Page 14 of The House That Held Her

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I try Nate's number again, the familiar ringtone echoing in my ears, each unanswered call tightening the knot in my chest. Six days. That's how long he's been gone. Though he told me it was a week-long work trip from the start, it still feels like a month—each day stretching wider with his absence. My thumb hovers over the redial button before I sigh, letting the phone fall onto the table. I need him, now more than ever, and yet he isn't reachable.

Frustration prickles at my skin as I flip open my laptop. My fingers hesitate over the keys, trembling slightly before I start typing.

Nate,

I've been calling. I don't understand why you're blowing me off like this, but I need you to reply. Things are happening here at the house that you need to know about, things I can't explain. I need your help. Please, just call me.

Love you, Margot

I hit send and stare at the glowing screen. A bitter mix of anger and loneliness swells inside me, heavier than I can push down. I don't have time to drown in it. I have to keep moving forward—alone if I have to.

Since Lila, I've been barely holding it together. Nate has been my crutch, my anchor. Now, stripped of that, I can feel something hardening inside me. A shift. Maybe I don't need him as much as I thought. Maybe I'm capable of standing on my own. The idea is both terrifying and liberating.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, its hands pushing me to do something. I grab my coat and sling my bag over my shoulder. The house feels heavier today, its shadows deeper, its walls pressing in. I need fresh air.

The Florida sun hits me like a soft slap, warm and grounding as I step onto the path. Mount Dora bustles in its usual small-town rhythm—shop doors creak open, the scent of fresh bread drifts from a bakery nearby, and someone laughs in the distance. Life moves on out here, even if I feel stuck inside my own storm.

Frankie's Favorites comes into view, its storefront cluttered with antique trinkets and dusty books. Frankie waves from behind the window, rearranging a row of mismatched vases. I manage a small wave back before veering toward the Mount Dora Historical Museum.

The brick building looms ahead, its facade worn but proud. Inside, the comforting scent of black tea and aged paper wraps around me. Paula glances up from her cluttered desk, her round glasses slipping down her nose. Her face lights up when she sees the bagels and chai teas in my hands.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite local historian-in-training," Paula quips, brushing aside a stack of papers. "And you brought treats! Smart girl."

I set the bag down, offering her a smile. "Figured it might earn me another hour of your expertise."

She chuckles, taking her tea. "You're lucky I'm a sucker for carbs."

Sliding into the chair across from her, I waste no time. "Paula, I need to know more about the Hawthorns. I've been digging, but I'm missing pieces. I know George built the manor and that Cecilia died on the lake, but isn't there more? Why did they have such a huge house but no children? Were there any questions around Cecilia's death, maybe something more nefarious?"

Paula's smile fades, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "Oh my, those are big questions for so early in the morning, sweetie!"

I smile but press on. "Please, Paula. I need to understand what I'm living in. It feels like... it feels like I'm an imposter in a place that isn't actually mine."

Paula's eyes grow softer before she leans in. "Cecilia struggled with fertility. It weighed on her—on both of them. Hawthorn Manor was supposed to be filled with children; with laughter and love. Instead, it just stood empty. For a while, I think it held promise. But near the end, I think it was only a reminder, at least to Cecilia, of what she couldn't give her husband."

Something heavy twists in my chest. "And her death?"

"Heart attack, pure and simple." Paula's voice drops. "January 2008. On the boat. Alone. How horrible to be out there unable to get back to shore. No one really knows how much she suffered, if at all. George chose to believe she was gone well before the sun and birds destroyed her body."

I hesitate, my fingers drumming on the edge of the table. Paula wipes crumbs from her napkin when I lean forward.

"Paula… have you ever experienced anything odd around here? Something you couldn't explain—spiritual, maybe? Or otherwise?"

"Spiritual? Well, I believe in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ if that's what you're asking, Margot." She makes the sign of the cross.

I smile. "No, nothing like that—I wonder..." I try to get the words out just right. "Have you ever heard of anyone... going missing here in Mount Dora?"

She stiffens, her fingers pausing mid-wipe. The air between us crystallizes, and for a moment, I think she might ignore the question altogether. Instead, she glances at her watch, her eyes widening in exaggerated surprise.

"Oh! Would you look at that—I didn't realize the time. The museum's supposed to close soon, and I've got errands to run before I pick up my grandkids from school." Her words come fast, a nervous energy filling the space.

Before I can respond, she's already shoving the leftover bagels into the trash bin and gathering her papers in a flurry. "You should get going too. Don't want to keep you longer than I should."

"Paula—"

"Come on now, out you go," she interrupts, practically ushering me toward the door.

The museum door shuts behind me with a hollow thud, and I stand staring at it, bewildered. The glass rattles slightly from the force, the dangling sign on the door catching my eye.

9AM–4PM Monday through Saturday.

I glance at my phone.

11:13 AM.

The lie lingers in the air, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I consider Paula's reaction—her sudden urgency, the way her eyes darted to her watch as if it held the answer she needed. It feels like fear, a raw, knee-jerk instinct to flee. But what is she afraid of?

As the museum's caretaker, Paula is bound to hear her share of small-town gossip and half-truths dressed up as urban legends. But this isn't gossip—this is something deeper, something she doesn't want to talk about. Maybe she's heard things, truths so unsettling that even mentioning them is risky. The thought prickles unease down my spine.

The streets blur around me, my mind spiraling as I walk aimlessly back to Hawthorn. Sixteen skulls. Buried chest. Sixteen tallies. Ghosts. Paula's warning echoes, sharp and evasive. The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied. Disappearances. Secrets. Phyllis. Patrick. Strange, knowing glances. Nate. The way Paula bolted like I'd uttered a forbidden word.

"Afternoon, Margot!"

I startle, spotting Walter in the garden, his hands deep in the soil. He waves me over.

"Hey, Walter," I call out, my throat dry, mind still trying to return to full attention to the here and now.

"How're you feeling today?" He wipes the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a streak of dirt. "Been sleeping any better?"

There it is—the polite concern laced with quiet disbelief. He doesn't believe me, not entirely. But I push the thought aside.

I sit down, bringing a glass of lemonade to my lips, condensation trailing down my fingers. Walter's words come back to me, and I sit up straight as the facts collide in my brain.

August 2009.

Not January. Not 2008.

If Cecilia died in August 2009, it wasn't seventeen years ago—it was sixteen.

Sixteen skulls. Sixteen tallies. Sixteen years.

It's all connected. I don't know how and I don't know why. But Cecilia Hawthorn and that chest of skulls are connected, and I'm going to find out how.