Page 24 of The House That Held Her

23

I can sense the tension in the cramped office the moment Marty utters those words: “And from that day on, nothing in Mount Dora was ever the same.” It’s like a dense weight settles over the room, pressing in from all sides. Shannon is beside me, pale and silent, her eyes locked on Marty. He doesn’t look at either of us; he just keeps staring down at his hands, as if speaking these memories aloud might tear him apart.

“Cecilia knew the truth,” he says, voice low and weary. “And she carried it with George. They shut me and Andrew out after that. We were never fully part of their secret, only pieces on the periphery. But we knew George had changed—his warmth replaced by something colder, darker. Almost like he believed he had to become the monster he once feared his mother was.”

My stomach churns. George Hawthorn, the philanthropic figure who once charmed this entire town, has been revealed as something else entirely—a killer. I glance over at Shannon. She’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping her notebook.

Marty rubs his temples, like recounting all of this is taking every bit of strength he has left. “Once George told us what really happened, I felt this awful mix of horror and relief. On one hand, our friend was confiding in us again—like we were the original Bugs, all together. But on the other hand, he’d just admitted to murder.” He exhales a shaky breath. “I’d be lying if I said I never thought about turning him in. But how could I betray my best friend after everything he’d endured? So the four of us made a pact, right there in that living room. We vowed never to reveal Amelia’s or Dorothy’s real cause of death. We thought George deserved peace after all he’d gone through.”

I swallow hard. The notion of that silent agreement sends a chill through me. “So why break it now?” I ask quietly, trying to steady my voice. “Why tell us all this?”

Marty sighs. “Because George once promised he could control his darkness. After Dot was gone, he swore there’d be no more violence. I believed him—he was my friend and he’d already lost so much. Then Cecilia died on the lake, and everything spun out of control.”

A prickle of dread courses through me. I can’t help wondering if, somewhere deep down, I already suspected George was capable of this. Part of me feels a twisted kind of vindication at having those suspicions confirmed. Yet I’m also horrified—what if that single murder wasn’t the end?

Marty leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We Bugs grew up. We drifted apart, but we still lived in the same town. George, Andrew, Cecilia, and me—we were all woven into Mount Dora’s tapestry. George took over his father’s citrus business; Cecilia poured her heart into Hawthorn Manor, dreaming of kids they never managed to have. Andrew joined the police department, rose through the ranks fast as lightning. And me… well, I eventually inherited McMyers Corner Candy Store, turned it into a general shop with a pharmacy. The four of us essentially provided for the town in different ways—food, medicine, safety, hope. For a long while, it felt… good.”

He hesitates, and there’s a flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “But then Cecilia died, and it shook everyone. The funeral was closed-casket; her body was in no condition for viewing. George was devastated, but it was different from the heartbreak I’d seen him bear as a kid. He wasn’t angry this time, he was empty. He cut himself off from the community. Stopped tending the grove, stopped showing up for meetings. His business started crumbling, and the town felt the blow.”

Shannon leans in, her brow creased in concern. “What happened next?”

Marty’s gaze shifts, like he’s peering into a distant memory. “Mount Dora was quiet, hardly any crime. Sometimes we had minor theft, mostly from Freddy Bahn—a guy a few years behind us in school, fell into addiction. But, two months after Cecilia’s passing, Freddy disappeared. At first, no one even noticed. But eventually people asked questions. No leads surfaced, and it became this hushed mystery.”

A heaviness settles in my chest. I know where this is going—I can feel it, and every nerve in my body bristles at the implication.

“Andrew and I started to worry,” Marty continues, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “We knew George’s history, knew what he was capable of when grief and anger mixed. We decided to visit him at Hawthorn Manor. Strangely, we found him in high spirits—warm, almost nostalgic. He looked different, had grown his hair and beard out. He hugged us, poured us whiskeys in front of the fireplace. We laughed about old times.”

His voice drops, and I see the pain in his eyes. “It was the best night we’d had in years. Then, as we were leaving, Andrew spotted a wallet on the entry table—that wasn’t George’s. George always carried a worn leather wallet with a tiny orange stitched into it, a gift from his father. This one was different. Andrew distracted George, and I peeked inside. The ID belonged to Freddy Bahn.”

Shannon sucks in a sharp breath. My own heart thunders so loud I think they might hear it. Marty draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“That’s why I left town,” he says, voice thick with regret. “I’d kept George’s secret because I understood what he’d gone through. I loved him like a brother. But a second murder? I couldn’t handle that. It broke something inside me. So, I packed up my family and moved to Winter Haven in 2009, and I’ve steered clear of Mount Dora ever since.”

He looks up at me, eyes drained, and continues quietly. “My gut says Andrew had something to do with George’s disappearance after that. Maybe he confronted George about Freddy, and things went south. Andrew was always the type to protect the community, even from his best friend if it came to that. And George… after the deaths of Amelia, Dot, then Cecilia… I can’t imagine what was left of his sanity. I think they had it out—maybe Andrew killed him, or maybe he instructed George to vanish. Either way, Andy is still there in Mount Dora, and George is gone.”

An uneasy hush stretches between us. My thoughts whirl around Marty’s theory: if George is truly dead, who’s behind the events in Mount Dora?

Marty must read the turmoil on my face because he murmurs, “I don’t have all the answers. I only know that once, my friend killed someone to avenge his sister. And it might not have ended there.”

He leans back in his chair, exhaustion carving lines into his features. I glance at Shannon, who’s scribbling frantic notes in her legal pad. She lifts her eyes to me, and I can see they’re shining with a mix of fear and resolve.

She turns to face Marty again, and voices the same exact thought I just had: “If George really is gone… then who’s causing all this chaos now?”

Marty rubs his palms on his thighs as if he can’t get them clean. “I wish I knew,” he says softly. “Or maybe I don’t. All I know is, whatever’s happening in Mount Dora, it’s bigger than all of us.”

I nod, trying to steady myself. Bigger than all of us , I think. The phrase bounces in my mind, echoing with a hollow ring. Because if George Hawthorn isn’t the monster lurking in the shadows of the manor anymore, then someone—or something—else is.