Page 25 of The House That Held Her

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I grip the steering wheel as Shannon and I drive home, both of us reeling from everything we just heard. My thoughts tumble in a clash of disbelief and excitement: George is a killer—there’s no escaping that fact. But did he continue killing? Is he responsible for Michael and Penny Lark? Those questions feel substantial and unanswered.

Marty’s theory keeps echoing in my head: George might have died after killing Freddy Bahn. If that’s true, there’s a second murderer in Mount Dora, and yet the idea of multiple serial killers operating in a quiet little town feels improbable. The more we dissect the situation, the more Shannon and I realize how little we actually know.

One certainty grips me: Andrew Miller, the Chief of Police, is corrupt. Maybe not to a diabolical degree, but he clearly knew about several murders and disregarded the law because the murderer had been his friend. If he killed George, for whatever reason, he qualifies as a dirty cop. Plus, he never left Mount Dora, unlike Marty, which seems even more suspicious.

This means the Mount Dora police force can’t be trusted. If Andrew is dirty, that rot might run through the department. Our earlier instinct to avoid law enforcement was on point. The local police aren’t only incompetent when it comes to solving these murders—they also pose a threat to us. I don’t trust them, and I don’t feel safe with them.

My gaze drifts out the window, and my thoughts keep racing. I replay every word Marty said, the tightness in my chest still there. I recall the way his face crumpled when he remembered his friends.

Suddenly, something clicks in my mind, and I blurt out, “Holy shit, Shannon!” I sit bolt upright, practically throwing my hands in the air.

Shannon, focused on her phone, jerks in her seat. “You can’t do that to someone, ya nut job!”

I’m too excited to care. “There are two houses, Shan. Two. Houses.” I stare at her, waiting for the realization to dawn.

“Yes... but Marty said one burned down during that Christmas fire, didn’t he?” she asks, sounding skeptical.

“He said there was a fire, yes. But he never said the house burned down. How could it have, if George returned there and killed Dot?”

Shannon’s frown deepens, and she glances at me, her eyes going wide as the implication sinks in. “Wait... Are you saying there’s another house still standing?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

By the time we pull into Hawthorn Manor’s driveway, the sun is sliding below the horizon, casting deep shadows across the property. I kill the engine, and we hurry inside, straight to the study. I lead the way, my heart pounding with anticipation.

She takes in the massive room, the dusty bookshelves, the large windows. “You know,” Shannon quips, trying to lighten the mood, “this place is huge and creepy as hell. Couldn’t you have picked a smaller haunted house?”

I manage a half-hearted smile and focus on shifting the books in the correct order. When the bookcase juts open, Shannon jumps back, raising her hands in a mock karate stance. “What in the actual Scooby-Doo shit is this, Margot?”

I ignore her dramatic reaction and step inside the hidden room, heading straight for the wall where I saw something earlier—a faded, frayed plot map. “Look,” I whisper, touching the fragile paper. “Here’s Hawthorn Manor on the southwest side of the grove.”

Shannon leans in, scanning the map. “And here,” she says, pointing to a spot on the northeast side, “is another house.”

We stare at that outline together, the same realization hitting us at once. Another house. On the same property. Hawthorn House .

We knock knuckles, adrenaline igniting our determination, and dash outside. The sky has deepened into purples and pinks, the sun nearly gone. We trudge through rows of dead citrus trees, the air turning chillier by the minute. The grove seems to go on forever, the twisted branches snagging at our clothes, as if trying to hold us back.

The flashlight on Shannon’s phone bobs over uneven ground, and our feet crunch over dry leaves that crackle in the silence. The chill bites at my skin, making the trek feel even longer. Then, just as darkness fully settles, I spot it.

An old house rises in the distance, nearly swallowed by a row of overgrown cypress trees. It’s much smaller than Hawthorn Manor, the roof sagging with several windows broken. The front porch tilts precariously, as though the entire building is slowly sinking into the earth. It looks forgotten, an echo of the past waiting for someone to notice it again.

Shannon and I exchange a single look—fear and determination swirling between us. We’ve found the old Hawthorn House. Whatever secrets this house is hiding, we’re about to uncover them.