?” His grin returns, twisted and hungry. “You want to run. I can taste it. But listen to me—she always gets what she wants. I’ll do anything she asks of me. And tonight”—he dips close enough for me to catch the stench of his breath—“she wants you.”

His final word is breathed against my ear. It jolts me like a shock of electricity, blasting through the paralysis in my muscles. I spin on my heel, fumbling the shotgun and letting it crash to the mud as I take off toward the woods. Rain stabs at my cheeks, wind roars in my ears, but I keep screaming for help, for anyone, even knowing I’m probably wasting air. The storm devours everything.

My ankle is on fire, swollen and unsteady. Every third step sends a fresh stab of agony right up my leg. Branches whip my face, leaving tiny cuts. I zigzag blindly among the trunks, trying to stay hidden. Finally, I glance back, heart in my throat, expecting George’s silhouette right on my heels. But I see nothing. He’s not behind me. Despite the throbbing in my foot, I push on faster.

A break in the canopy reveals the faint lights of Hawthorn Manor. My eyes hone in on the front door. If I can just get inside, lock or barricade it… Even if George finds another way, I can slow him. My phone is inside. All I have to do is call for backup, get help.

Headlights flicker through the trees in front of me. I freeze, dropping instinctively into a crouch. My throat seizes as Chief Miller’s cruiser prowls slowly up the winding road—except I know it’s not Miller at the wheel. The side spotlight flares white through the rain, searching the underbrush. And George’s voice floats on the storm, singsong and mocking, “Margot… where are you?”

My heart scrambles in my chest. He’s still having fun, playing his cat-and-mouse game. But I’m hardly able to walk at this point, let alone outrun a car. My ankle throbs and the swelling’s creeping above the top of my shoe. Another block or two and I’ll be limping too badly to move. I look down the hill back towards the center of Mount Dora. Racing all the way back to the police station or a random house, hoping their hurricane shutters and doors aren’t already drawn seems like an impossibility in my condition.

Hawthorn Manor is the only real chance I have.

Clamping a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry of frustration, I push away from the road, hobbling through the last stretch of trees that stand between me and the house. My lungs burn from the humidity and fear, my ankle throbs with every uneven footstep. But I refuse to stop. The storm scythes at me with wind and water, and I’m half-blind with rain, but finally—finally—I see the driveway. My house is right there, looming in the gloom.

The front door is wide open, light from the hallway casting a dull glow into the night. I pause, breath stuttering. I scan the darkness for any sign of movement but see none. It’s been several minutes since I saw the police cruiser or spotted any light combing through the trees. He may have doubled back.

Summoning my last scrap of courage, I sprint out of the tree line. My ankle feels like it’s splitting in two with each step, but adrenaline blasts me forward.

I’m panting, nearly delirious, as I cross the open gravel. I swear something moves at the corner of my vision—a dark silhouette racing toward the house as well. My heart nearly bursts. George. He’s found me, I know it. Desperation rips through every cell, and I throw myself up the porch steps. One, two, three, in a blur. I hit the threshold, chest heaving, and stagger inside. Relief surges through me—I made it. I’m inside.

I spin to slam the door shut—and never see the fist that slams into the side of my head. White-hot agony explodes across my skull, and a shriek dies on my lips. I’m weightless, falling. My brain registers the impact of the floor before everything descends into black.

39

Aclap of thunder jolts me awake. I sit on the sofa in my living room, my breath shallow and uneven. I scan the room until my eyes lock on the man I once believed was Walter, standing by the fireplace that now roars with flames. Outside, the storm rages, thunder rattling the windows.

My hands clench at my sides, knuckles stretched pale as fury and sorrow ignite within me. Every muscle trembles with the need to both run and confront him. I can’t stop thinking of Shannon—her cries echoing through the water runoff tunnel, the way I hear her voice call out to me one last time. My best friend is gone.

“Why?” I manage, trying to sound strong despite the cold dread pooling inside me. Rain hammers against the windows, perfectly in step with the pounding of my heart. “Why pretend all this time? Why take my best friend? Why kill her?” I choke over the lump in my throat, my voice rising to be heard over a jarring thunderclap. “You murdered my fucking husband. You murdered my best friend. Michael and Penny Lark. All those skulls were people with lives, with dreams and families. For what? To feed your own sick desires? Why?! Tell me, George. Why?”

I’m shouting now, tears flooding my vision, my chest heaving with sobs I can’t afford to show him. But I can’t stop; I have to say it all, the betrayal and agony clawing for release.

When I’m finally spent, breathless and trembling, George—no, not Walter, but George Hawthorn—slowly exhales, letting my cries fade to the storm’s roar. Lightning flashes across his face, revealing a steady, almost gentle expression, as though he pities me.

“Are you done?” he asks softly.

I let out a strangled laugh. “No!” My voice cracks, but I press forward, shouting all the fury and grief I have left—the people I lost, the nightmares he’s forced on me, the shattered hope. I hurl accusations like spears, every word a desperate attempt to wound him the way he’s torn me apart. He listens without flinching. Even the thunder outside feels dim compared to the blood pounding in my ears.

Eventually, I collapse back against the sofa, panting. My head throbs, and my entire body is tight with tension. It’s like my soul has been scoured raw.

George’s gaze drifts to the window before returning to me. His voice, when he speaks, is unsettlingly calm. “I wasn’t always a monster,” he begins. “As a boy, I was just like any other child. I had anger, sure, but so does everyone. Then there was my mother, Dorothy…”

He keeps his eyes on mine, letting the words linger. ‘You see," George continues, his voice softening, "Dorothy had a way of instilling darkness in our home. She was always there with her best friend. Gin. They were inseparable. The alcohol brought out a side of her that was pure evil." He rolls up his left sleeve, pushing his arm forward. Tiny, organized lines of scars ran up and down his arm—too many for me to count. "I was her ashtray," he says. "And Amelia was her punching bag." He speaks without emotion—a hollow recounting of events. "One day, she pushed Amelia from the top of the stairs, straight down to the bottom. She didn't touch a single step on the way down. She died right there in front of me. When her neck snapped, something inside of me did too."

I can barely breathe, the horror of his words twist my insides.

George meets my gaze, his eyes cold and detached. "I confided in Cecilia after that. Cece made it her life's mission to save me, to keep that darkness at bay. And it worked for a while. She loved me. Truly loved me. And I loved her more than anything. But the darkness never left. It haunted me, buried too deep, festering." He shakes his head slowly. "One night, I had a nightmare. Amelia's face. Her broken body at the foot of the stairs. It felt as though the only way to escape it was to finally do something. I left Cecilia asleep in bed, snuck out, and I killed my mother. I pushed her, just like she pushed Amelia. I watched her fall. It was vindication. And for a moment, it tasted sweet."

My mind is reeling.

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