Page 56 of The House That Held Her

His voice drops, heartbreakingly gentle. “I was your guardian, Margot. Your protector.”

My lips part, but at first, no sound comes out. Then I manage a trembling whisper, “You’re insane. You killed him. You… watched me. He was my husband. You—” I choke on sobs, my emotions tangled in devastation and wrath.

His eyes glimmer with sorrow, or maybe pity. “Nate was cruel,” he insists, as though it’s enough of a reason. “You deserve better.”

Rage floods every inch of me, a molten heat fueling my limbs. My entire reality has been twisted by this man’s lunacy, and I see only one path forward now: survival.

I grit my teeth. I need to make it out. I need to tell the world what George did.

He notices my shift—my posture tensing, my eyes searching. Panic flashes in his expression. “Margot, please?—”

But I’m already taking a step away, determined to reach that door. I have to escape this place, blow the lid off his gruesome secrets, and ensure George never haunts another living soul again.

Lightning flares outside, illuminating his face in a stark flash—haunted, desperate, and scarily convinced he’s right. The thunder crashes, shaking the floor under my feet.

George’s twisted mind might believe he’s saving me, but I see the real monster. No matter how terrible the storm raging outside is, I now know an even worse danger lives inside these very walls.

43

Ilock eyes with George, who stands across the parlor. Even in the flickering firelight, I see every line of tension carved into his face. Then, slowly, as if playful, he turns toward the fireplace. My heart jolts as he picks up a broad kitchen knife I hadn’t noticed before. The blade’s length catches the glow of the flames, and a sickening wave of dread ripples through my stomach.

Every survival instinct screams at me to get out. I dart a look at the front door. The keys to the deadbolt are still missing. My chest tightens. The back door, I suspect, is locked in the same way. The window crosses my mind for half a second—hurtling through glass is suicide. One good shard lodged in my artery, and that’s the end of the story.

My gaze lands on the grand staircase. Fear rears its ugly head again. The secret passageways inside Hawthorn Manor lurk somewhere up there. My nerves prickle at the thought of descending into those cramped tunnels again…but if that’s my only option, I can’t hesitate.

George steps forward, tightening his grip on the knife. Under his breath, I hear him murmuring again, except now I understand it’s the ghost of his dead wife he’s whispering to. Or that’s at least what he believes. A shiver rattles my spine.

Then an idea snaps into focus. Maybe I can use George’s twisted belief in Cecilia to my advantage. I stare straight past him, fix my eyes on a dark corner of the room. My own voice sounds genuine, “Cecilia?” I call, raising a trembling hand to point. “Please… don’t.”

He halts; knife still poised. He glances over his shoulder. That distraction is all I need. I dash for the staircase, ignoring the shriek of protest from my swollen ankle. My lungs burn, but I force myself onward, weaving around a table, sidestepping past a heavy armchair. George realizes the deception almost immediately—he growls my name, but I’m already at the first step.

My hand slaps the banister, desperate for balance, when I hear the sickening hiss of the blade cutting air. Pain detonates across my abdomen so fiercely I gasp. It’s as if time slows. The jolt of it resonates through my entire frame; I see the red stain blooming across my shirt. The knife has carved a clean line directly across my body.

I collapse to one knee, choking on a cry. I haven’t even fully registered the wound yet, and still, I scramble up the stairs. My body is in shock, but sheer adrenaline rams into me, keeps me moving despite the throbbing, molten sensation that’s spilling warmth down my torso.

George is right behind me, driving me upward with each thud of his boots. My slippery palms clutch at the railing, fighting for traction. Somehow, I manage to kick backward, forcing him to flinch. A single blow in the right place might send him tumbling down. But I only connect with air.

“Margot,” he hisses, voice rough with triumph—or madness.

My foot catches on the blood now coating the stairs, and I crash onto my side. Another shard of pain spears up my leg as he slashes at my shin. Blood trickles hotly against my skin, and my thoughts spin in a vortex of panic. I try to scramble backward, pressing upward one tread at a time, but each movement drains more of my strength.

If I can just reach the second floor, then maybe I can retrace my steps through the hidden door and back to Hawthorn House.

I grab at the banister’s spindle to haul myself higher. It snaps under my weight. I nearly tumble sideways down the steps, letting out a strangled cry. George lunges for me, practically throwing himself onto my body. We twist and claw at each other, the knife bouncing away down the steps. I watch it vanish below, out of reach for both of us.

“Please–George!” I snarl, twisting with every ounce of strength left. I succeed only in rolling onto my stomach, pinning my right arm beneath me. George’s weight presses me into the hard edge of the step, and I taste blood where my lip collides with the wood.

He grabs a fistful of my hair and slams my face against the step, over and over, until I hear ringing in my ears. My skull vibrates, and I can’t remember which way I was trying to go. A vague numbness creeps up my arms and legs, threatening to swallow me.

I’m fading fast when he shifts, maneuvering my head toward the jagged spindle that’s broken. My mouth goes desert dry as I glimpse the razor-sharp wooden edge moving towards my face. Nate’s face ripples through my mind—a heartbreakingly tender memory that gives me one fleeting moment of comfort. Tears blur my vision.

With a low, guttural grunt, George applies every ounce of strength he has left. The slice of flesh is the last thing I hear before everything slides into a dark, echoing silence.

44

NATE, 12 WEEKS AGO

Istand in the kitchen, the overhead light casting a dull yellow glow that makes everything look more tired than I feel. I’m staring at my laptop screen, which shows an account balance so far below zero it feels like a personal insult. The hush in the house is broken only by the hum of the fridge. That tiny sound seems to magnify how empty my life has become.

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