Page 70 of The House That Held Her

White-hot pain flares through my palm. The shard tears into flesh, sending splinters spraying across the steps, but it’s my hand, not Margot’s throat, that’s skewered. My voice is gone, so the roar of agony I try to unleash emerges as a ragged whisper. Walter howls for both of us, letting go of Margot so he can grab at the ruin of his nose.

He stumbles backward a few steps, blood streaming, then surges forward, murder in his eyes. I’m pinned down by my wounded hand, wincing as it throbs, and can barely muster my left arm to protect Margot. But she doesn’t need my help. Her leg lashes out, striking him squarely in the chest.

I see Walter’s body heave backward, no part of him touching the stairs anymore. He flies past the railing, arms and legs splayed. I cringe as he hits the floor far below with a sickening thud, and the house goes eerily silent.

61

MARGOT, MOMENTS BEFORE

Ilay at the top of the staircase, chest heaving, my pulse hammering in my ears. Though I’m about to die, I can’t help but think back to the first moment that sent me on this journey; that night not so long ago when I came down these very steps and uncovered a hidden map in the floor of my beautiful new home. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have left the paper in the floor, and quietly walked out the door, to never set foot in Hawthorn Manor again.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know what I know now and instead, I started down a path that has led to the deaths of the people I care about most.

I hear George’s grunts, feel his muscles straining on top of me. I feel my neck muscles growing weaker, my throat growing closer to the needle like wood protrusions jutting out of the stair, yet all that I can think of is Nate.

He stands bathed in the warm, golden light of a fading afternoon. I see him with beach blown hair, covered in sand and salt from a day on the coast. He’s sporting his signature half-smile, so effortlessly kind and smooth. His eyes—always the color of polished mahogany—reflect me back at myself, and for the briefest of moments I remember how safe I felt whenever his gaze settled on me. There’s a gentle lift to his chin, a playful tilt of his head that says he’s about to tease me, or coax me into his arms, or make some silly joke he knows I’ll pretend to hate but secretly adore.

The edges of everything else blur: the house, the stairs, George. Nate is what remains, in perfect focus—his broad shoulders that carried the weight of our problems when I couldn’t, the faint scar above his eyebrow he once got skateboarding as a teenager, the compassion in his face that endures even through tragedy. It’s the details that catch my breath: the tiny flecks of gold at the center of his irises, the smattering of freckles trailing along his collarbone, the way his smile lines deepen when he sees me.

In the hush of my mind’s eye, I can almost feel his hand at my waist, his low, steady voice beckoning me closer. Everything else drifts away, dissolving into memory. This final vision of Nate is all warmth and light, the very best of him—love made manifest in a single, precious moment. And as I cling to that image, I let it carry me back to every promise we ever made, every laugh we ever shared, knowing it will stay with me far beyond my death here.

And yet, even when I open my eyes, prepared to look out over the house that was supposed to change everything for the better, I still see him; I still see Nate. Except this Nate is rushing towards me with wet hair, and muddy lips, and terror in his eyes. He rests his hand on my chin and releases the heavy pressure on top of my body.

George screams and it shocks me back to attention. He’s leaping towards me again and instinctively my foot goes out, kicking him in the chest.

Time splinters. George’s eyes fly wide, reflecting pure disbelief. He topples backward into empty air, arms flailing, and for the briefest of moments, I think I see him smile.

In the momentary silence, there’s a sharp crack that snaps through the house like a gunshot. George hits the hardwood floor in a heap, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

I freeze at the top of the stairs. The world narrows to George’s shattered body sprawled on the floor below. My lungs constrict, and everything blurs, except for the sudden certainty that the twisted Hawthorn legacy ends here, in this place.

George Hawthorn’s death is grotesquely poetic: a fall, a broken neck—exactly how his mother killed Amelia, exactly how he’d ended her life in return. Three Hawthorns, three falls, three broken necks. And now I watch the final chapter, the last violent page in a lineage stained with cruelty, come to a brutal close on these very steps.

I curl into a ball, and Nate’s still there. He looks at me, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Neither of us moves for an endless moment. The Hawthorn curse—this terrible line of heartbreak and darkness—lies broken and lifeless below.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Isit on the wide front porch of what was once Hawthorn Manor, sipping from a chipped cup of tea, and I can hardly believe how different everything looks now. The late afternoon sun casts a warm golden glow across the yard, and laughter drifts through the open windows. It’s bright, joyful—the sort of sound I once believed would never come from a place like this.

To my right, a little girl sits on the edge of the porch, her scuffed shoes swinging just above the floorboards. She reminds me so much of Lila—same untidy braids, same curious eyes—that my chest aches whenever I look at her. But it’s a good ache, one full of purpose.

"Mrs. M?" inquired the tiny voice next to me. She points toward the newly painted sign near the gate, the name carved into the wood in smooth, looping letters. "Why's it called Cece’s House now?" she asked.

I take a slow breath, letting the memory of the old manor fade behind fresh coats of paint and bright windows. “Because once upon a time,” I say, “a very kind woman lived here named Cecelia. She had a dream to turn this big house into a beautiful home full of children.” I turn to meet her eyes so my words carry weight. “But sadly, she passed away before that happened. So, we’ve worked hard to keep her dream alive by making it a safe place for children, just like–“ I take my index finger, drawing narrowing circles towards her face and then gently touch the tip of her nose as I say, “you.”

She giggles, her eyes now tracking a group of children running across the yard. Their laughter float on the breeze, and my heart swells. Where there were once dark hallways and hidden passages, there’s now light and openness.

The same night George Walter Hawthorn died, we'd made the call to the FBI. The agents had arrived in Mount Dora swiftly, like a fresh storm sweeping through the sleepy town. They'd arrested Jenkins and dragged him from his home, his face a mask of shame as he was led away in cuffs.

The investigation into the skulls was long and exhaustive, but in the end, it brought closure to families who had waited far too long for answers. The FBI combed through every inch of the house, pulling out what remained of George's twisted legacy, leaving behind only empty echoes that, in time, would fade.

When they finally left, Nate and I hired a crew of men and women who hadn't known the place’s history and saw only an old house needing repair. They'd torn down Hawthorn House and sealed the hidden tunnel below. We then completely renovated Hawthorn Manor, closing up the tight tunnels hidden along the walls, and the entryway into the run-off tunnels prohibiting anyone from ever being stuck down there again.

Piece by piece, we stripped away any remnants of George Hawthorn until nothing was left of him. And when it was done, Nate and I had stood in the center of the yard, staring at what we had remade. I felt a new sense of peace, and more importantly, a new sense of purpose.

Today, the main house, along with the smaller cottage we had built out back, forms the heart of our foundation: “Shield and Shelter Promise.” Working together, we’ve turned what was once a place of secrets and fear into a refuge for children who need a safe haven most. Shannon’s legal expertise has been instrumental in securing the grants we receive from Mount Dora and the state of Florida, while we work to create something good from our shared tragedy.

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