Page 8 of The House That Held Her

I freeze. The trowel is still gripped tight in my hand, its warm handle grounding me. My ears strain, the world narrowing into that single sound. It comes again—closer.

And then the hiss.

I whip my head towards the water. A massive alligator slides forward, its scaled back barely cresting the surface.

Its glassy eyes fixed on me.

Panic slams into me. I scramble to my feet, mud sucking at my shoes. The alligator surges closer, its powerful tail cutting through the water like a blade. I stumble, my foot snagging on a root, and hit the ground hard. The trowel flies from my grip.

The hiss deepens. The gator's wide jaws gape, and it lunges.

Adrenaline rockets through me. I push up, legs scrambling for purchase and bolt. My feet slip on wet leaves as I tear through the trees. Branches claw at my arms and face, but I don't stop. I can hear it—crashing through the underbrush behind me.

The trees are thin. I break into a clearing, legs burning, heart thundering in my ears. The alligator halts at the tree line, its cold eyes locked on me.

I collapse into the grass, my body trembling, my chest heaving. My vision blurs, nausea curling low in my gut.I sit there, breathing hard, until my hands stop shaking. Slowly, I rise, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, embarrassment radiating from my face. Each step towards home feels like an epic failure, a childish treasure hunt that almost killed me.

I make my way through historic Mount Dora, the embarrassment continuing as I pass others on the street, certainly staring at the muddy mess I am. By the time Hawthorn Manor comes into view, my legs ache, and my breath comes in shallow gasps. The house looms, cold and still. I walk the last stretch, the gravel crunching underfoot.

Walter is in the driveway, tinkering with something, but his head snaps up when he sees me. Concern darkens his features as he hurries over.

"Margot, what on earth happened to you?"

"I… I was down by the lake," I manage, my throat raw. "An alligator came after me."

His face pales. "Margot! That's no place to be this time of year. The females nest along the shore—get too close, and they'll kill to protect their eggs."

"I didn't know." My voice is small, the weight of my stupidity sinking in.

"You're lucky to be standing here, goodness gracious," he says, his voice softer now. Promise me you'll stay away from that lake."

"I promise."

His features relax a fraction. "Good. You look like hell. Go clean up."

A weak laugh slips out. "Thanks, Walter."

Inside, the cool air hits me like a wave. I sink onto the couch, my body aching. I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over Nate's contact before I press call.

It rings. Once. Twice. Voicemail.

I hang up, the hollowness settling deep. I could've died today, and he didn't even pick up.

My hands shake as I unfold the map from my pocket. The thrill that once tugged me into this game is gone, stripped away by the raw edge of reality. I fold it back up, stand, and return it back to its hidden resting place beneath the floorboard.

The hunt can wait.

For now, survival is enough.

6

Isit on the edge of my bed, my heart heavy, my phone cold and useless in my hand. I reach Nate's voicemail again—just as I expected. The silence in our master bedroom is suffocating, pressing against my chest like the heavy air before a storm. I'd been hoping, foolishly, for something more than his curt text:"Stuck in a meeting. Will call later."No warmth, no concern, just empty words on a screen.

I set the phone down, the screen fading to black as if it had even given up. Outside, I hear the rhythmic thudding of Walter working on the roof, each hammer strike like a heartbeat in this hollow house. The storm had ripped through the place, leaving the roof battered and the rooms damp with the smell of wet wood. Walter had done what he could, patching things here and there, but the house was like me—barely holding together.

The damp scent drifts upstairs, mingling with the faint buzz of oscillating fans Walter must have set up. I try to focus on the sound, but my mind races. I need to do something, anything, to break through the oncoming cloud of depression I can feel seeping into my chest.

"Come on, Margot. No one likes a pity party," I mutter, forcing myself to my feet.

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