Page 45 of The House That Held Her

44

NATE, 12 WEEKS AGO

I stand in the kitchen, the overhead light casting a dull yellow glow that makes everything look more tired than I feel. I’m staring at my laptop screen, which shows an account balance so far below zero it feels like a personal insult. The hush in the house is broken only by the hum of the fridge. That tiny sound seems to magnify how empty my life has become.

It’s been months since I got laid off from CirroSystems. At first, I told Margot I was working from home on special projects, burying the truth that I was caught using my corporate card for gambling expenses. I remember the panic welling up in my throat when HR confronted me—signing my name on the termination papers with shaky hands. Since then, I’ve been piling lie on top of lie, hoping I could catch a lucky break, pay everything back, and Margot would never know.

But luck’s a joke. I was always chasing that big payout, that one final hand of poker or last parlay bet that’d magically fix our financial crisis. The ledger in front of me now says otherwise—there is no magical fix. Just a cold, brutal bottom line.

A knock on the front door jars me from the miserable trance I’ve been in. It’s early, and I’m not expecting anyone. I walk over, telling myself to act normal, praying it’s not a bill collector in person. When I open the door, a courier in a uniform hands me a thick envelope.

“Certified letter for Nate Bennett,” he says, monotone. I sign on his tablet with clammy fingers, and he leaves without a word. Closing the door, I return to the kitchen, the envelope feeling weighty in my hands. It’s from a law office I’ve never heard of, the kind of mail that usually means lawsuits or more debts. My stomach clenches as I tear it open, half expecting to see the usual demands for money I don’t have. Instead, I catch the words:

To: Nathaniel Bennett (Beneficiary – Son)

Re: Estate of George Hawthorn (Testator – Father)

My head spins. Father? I hardly know anything about him—he left before I was even born. Taking my mom’s last name, Bennett, was all the inheritance I earned. And now, I’m apparently heir to his estate? I fight the urge to laugh. It’s too insane.

I read on. George Hawthorn, deceased, owned various properties and businesses in Florida. Most of them sound like they need money more than I do, but a single property jumps out at me: a property called Hawthorn Manor in Mount Dora, Florida, which has been left to me. My mind whirls: is this some kind of sick joke? If it’s not, how much is this property worth? I’ve never even set foot in Florida. This can’t be right.

I re-read the letter again hoping to understand more about what’s happening here, but the second read through leaves me even more confused than the first time. This documentation looks legitimate. And if it is, then– why me? If he was so sure about me existing, why had he never contacted me before? And why leave me this property? It could be a rundown shack or loaded with back taxes for all I know. It might not be worth a dime.

But here’s the thing: I’m desperate. My debts are crushing me, and creditors are sniffing around. I feel like a caged animal, lunging at any hint of an open door. If there’s even a slim chance this place has legitimate value—enough to cover part of my gambling debts—then maybe I can keep Margot in the dark a little longer. The idea churns in my gut, making me sweat. But the alternative is telling her everything: that I’ve been out of work, that I lied, that I bet away our future on card tables and online sportsbooks.

I look again at the laptop, where my empty bank account still glows. I can’t pretend this is some guaranteed windfall. An old house in Florida isn’t necessarily an instant fortune. For all I know, it’s a money pit, falling apart at the seams. Yet I feel a tiny spark of hope. If there’s equity in it—if I can sell it, or at least convince Margot we should move in and somehow keep the collectors off my back—maybe we can reboot our lives.

I slide the letter back into its envelope with trembling hands. My thoughts dart to Margot. She’s been through so much already—Lila, enduring that painful trial, and all the emotional fallout. She deserves peace and stability. She deserves the husband I promised her I’d be, not this liar with a gambling addiction.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my guilt at bay. Maybe I can spin this. Frame it as a sudden inheritance—truthful enough—and then downplay the financial aspect. If I say I’ve used our “savings” to buy the house outright, she might not suspect there never was a savings account to begin with. It’s risky, borderline insane, but so is letting her find out we’re drowning in debt. So is waiting for the next round of angry phone calls and visits from collectors.

Clutching the envelope, I power down the laptop. My plan—half-formed and riddled with holes—takes root in my mind. I’ll do what needs to be done to keep Margot safe from my mistakes. If this manor is worthless, at least I’ll have tried something. If it’s worth enough to put a dent in my debt, then maybe we have a future that doesn’t end with my life in shambles.

For the first time in weeks, I feel the smallest flicker of determination. I’ll take this inheritance, flawed or not, and see if it can save me—save us. Because the alternative is admitting I let everything slip through my fingers, and I’m not ready for Margot to see who I really am yet.