Page 61 of The House That Held Her

She moves into view, a silhouette against the faint light. My breath catches. She’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, hair loose around her shoulders, scanning the hall for any sign of an intruder. Me.

I press myself flat against the shadows, barely daring to breathe. If she steps forward another two feet, she’ll see me. My pulse roars in my ears. Then, as if by some miracle, she turns toward the kitchen instead, drawn by a noise there.

I seize my chance, tiptoeing the opposite way. Each creak of the old floor feels like a gunshot. She pauses in the kitchen, and I see her tilt her head—sensing something. I hold my breath, gripping the doorknob of the back entrance. Slowly, I twist it. The storm howls, covering the whine of hinges as I slip outside. Cold wind whips the door from my hand, nearly slamming it shut behind me.

I half-stumble across the yard, feet sliding in the mire, until I’m safely out of sight. Only then do I let my lungs work again, heart thudding with terrified relief. Rain pours in sheets, soaking me all over again as I hurry the mile back to my car.

Back at my motel room, I’m still shivering when I drop onto the edge of the bed. My jacket’s a sopping mess, my pants caked with mud. But I’m holding the envelope, triumphant and trembling at once.

Carefully, I peel it open. Water has blurred some of the print, but I can still make out the return address: 105 S Grandview St, Mt Dora, FL 32757.

My pulse is still racing from the close call with Margot, but now curiosity surges through me, along with a fresh knot of anxiety. This letter was how I learned about my inheritance in the first place. Why would it come from a random local address?

The adrenaline still thrums in my veins as I wrestle my laptop onto the battered motel desk. I punch the address into a search, teeth chattering slightly from the cold, and wait for answers. But none of the results on the screen make sense. Confusion settles over me like a fog.

Who is Andrew Miller—and why did he want me in Hawthorn Manor?

49

I’m hunched over my laptop in this dingy motel room, a place so dim that even the morning light seems reluctant to fight its way through the threadbare curtains. My gaze keeps flicking to the open envelope on the rickety table beside me, the edges weighed down by my half-full coffee cup. The name printed on the letterhead feels like a punchline to some cruel joke: Mount Dora Police Department.

It doesn’t make any sense. Andrew Miller—Chief Andrew Miller—sent me that inheritance letter? The same one that turned my life upside down and brought me here to Hawthorn Manor in the first place. Why would the local police chief send me a manilla envelope, consisting of mostly informal documents, but not call or visit?

I nurse a few last swallows of lukewarm coffee, my brain on overdrive. Did Miller know George Hawthorn personally? How does he know about me, a long-lost son who’d never even met his father? Could this all be one big mistake?

By mid-morning, I can’t stand the questions swirling in my head any longer. I button my jacket, tuck the envelope under my arm, and drive through the damp streets of Mount Dora until I spot the small, tired-looking building with faded letters spelling out “Police Department” above the door.

Inside, the station’s lobby carries that stale undertone of cheap coffee, disinfectant, and polished wood that’s seen better days. The walls, once cream-colored, have yellowed over time, and they’re lined with old photos of retired officers—most of whom look like they served decades ago. A single fluorescent light overhead buzzes and flickers, as though it’s tired of doing its job. I stand there, feeling like a trespasser in a relic from the past.

“You look lost,” a gruff voice calls from behind me.

I turn and face a tall man in a police uniform. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, and he carries himself like someone who’s seen everything there is to see in a small town. The name tag reads Miller. His eyes narrow slightly as he appraises me.

I clear my throat and hold out the thick folder. “Chief Miller? I’m Nate Bennett. I believe you sent me this?”

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly before he gives me a brisk nod. “Let’s talk in private.”

I follow him down a hallway that smells like old wax and paper, passing a handful of small offices until we reach one that’s cluttered but tidy in its own way—files stacked in neat rows on every surface. He settles behind his desk and motions for me to take the chair opposite. Folding his hands together, he fixes me with a level gaze.

“All right,” he says, leaning back. “I imagine you’ve got a few questions.”

I set the letter on his desk, struggling to keep my tone level. “A few, yeah. For starters, how did you even know about me? Did you know George Hawthorn? Am I actually entitled to that house or is this some type of prank?”

Miller exhales, and it’s like I can see the armor in his eyes slip for a moment. “Because George told me about you,” he begins quietly. “We were friends. Good friends, before he disappeared. I knew things about him that no one else did.” He stares at me for a few moments. Then takes a big breath before continuing. “As far as the house goes, yes, it’s yours– technically. After George disappeared, we weren’t sure what to do with it. Some folks thought he’d show back up, while others thought he was gone forever. It sat unoccupied for years. In 2024 the state started the process of escheatment, which is just a fancy pants way of saying the property is taken over by the state. It’s still going through that formal process today, but should be complete within the next month or so.”

He leans forward and flips around an old picture featuring five young kids in it. “George was my friend. It didn’t feel right for the house to be taken over by strangers; likely knocked down or sold off to be another hotel for the snowbirds. So yes, I stepped in, figuring you should at least have a chance. I couldn’t stand by and let it happen without telling you. Or trying to, anyway.”

My stomach twists as I process. “Okay, yeah– that makes sense. That’s really kind of you to have done. Thank you.” I say, while fidgeting with my hands. “You have to understand, Chief Miller– I never knew my dad, never knew a single thing about him. My whole life it was just me and my mom until she passed away. She refused to speak about him. When she died, I was placed into foster care until I aged out. So… I think I have some pretty negative feelings towards George. This is a lot for me to process.”

He looks at me with sad eyes. “I completely understand, Nate. I do. Many years ago he asked me to keep an eye on you. Said he felt guilty for abandoning you and your mother, but he couldn’t face the scandal. This is a small town, Nate. Appearances matter—even if the man behind them was flawed. George’s money went to the local schools, to all kinds of community projects, and everyone thought he was a saint. But behind closed doors, he had secrets. Your existence was one of them.”

My pulse hammers as I recall my mother never relenting, never sharing anything about my biological father, no matter how much I pleaded. “So, he just… left us to fend for ourselves?”

Miller’s face tightens. “He did. I won’t defend him for that. But he never fully forgot you. Even after your mother died, even when you ended up in foster care, he asked me now and then if I’d heard anything.” He rubs a hand over his face, looking older than before. “This was his way, Nate. He did not have things figured out.”

A strange heaviness settles in my chest. Part of me wants to despise George even more for trying to have it both ways—ignoring me yet keeping tabs from a distance. But another part of me is caught off guard, confused by the idea that I once had a father who cared at all.

I clear my throat, trying to maintain control of the conversation. “All right,” I say, my voice wavering. “Maybe there’s something else you can help me with then. The first night I was here, a man showed up at my door, Patrick Brendamore. He says he’s also George’s kid. That he’s older than me and could take the house. Did George have more than one affair?”

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