Page 59 of The House That Held Her

He says it quietly, but I can sense an undercurrent of determination. I take a breath, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got paperwork showing George left the manor to me. I’ll be honest, I never knew him—didn’t even know he was alive until the inheritance stuff came up. I’m not sure what your letters say or what kind of validity they may have in any legal proceedings. All I know is, I have documents laying claim to this property.”

Patrick’s jaw tenses. “I get it. And, hey, we certainly live in a world nowadays where some crazy person could fabricate these letters to try and scam you. It’s understandable you’re apprehensive. That’s why I’m here, face to face.” He glances toward the front door. “Look, I don’t want to intrude on your evening, especially if you and your wife just got in. But I also don’t want to blindside you with a lawsuit down the road. This place means something to me—and if George really intended it for one of us, I want to make sure the rightful person ends up with it.”

A draft cuts through the porch, and I shift on my feet. The entire conversation feels surreal and way too big for this late hour. “Listen,” I say carefully, “I appreciate your approach here, I do. But you’re right, my wife and I just got here. She’s exhausted. I’m exhausted. I need time to figure out what you’re saying… Right now, I can’t just?—”

He lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “I understand. Look, let me leave you my number.” He fishes in his pocket and hands me a plain white card with his name scrawled on it, plus a phone number. “I’m not some scam artist, Nate. I’d rather resolve this civilly than launch a full-blown legal fight. But I do want you to know I’m serious. So, I’m hoping we can come to an agreement like adults—figure out what George really intended here.”

I hold the card, feeling a tremor in my fingers. “Sure thing. Give me some time and I’ll be in touch.”

Patrick nods once, the tension in his face easing a fraction. “Good. Sorry again for dropping by without warning. I live just outside the historic district, so just… reach out whenever you can.” He hesitates a moment, searching my face. Then, with a small incline of his head, he steps off the porch and disappears into the night.

I wait, letting the cold wind rattle the porch swing, before I finally step back inside. The warmth of the foyer hits me, but I can’t shake the chill clinging to my bones. I lock the door with unsteady hands, listening for any sign Margot might’ve heard something. Silence.

As I make my way down the hall, I’m already planning how to keep this from her—at least until I figure out what’s real and what’s just bluster. Because if Patrick’s claim holds any water, my entire plan to start over here falls apart. I’ve staked everything on this manor. The idea that it could vanish from under me, or that I might have to share it with a stranger who calls himself my brother, makes my pulse thunder.

Heading toward the flicker of light in the living room, I pull out my phone. I aimlessly scroll socials as my mind works. I need to do a deep dive on this guy and maybe his mother. Are they legitimate or maybe just a pair of vagabonds or scam artists making their way through the town, looking to exploit our recent arrival? I open up a browser on my phone and type in his name: “Patrick Brendamore” followed by “Mount Dora, FL”. No real hits. No socials, no LinkedIn, not even a mention of him in any local news article.

While that doesn’t prove he’s my half-brother, it also doesn’t disprove that he’s a scam artist trying to exploit my lack of knowledge regarding this town. I need time and opportunity to do a deep dive here. I need to put feet on the ground, ask around town about this guy, see what people can tell me.

I hear the shower turn off and my mind flips trying to figure out how to explain this to Margot. She’s always been observant. If I’m out for hours asking questions about a random stranger, she’ll poke and prod until she figures out what just took place on our porch. And then, eventually, she’d find out I didn’t actually purchase this place with our savings like I told her but rather inherited it from my long-lost dead father. It’s all so absurd. But with her in this fragile state of mind and my mile high list of lies and manipulations, she can’t know. She can never know.

I run through possible scenarios in my head. A work trip—yes, that might buy me the time and opportunity I need. Margot still believes I’m employed and work from home. If I tell Margot CirroSystems needs me in DC for a customer meeting, I can slip away, do some digging into Patrick’s story, maybe find a way to protect our claim to Hawthorn Manor. Yes, this could work. I used to travel all the time. She’ll buy it.

