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Just as the swirl of guilt in my chest threatens to slow my steps, lightning ignites the sky again. In the flash, I see the outline of the path leading away from the Lark property. I’ll follow it. I’ll deliver Michael. And soon enough, the storm will pass—leaving yet another empty bed behind in Mount Dora.

I clutch Michael tighter, ignoring his feeble kicks. This has to be done. And like the storm itself, I’m unstoppable.

41

MARGOT, PRESENT DAY

George’s confession sends a crawling chill along my spine the moment he begins. “I still remember how Michael trembled in my arms,” he says. “The boy’s fear was so visceral it almost gave me pause. It was an awful thing. A dark and monstrous act. But it was what Cecilia needed. It was what she wanted, and I would always provide.”

I stand there, my heart hammering so loudly I’m half-convinced it will burst. The darkness in George’s words grips me like invisible hands around my throat. I can’t stop staring at him, this man I once considered harmless.

He glances at me, and the gravity of his admission hits like a battering ram. “The hauntings ceased after I added Michael’s skull,” he goes on, “and the restless spirit of my beloved wife was quieted for another year.”

I want to shout for him to stop, but I’m frozen. Nausea wells up so fast I have to clench my jaw tightly to keep the bile down. George’s eyes gleam with some wretched devotion I don’t understand.

He takes a breath, gaze sliding toward nothing in particular, lost in some hellish memory. “I had come to understand the pattern after that third kill,” he says. “Every year, Cecilia returns. The house grows cold, the shadows deepen, and Cece’s cries echo through these halls once again. Each time, I oblige. I bring someone to the basement of Hawthorn House, waiting for Cecilia to show me if they’re worthy. If she approves, I add their skull to the chest, then bury it again, and the hauntings end, her spirit pacified. If she doesn’t approve, I still kill them—their bodies go into the lake like all the rest.”

A tremor locks up my knees, and all I can think is:This is a real person. The man in front of me actually did these horrible things.It’s one thing to be curious about a monster; the number of serial killer documentaries proves that. But it’s a completely different experience to meet the monstrous truth face to face.

George’s voice is low and almost pensive. “I learned to read her signs—how her presence shifts, that coldness seeping into my bones when she’s displeased.”

I can’t do this. I can’t listen to him calmly explain murder, the disposal of bodies, the notion of a twisted ritual with Cecilia’s ghost at the center. My stomach seizes. A gag claws up my throat, and I stumble away, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. The room swirls into a messy blur, and I crash into the corner just in time to heave.

My palms slam against the wall for support as I retch again, body convulsing until tears blind me. Humiliation scorches through me, but that shame is nothing compared to the horror twisting my guts.This can’t be real. It can’t be.

I sense George shift behind me. His footfalls are unsteady, and I realize he’s stepping closer like he actually wants to help me.

Fury and disgust ignite in my chest, and I whip around, screaming at him, “Don’t youdarecome near me!” My voice rings out, snapping the tension like a gunshot.

George freezes, hands raised in some mockery of surrender. But his eyes—God, there’s something so emptily calm in them. I can feel every nerve in my body spiking to panic.

I press my forehead to the wall, breathing hard, fighting to gather the ragged pieces of my composure. At last, I turn back and face him. My voice is quieter this time, but the dread hasn’t left. “Why make a map, George? Why record all of this if you already knew where to hide the bodies?”

George’s posture relaxes fractionally, as though he’s relieved I’m still speaking. “For years,” he answers, voice hushed, “it was the same ritual. The same motions. I perfected them by repetition—knew how to move like a shadow through the woods behind Hawthorn Manor, how to bury that chest without leaving a trace. With time came age, though, and with age, forgetfulness.”

I force myself to stand upright, keeping several paces between us, my fingers curling into the couch fabric to steady myself.

He drags a hand over his face. “One night, I realized I couldn’t remember the exact spot. That sacred ground where I’d buried Cecilia’s—company. It slipped from my mind like sand through an hourglass. I walked up and down the lake until frustration boiled into rage. The woods looked identical—every tree, every rock mocking me. So, I did what puzzle-lovers do: I devised a failsafe. I made a map. I hid it beneath the floorboards. In case I forgot again.” He then produces a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Check the floorboards, Georgie”is hand-written in black ink. I look at him and he simply shrugs. “Just in case” he mocks.

My breath shakes in my throat. I recall that moment I found the rolled-up paper, never dreaming it could be tied to something so revolting.

Gathering my courage, I manage to speak. “What about Penny Lark? You wanted her skull too, but she ended up in that lake. Why didn’t you add it?”

A sneer curls George’s mouth, as he waves his hand dismissively. “I never killed Penny Lark,” he says. “Andy was always so worried about protecting himself. He'd always been so pliable, so easily twisted into doing what I needed from him.”

His words rock me backward. My mind stutters, trying to latch onto a rational explanation:The chief of police helped George commit murder.

I swallow hard. My voice cracks when I force out, “So… it’s true? Chief Miller knew about everything? The murders, the skulls… all of it?”

George chuckles, a hollow, humorless sound. “Of course he knew! I’ve had Andy Miller wrapped around my finger since we were kids. He was always the weak link, always cowering whenever life hit too hard, begging me to protect him. The idea that he’s Mount Dora’s ‘finest’ is laughable. He knew about Dot. He knew exactly what I did to my mother. And when Freddy Bahn vanished, I told him the truth, spelled it out, gave him the chance to turn me in and he didn’t. I had him then. Imagine if the town knew their chief of police once covered up a homicide. He would’ve lost everything. So, he became my accomplice, hating every second, but too cowardly to stand against me. That gave me freedom to keep everything neat and quiet.”

My heart thunders. I’m realizing the depth of this conspiracy is far beyond anything Shannon or I imagined. The entire place is a lie, a twisted carnival of illusions that make Mount Dora look idyllic when it’s actually a goddamn nightmare.

I clear my throat, searching for my voice. “The skulls… that night… they just vanished from the station. You were with me, George. So how?—”

George inclines his head mockingly. “Officer Jenkins. He arrived at Hawthorn Manor before Andy, before us. He took the skulls and stashed them in his cruiser. You were none the wiser. They were out there the whole time.”