Page 7 of The House That Held Her

I hesitate. "Just… following a scavenger hunt."

He chuckles, but his eyes stay sharp. "Huh. Well, alright. Normally, a short trip like that's forty bucks, but with this wind picking up, gotta charge you an extra ten."

I wince at the markup but nod before handing over two twenties and a ten. "Done."

We set off in a sturdy pontoon boat, the engine sputtering to life as it pulls away from the dock. The lake stretches wide, glittering under the afternoon sun, its surface rippling in the breeze. As we cruise forward, I glance to my right. Hawthorn Manor looms above the treetops, its towering gables clearly visible—even from here—sitting at about four o'clock from our direction.

The shoreline passes by, and I notice massive concrete tunnels fixed into the retaining walls along the water's edge. They yawn open like hollow mouths.

"Storm run-offs," Donny says, catching my stare. "Keeps the town from flooding during hurricane season."

I nod, but my focus drifts when I spot something near the water's edge—a broken, overturned rowboat wedged among the tall sawgrass. My chest tightens.

"That's the old Hawthorn rowboat," Donny notes. "The wife drowned out there some years ago. Folks say the hubby might've gone out in that same boat and never came back. If you ask me, gator got him."

I force a polite smile, more out of courtesy than amusement, and push away the unsettling thought.

Moments before we dock, Hawthorn Manor vanishes behind the dense forest, the steep hill between it and us resembling more of a cliff than a hill.

"Twenty more, and I'll wait for you," Donny offers.

I shake my head. "I'll take the long way back."

He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "Suit yourself."

As the boat putters away, I turn toward the dense foliage. The hike will be long, but I have the energy to burn.

I trek through the woods, tracing the map with careful precision. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the undergrowth. After what feels like hours, I spot the landmark I'm looking for—a peculiar-looking tree with red, peeling bark and naked limbs.

"This is it," I whisper.

My heart hammers in my chest as I glance around, making sure no one's watching before I step into the secluded patch next to the iconic tree. It's quiet here—eerily so—tucked away from the buzz of tourists and the hum of town life. The air smells damp and earthy, heavy with the storm's aftermath. I pull the small garden trowel from Frankie's Favorites out of my bag and kneel, brushing aside a layer of slick, fallen leaves.

The soil is soft, the storm's gift, and I work quickly, my fingers moving with a sharp, eager rhythm. Each scrape of the trowel cuts deeper, the earth peeling back like layers of some long-forgotten story. I dig with purpose.

Chunk.

My mind starts to drift. The steady rhythm of metal-biting soil drags me backward.

Smack.

Lila's terrified eyes flash in my mind, wide and pleading. Her tiny body flinching as the blow lands.

Chunk.

I freeze, the past bleeding into the present. The dirt in front of me isn't dirt anymore—it's the stage of every failure I've tried to bury. My breath stutters, shallow and quick. I dig harder.

Smack.

The sounds tangle together. My trowel scrapes deeper, faster. I tell myself it's the thrill—the hunt—but the lie is thin, breaking beneath the pressure of my pulse.

Chunk.

Lila's cries echo in my head, raw and sharp. My hands tremble as I dig, the soil giving way in jagged chunks, the rhythm turning frantic.

Then—

Rustling.

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