Page 64 of The House That Held Her

He slams the door without waiting for my reply. Ripped shreds of my letter flutter across the porch, and a wave of nausea clenches my gut. Things are already falling apart and I don’t know how to stop it from getting worse.

Twilight has fully settled by the time I navigate Hawthorn Manor’s long driveway, passing the main house where Margot is likely inside. I keep my lights off and my speed at 5 mph to not attract any attention. Just beyond a bend, the gravel forks. I veer right, following Patrick’s directions, and soon spot a secluded opening in the trees. Ahead stands a smaller, older building—Hawthorn House. Its siding is peeling, windows dusty, as though it’s been neglected for decades. Perfect for a meeting no one else will overhear.

I hide my car along the tree line under a gnarled oak and climb out. Crickets drone in the thick summer air, and the faint hush of an approaching storm rustles the branches overhead. I sit and wait, well beyond twenty minutes. I get out and begin to pace, wondering what’s taking him so long to get here.

Finally, after closer to an hour, I hear the growl of Patrick’s truck. He pulls up directly in front of the house, the headlights raking across the house’s chipped paint.

Patrick steps out, and even from a distance, I can smell the whiskey on him. His eyes are bloodshot, his movements jerky and unsteady. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, stalking toward the house.

I follow him to the porch, my heart hammering.

He reaches for the heavy handle first, but it refuses to budge, locked tight. I glance around, second guessing the nighttime rendezvous with an angry drunk man at an abandoned house. Moments later, I hear shattering glass behind me. Pulse pounding, I spin around—only to see Patrick grinning, a rock clutched in his hand.

“Oneof us owns it, right? What’s the big deal?” he says as he unlocks the now broken window and then climbs inside. Seconds later the front clicks and swings open.

Reluctantly, I follow him, flipping on an overhead light that buzzes to life, illuminating a threadbare living room. Dust stirs in the stale air.

He spins on me before I can even close the front door. “So, this is where you try to tell me I’m not his son? That I’m some con artist? You want to take everything away from me. Is that it?”

I keep my voice low, forced calm. “I’m not taking anything. I just?—”

“Liar!” he barks, and before I can move, he drives his shoulder into my chest, knocking me back a few steps. His breath reeks of alcohol and rage. “All my life, I’ve had nothing. I’ve been nothing. And then I learn about George! I finally have a chance to claim a legacy, to be someone. And you—some nobody from up North—show up to rip that away? Over my dead body.”

I hold my palms out. “Listen, I?—”

Patrick lunges. His fist rams into my cheek, and my vision bursts with white sparks. I stagger, fighting for balance. Another blow catches my jaw, sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain explodes down my spine, breath whooshing from my lungs.

He’s on me in an instant, pinning me. “You think you’re better than me?” he growls. “George abandoned you too, you know! He fucked your mother and then left her to die. He didn’t give a shit about you!” He lands another punch, and my head snaps back, the world going fuzzy at the edges.

With the next hit, I taste blood. Panic surges—he’s going to kill me. “Patrick—please!” I gasp, trying to bring my arms up. He batters them away with surprising force.

“I’m so sick…” another fist connects to my cheek bone, “of everyone else…” one more crack to the same spot, “looking down on me!” He head butts me this time and with a crack I know my nose is broken. “And finally, instead of being stolen from, I’m going to do the stealing.” He screams, with literal heat pulsating from his body.

“I’m taking your damn house,” he hisses, hooking a fist into my ribs. I gasp in agony. “Your money… your inheritance…” Each word is punctuated by another brutal blow. Darkness swims in my vision, and I now know I made the worst mistake I’ve ever made in coming here.

Then something changes in his gaze—an ugly sneer. He grabs my left hand, yanks my wedding ring free. “Might take your wife, too,” he snarls.

Fury and desperation swell, but I’m too disoriented to fight back. Another hit crushes my temple, and blackness sweeps in.

When I come to, my head throbs as though a jackhammer is burying itself within my brain. My mouth is filled with coppery blood, and I barely register the coarse floorboards under my cheek. Patrick is hunched over my wallet and phone, rifling through them with shaking hands. He’s so focused, he doesn’t notice me stir.

I grit my teeth, bracing against the pain, and force myself upright. My limbs feel like lead, and my eyes are struggling to focus in the low light. I look at the violent man in front of me, wondering how I’m still alive. Then a glint glances off his hand and I see my ring, my wedding ring, on his finger. The sight shoots adrenaline straight through my veins and I lunge, without thinking. I knock into him and he staggers, swears, and tries to swing at me again. But this time, I’m ready for it and instead, I use his momentum against him, grabbing hold of his incoming wrist and swinging him off-balance towards the still open door.

I follow in pursuit, with no plan, just rage. We crash out onto the porch. My back slams against the railing and he rushes towards me: I twist, shoving him away. Patrick stumbles down the three steps leading up to the porch, his head cracking against one of the stepping stones with a sickening thud. He collapses in the dirt below, unmoving.

Gasping, every nerve aflame, I stare at him. Did I just kill him? Heart hammering, I scramble down the steps and check for a pulse at his neck. It’s still there, faint but steady. Relief trembles through me. I hoist his dead weight by the arms, dragging him back inside the house, this time closing the door.

I drop him unceremoniously onto the living room floor, my muscles screaming. My head spins, spots dancing in my vision from pain and fear. But I can’t stay here. The moment he wakes, we’ll be right back at each other’s throats. I slump against the wall, pressing shaking fingers to his neck again—yes, still breathing.

Then I hear it—a low rumble of an engine outside. Headlights flash across the dusty windows. Panic floods me. If someone finds me here with an unconscious, bloody Patrick, there’ll be no explaining. Slowly, I climb to my feet, searching for any escape route that doesn’t involve stepping right into those headlights.

I stumble down a short hallway, nervously looking from left to right for an exit. I head towards the back of the house intending to use the backdoor, but it’s nailed shut with several old two by fours. A hear a car door slam and panic floods my thoughts. I turn and see a door. The handle squeaks in protest, but it opens. I slip inside, pulling the door nearly shut behind me just as the front door opens and heavy footsteps enter. My pulse thunders in my ears.

Crouched in total darkness, I listen to the newcomer walk through the living room. There’s a muttered curse, then a scraping noise, followed by a grunt. Suddenly, I realize they’ve found Patrick’s limp form. My mind churns with panic—who is it? Did Phyllis follow him? What if it’s the police?

The footsteps grow heavier, and I realize in horror the newcomer is dragging Patrick across the floorboards. I hear the person move into the hallway towards the kitchen and every cell in my body screams to hide. I turn towards the blackness leading down into the basement and silently feel my way down until my feet touch hard floor. I take a deep breath and try to identify where the footsteps are now when the basement door creaks open. Dim light spills down, illuminating the bottom steps where I press flat against the wall.

Then a terrible thud echoes. Patrick’s body cartwheels down the stairs like a discarded doll. He lands in a crumpled heap right in front of me, limbs bent at awful angles. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to smother a scream.

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