Page 28 of The House That Held Her

27

I wake with a jolt, disoriented and drenched in sweat. Nightmares mixing with memories seem to blur at the edges of my vision, and I struggle to piece together which is which. I blink, forcing my gaze to focus. I’m on the living room couch, and across the room, Shannon is curled in an armchair, legs tucked in tight, head leaning back. A faint gleam catches my eye—a knife, resting on the side table beside her, reflecting the dim morning light.

My pulse hammers as last night’s horrors throb at the back of my mind. I feel suddenly untethered from time. Hours, minutes, days—I can’t tell how long I’ve been lying here. My phone… Where is my phone? I pat at my pockets, search the cushions, no luck. Staring around the room, I see Shannon’s bulging bag of police documents and the plot map scattered on a side table, the edges crinkled from being carried around. It all looks so out of place, like a bizarre staging of my own panic.

I swallow the dryness in my throat and rise slowly, not wanting to wake Shannon. My body aches. Each step toward the kitchen feels deliberate, each board creaking like a siren in this quiet house. The click of ice hitting a glass, the hiss of the faucet, the low hum of the fridge’s water dispenser—every noise is jarringly loud.

I take a cold sip, lifting my chin and my arm overhead to stretch the knot out of my lower back. My hand brushes something small and familiar on the counter—a dead iPhone. It must have been tossed aside when we made it home last night.

I have no energy, no idea what to do next. All I want is to curl up and vanish. Instead, I shuffle toward the staircase, haunted by a sickly ache pounding at the base of my skull. The first step up triggers a flash: Nate’s headless body, that brutal slash of red against sterile white porcelain. My stomach roils, and I cling to the banister, knuckles whitening.

Another step. I see Shannon’s face, terrified, transfixed by the gruesome scene. I press my lips together, trying to swallow the surge of nausea.

Next step. The grueling walk back in total darkness, the twisted branches of dead citrus trees scraping at my sleeves.

When I reach the landing, my heartbeat is a wild staccato inside my ribs, yet I feel oddly numb. I walk into the bedroom, setting the phone on its charger with a kind of distant detachment. My reflection in the dresser mirror stops me; I barely recognize myself—pale, eyes sunken, like the essence of who I was has seeped out through the night. Maybe a shower will help. Maybe I can scrub away the scent of blood and terror from both my body and subconscious.

I pull off my stained sweatshirt, goosebumps raising on my arms as the cool air hits my skin. My bra strap slips down one shoulder. I reach for the button on my jeans, but a prick of alarm cuts through my haze. Something is off.

The chest.

I glance to the corner of the room. It’s empty. Yesterday, that battered old chest was there—I’m sure of it. My heart stutters, and adrenaline flares in my veins. How could it be gone? My mind scrambles to retrace every step—police station, Marty Hughes’ store, Hawthorn House—but I can’t shake the looming, gut-twisting realization: someone took it.

I hurry to the top of the stairs and crouch, inspecting the wood for fresh scratches or dirt. Nothing. It’s impossible that someone alone carried that massive chest down these steps without leaving a mark. Had there been a group of people creeping around her home? Or what if they used another way—what does that mean? My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.

I grab hold of the banister again as my world spins. It feels like my feet have been pulled out from under me and are now floating in the air, high above my head. George Hawthorn was obsessed with hidden rooms, secret compartments. What if there is another one up here–a way for someone to take the chest without using the stairs?

I move through the upstairs hallway, rummaging desperately. I shove aside chairs, test the walls, check every seam for a disguised door. A surge of adrenaline propels me. Whoever did this stole not just the chest, but likely the skulls as well. They might be the one responsible for the horror in that basement. And if I catch them here, that would put me face to face with a killer.

Another realization hits me like a freight train, pulling the wind from my lungs. If someone else has access to this house, this floor; if someone else intentionally took the skulls that day, but left the chest, they did it for a reason–to humiliate me in front of the police, in front of Walter. Someone wants to paint me as crazy. What the fuck is happening?

I search and search and come up with nothing. No hidden door, no secret panel. My frustration reaches a boiling point. Nate’s voice echoes in my mind—his warmth, his laughter—and then the image of his headless body crashes in. Rage and grief sear my chest.

I yank books off a shelf, flipping them aside and screaming at the silence. I’m not thinking clearly. I slam my fists on the bathroom door so hard my arms shake. Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to stop.

A bottle of shampoo meets my hand, and I hurl it at the mirror. The glass shatters like ice, shards catching the light as they scatter across the sink.

“Why?” I scream, voice cracking against the tile. My knees buckle; I collapse onto the cold floor. My sobs tear out of me, raw and ugly. It’s all too much—fear, helplessness, guilt—piling up until there’s nothing left of me to fight back.

“Margot!”

I hear Shannon’s voice ring out, a burst of alarm in the hallway. She rushes in, kneeling by my side, clutching my shoulders with urgent care. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, tears blurring my words. “The chest… It’s gone. It was here, and now it’s just…gone. Someone took it.”

Shannon wraps her arms around me, and I fold into her, trembling with sobs that rack my whole body. She holds me like a lifeline, letting me weep until my chest starts to burn. When my cries subside, she pulls back, pressing her forehead gently to mine.

“Margot, we have to go to the police,” she says, voice careful but firm. “There’s a body at Hawthorn House, and now a robbery here. Please, this is beyond us right now. We have to let them handle this. We need help.”

I look up, eyes swollen, throat raw. She continues, voice soft yet resolute. “I’ll be there every step. Then we’ll go home. We’ll figure things out and rebuild—together. You and me.”

Her words land, but something in me snaps. The terror that held me hostage twists into something darker, hotter, filling the void. My grief morphs into fury so potent it makes my hands shake. I clench my teeth, push myself upright, and stare at Shannon.

“Shannon. Someone’s been kidnapping and murdering people in this town for years. They took Michael Lark, destroyed Penny’s sanity. They took Nate—my husband, my anchor, my hope for a future. And the police in Mount Dora have done nothing. Chief Miller’s lived here his entire life, and it’s only gotten worse.”

My anger flares, each new thought like a lit match in a pool of gasoline. “They’ve had every chance to act, but they failed. Maybe they’re corrupt, or maybe they’re just incompetent. Either way, I refuse to rely on them.”

I’m pacing now, arms stiff at my sides. My voice climbs, fueled by raw anguish. “I let Lila down. I let you down. Nate, Penny—so many people, hurt. But Shannon, this isn’t some twisted scavenger hunt. It’s not a game, to me. This is my legacy, my opportunity to be who I’ve never been able to be. Those skulls belonged to victims who have no voice, no chance at justice. But I can speak for them, act for them. I’ll end this, no matter what it takes, so nobody else ends up in that chest.”

Shannon stands, meeting my frantic energy with a wary calm. “You’re not alone, Margot. I’m with you. We’ll find whoever did this together. But please”—she rests a hand on my arm—“you have to let other people help you. I’m scared.”

I shudder, the anger still pulsing in my veins. But her concern slices through my rage. She’s right. I glance at her and realize I’m still crying; tears blur my sight. I brush them away, inhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re right, you’re right. I love you,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry I brought you into this mess. Thank you for always being here.”

She holds out her arms, and I crash into her hug. Whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone.

Shannon pulls back, assessing me and then herself. “Let’s get cleaned up, organize our documentation, and then figure out the best way to share this with the police.”

I look down and then at her. She’s right; there’s still blood on my arms and chest. We’re both filthy. A hot shower, some clean clothes, my best friend, and the truth; together will find whoever murdered Nate. And when we do, I’ll make sure they never get another chance to hurt anyone else.