Page 60 of The House That Held Her

She nods. “Yes, the new owners of George Hawthorn’s old house were just in. The lady of the house was eager to learn about its history.” There’s a fondness in her tone, like Margot made a good impression. “You should pop over and see her. Maybe she’d be willing to give you a tour!”

I force a smile. “Wow, yeah, that would be phenomenal,” I say, my throat painfully tight. My head spins with questions: Why is Margot investigating the house? Did Patrick come by? Did he say something that prompted her to look for answers?

With her guidance, I delve into the town’s storied history, combing through fragile pages and sepia-toned photos. I discover references to George’s philanthropic contributions, read about the citrus groves he inherited from his own father, and piece together how Hawthorn Manor came to be. Photos show George, clean-shaven with a healthy sized gut next to his wife, Cecilia, at various town events—always smiling.

No mention of Patrick Brendamore. No sign of any affair with a woman named Phyllis. But that doesn’t ease my tension. George managed to hide me and my mother all this time, so why not hide Patrick, too?

Over the next few days, the monotony of digging through old records becomes my life. At the public library, I flip through property deeds, scanning for any hint of hush-hush transfers or secret trusts. Nothing. Zoning records, local gossip columns—still nothing. The official story is that George Hawthorn and Cecilia lived a quiet, well-respected life until Cecilia died of natural causes on Lake Dora, followed by George apparently vanishing from the public eye years ago. That’s it. No mention of children, legitimate or otherwise.

Between the searching, I hunker down in my cramped motel room eating junk food and doing my best to keep my anxieties under control. I rarely sleep more than an hour or two at a time. I often wake-up nervous and apprehensive about my life, my future with Margot and how I navigate us through this challenging phase of our life together.

Part of me wants to check on Margot—my phone buzzes with her worried texts—but I can’t bear lying to her anymore. It’s affecting me more and more each day. I’m losing weight. My thoughts are cloudy and messy; I don’t feel like much of a person at all these days. And the more I engage with her without a path forward, without a light at the end of this mysterious tunnel, the more I hate myself. No, I’ll ice her out for now to manage my worries and then once I get it all figured out, I’ll come back the husband she deserves.

But one specific question gnaws at me: Who sent me that letter claiming I was George’s heir? I remember the envelope’s local postmark. No official signature, no lawyer’s letterhead, just a few pages stating that I was entitled to Hawthorn Manor. At the time, I was too stunned—and too broke—to question the gift. Now it feels like a trap, or maybe some twisted game.

If Patrick truly believes he’s the older son, maybe he or someone connected to him set me up. But that wouldn’t make sense if he wants the place for himself. Unless… it was a lure, meant to get me here so he could challenge me face to face?

My head throbs with the effort of it all.

I slam my notebook closed. Every minute that passes by is a reminder that time is running out—sooner or later, I’ll need to confront Patrick about how to move forward. Unfortunately for me, that timeline is shifted forward significantly because I need to limit Patrick’s visits to Hawthorn Manor. If he meets Margot there, he will probably tell her what he told me which would unravel everything.

I’m done waiting. I stand up and pace the small, dirty floor of my hotel room. I think back to the manilla envelope I had received a few weeks ago. Did I look at every single sheet of paper? Was it possible I had missed a critical piece of information that was simply stuck to another page?

My mind floats to the folder and where it was when we packed up the house in Maryland. My eyes absently flutter around as I cycle through my memories trying to recall where that envelope is now. I slam my fists on the desk in frustration. Why didn’t I bring the documents with me to begin with? How dumb can I be?

I sit on the edge of the bed, my right leg bouncing with nervous energy. I think I know where the envelope is now– a box of office materials I had moved to the foyer on our first night unpacking.

But going back means returning to the very house I told Margot I was leaving for D.C. If she sees me, my lies fall apart. If Patrick’s there, it might get ugly. But what choice do I have? If I can get that envelope without being seen, maybe I can find a clue about who originally sent it to me. Someone in this town has answers, but I need to find them before Margot or Patrick find me.

I grab my hoodie and yank the hood low over my eyes. The door slams behind me as I step into the windy night. I slip into my car, pulse hammering. I’m going to break into my own home– in hopes that I’ll find answers before the facade of my fresh start crumbles around me.

48

Icrouch lower against the wind. Even after the hurricane made its way through, leaving behind significant damage in its wake, the residual wind and rain were exhausting. Through my pulled down hood, the downpour stings my cheeks. My sneakers sink into the mud behind Hawthorn Manor, and every squelching footstep sounds like a thunderclap in my ears. I’ve parked a mile away so no headlights or engine noise can give me away, but now I’m paying the price, soaked to the bone before I even reach the house.

Our house towers against the stormy sky, the windows lit faintly upstairs. Margot’s still awake. I grit my teeth, ignoring the stab of guilt that twists my stomach. I can’t let her see me. I only need one thing: the envelope. Then I’ll be gone.

I hurry to the rear entrance, cursing under my breath as the wind whips across my face. My keys feel foreign in my hand—I’ve hardly used the back door since we moved in. The lock sticks. I fumble for the right key, heart pounding as I keep glancing over my shoulder, half expecting Margot to appear in a window.

Finally, the key slides home, and I turn it slowly. A faint click resonates over the storm’s wind. I push the door open, wincing at the soft squeal of hinges. The hush inside hits me like a wall—a stale, cold silence that magnifies every breath I take.

I pause, pressing my ear to the gap. I don’t hear Margot’s footsteps, but the wind rattles the windows so it’s hard to tell. I slip inside, letting the door drift shut behind me. Water drips from my jacket onto the kitchen tile, each plink sounding impossibly loud.

“In and out,” I whisper to myself, scanning the dim room. “Just grab the envelope and go.”

We never fully unpacked, so somewhere in this house is a box labeled “Office” that contains the letter that changed everything—the one naming me heir to George Hawthorn’s estate. I have a general idea of where I left the box, but no idea if Margot moved it since I’d left. The thought of rummaging around in my own home like a thief makes my skin crawl.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the hallway. At night, this place looks twice as big. Shadows stretch across the high walls, and every creak of the old floorboards sets me on edge. I move carefully, listening for any sign of Margot. If she finds me here—finds out I never went to D.C.—this fragile lie I’ve built will shatter.

My shoes squeak as I inch deeper into the house. Margot must have reorganized the boxes, because the stacks I left by the foyer are gone. The study is the logical place for anything labeled Office, so I slip inside, my pulse pounding in my temples. The faint smell of damp leather and old paper hangs in the air—probably a leak somewhere we’ll need to fix.

I scan the rows of half-open boxes, rummaging as quietly as possible through old receipts, dusty notebooks, random photos. My fingers tremble when they brush the thick manila envelope I remember. Even through the gloom, I can make out water stains along one edge—it must’ve gotten wet during the move down here.

I clutch the envelope, relief flooding me, and pivot toward the door. Just then, a muffled thud comes from overhead. I freeze. My heart feels like it stops entirely. Floorboards creak as Margot moves slowly across the room above me.

I can’t risk meeting her. I hurry to the threshold, sliding into the hall, hugging the wall to keep out of sight. The wind blows rain against the windows; hopefully it’s enough to mask my footsteps. Then I see a glow at the top of the stairs and hear her soft voice:

“Hello?” she calls, uncertainty lacing her tone.

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