I open a browser and start hunting for nearby hotels, my thoughts a chaotic swirl. The pressure closes in around me again, suffocating. I’ve lied this long; I can keep lying until I figure out how to deal with Patrick Brendamore. Because there’s no way I’m letting him—or anyone else—take this house from me. Not when it’s the one lifeline I have left.

47

Iwake up to the dull roar of weather reports coming from the old TV in our bedroom. Every channel is focused on the hurricane barreling toward Florida, showing satellite images that look terrifying even from hundreds of miles in the sky. My heart sinks—I know exactly how Margot’s going to react to me leaving under these conditions. But I don’t have a choice.

By the time I slip downstairs, Margot’s already in the kitchen, shuffling around with a pained sort of focus, like she’s trying to keep her worries at bay by staying busy. She spots me, and concern knits her brow.

“You’re still going?” she asks, voice tight. She’s heard me mention “D.C.” just once this morning, but she’s latched onto it. “They’re saying the storm could make landfall in the next day or two, and it’ll be one of the worst ever.”

Guilt prickles in my chest. She’s right—flying anywhere in this mess is absurd. But I plaster on a reassuring smile. “They need me,” I say, trying not to sound rehearsed. “I’ll be back before it really hits. This house is solid, Margot. It’s stood for decades, right? You’ll be safe until I’m back.”

She chews on her lower lip, scanning my face as though she’s searching for a reason to believe me. Eventually, she exhales, shoulders sagging. I can see the trust in her eyes, and it twists my stomach into knots. “Okay,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “But please be careful. If the storm shifts?—”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” I promise, gently squeezing her hand. The tension in her fingers is palpable. I hate that I’m using her faith in me like a bargaining chip, but I have no choice. I need time away from Hawthorn Manor, away from Margot’s watchful eye, to figure out the truth.

That evening, I park my car in front of a small, nondescript motel on the outskirts of Mount Dora. The neon sign flickers, half-burnt out, but the front office is open. I tug my baseball cap lower, press my sunglasses firmly onto my face—despite the dimness—and approach the desk.

“I’ve got a reservation under John Hayes, please” I say, voice casual but low. The woman at the desk barely glances at me before fishing a key from the drawer and sliding it across the counter.

“Cash or card?” she asks. When I hand her some bills, she takes them without even asking for ID. No fuss, no suspicion. Everyone in this town is too worried about the storm to bother with formalities. For once, I’m grateful for the chaos.

In my room, I lock the door behind me and toss my duffel on the single bed. It’s a cramped space, smelling faintly of mildew and stale air freshener. A dingy lamp casts a weak yellow light over the walls. But it’s perfect—I want to blend into the background right now, not draw attention.

Before long, I’m back out on the streets, driving slowly through Mount Dora. Even at a glance, the hurricane prep is everywhere. Plywood covers windows, lines snake out of grocery stores, and trucks loaded with sandbags clog the roads. The atmosphere crackles with tension, like everyone’s bracing for impact. It gives me a strange shield—I can move around without anyone paying me a second thought.

The next few days become a blur of research. My first stop: the Mount Dora Historical Museum, housed in an old brick building downtown. From the outside, it looks more like the backend of a restaurant, it’s entrance in an alleyway with a brick façade and a single door leading in and out. Inside is tight, with display cases randomly around the room, a huge assortment of trinkets and oddities like a horse-drawn wagon to put out fires, and three jail cells built into the building itself.

Before I’m five feet inside the tiny building, an elderly woman peers up from her crossword puzzle. “Morning,” she says with a welcoming smile. “Two dollars for adults; unless you’re a student?”

I fork over two crumpled dollar bills then clear my throat, fighting back nerves. “My name’s John, John Hayes. I run a popular podcast about unsolved mysteries. One of my listeners recommended I look into a family named…” I paused for effect as if trying to recall the name, “Hawthorn? I couldn’t find much online, so I figured I’d come down and take a look. Imagine my surprise when I found out this town had a historical museum. That’s pretty rare, in my experience.”

Her face brightens, but there’s a flicker of curiosity behind her eyes. “You’re the second one this week asking about the Hawthorns,” she remarks, leaning forward. “Maybe there’s something in the air.”

My stomach drops. “Oh?” I manage, hoping I sound casual.

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