Page 48 of The House That Held Her

47

I wake up to the dull roar of weather reports coming from the old TV in our bedroom. Every channel is focused on the hurricane barreling toward Florida, showing satellite images that look terrifying even from hundreds of miles in the sky. My heart sinks—I know exactly how Margot’s going to react to me leaving under these conditions. But I don’t have a choice.

By the time I slip downstairs, Margot’s already in the kitchen, shuffling around with a pained sort of focus, like she’s trying to keep her worries at bay by staying busy. She spots me, and concern knits her brow.

“You’re still going?” she asks, voice tight. She’s heard me mention “D.C.” just once this morning, but she’s latched onto it. “They’re saying the storm could make landfall in the next day or two, and it’ll be one of the worst ever.”

Guilt prickles in my chest. She’s right—flying anywhere in this mess is absurd. But I plaster on a reassuring smile. “They need me,” I say, trying not to sound rehearsed. “I’ll be back before it really hits. This house is solid, Margot. It’s stood for decades, right? You’ll be safe until I’m back.”

She chews on her lower lip, scanning my face as though she’s searching for a reason to believe me. Eventually, she exhales, shoulders sagging. I can see the trust in her eyes, and it twists my stomach into knots. “Okay,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “But please be careful. If the storm shifts?—”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” I promise, gently squeezing her hand. The tension in her fingers is palpable. I hate that I’m using her faith in me like a bargaining chip, but I have no choice. I need time away from Hawthorn Manor, away from Margot’s watchful eye, to figure out the truth.

That evening, I park my car in front of a small, nondescript motel on the outskirts of Mount Dora. The neon sign flickers, half-burnt out, but the front office is open. I tug my baseball cap lower, press my sunglasses firmly onto my face—despite the dimness—and approach the desk.

“I’ve got a reservation under John Hayes, please” I say, voice casual but low. The woman at the desk barely glances at me before fishing a key from the drawer and sliding it across the counter.

“Cash or card?” she asks. When I hand her some bills, she takes them without even asking for ID. No fuss, no suspicion. Everyone in this town is too worried about the storm to bother with formalities. For once, I’m grateful for the chaos.

In my room, I lock the door behind me and toss my duffel on the single bed. It’s a cramped space, smelling faintly of mildew and stale air freshener. A dingy lamp casts a weak yellow light over the walls. But it’s perfect—I want to blend into the background right now, not draw attention.

Before long, I’m back out on the streets, driving slowly through Mount Dora. Even at a glance, the hurricane prep is everywhere. Plywood covers windows, lines snake out of grocery stores, and trucks loaded with sandbags clog the roads. The atmosphere crackles with tension, like everyone’s bracing for impact. It gives me a strange shield—I can move around without anyone paying me a second thought.

The next few days become a blur of research. My first stop: the Mount Dora Historical Museum, housed in an old brick building downtown. From the outside, it looks more like the backend of a restaurant, it’s entrance in an alleyway with a brick facade and a single door leading in and out. Inside is tight, with display cases randomly around the room, a huge assortment of trinkets and oddities like a horse-drawn wagon to put out fires, and three jail cells built into the building itself.

Before I’m five feet inside the tiny building, an elderly woman peers up from her crossword puzzle. “Morning,” she says with a welcoming smile. “Two dollars for adults; unless you’re a student?”

I fork over two crumpled dollar bills then clear my throat, fighting back nerves. “My name’s John, John Hayes. I run a popular podcast about unsolved mysteries. One of my listeners recommended I look into a family named…” I paused for effect as if trying to recall the name, “Hawthorn? I couldn’t find much online, so I figured I’d come down and take a look. Imagine my surprise when I found out this town had a historical museum. That’s pretty rare, in my experience.”

Her face brightens, but there’s a flicker of curiosity behind her eyes. “You’re the second one this week asking about the Hawthorns,” she remarks, leaning forward. “Maybe there’s something in the air.”

My stomach drops. “Oh?” I manage, hoping I sound casual.

She nods. “Yes, the new owners of George Hawthorn’s old house were just in. The lady of the house was eager to learn about its history.” There’s a fondness in her tone, like Margot made a good impression. “You should pop over and see her. Maybe she’d be willing to give you a tour!”

I force a smile. “Wow, yeah, that would be phenomenal,” I say, my throat painfully tight. My head spins with questions: Why is Margot investigating the house? Did Patrick come by? Did he say something that prompted her to look for answers?

With her guidance, I delve into the town’s storied history, combing through fragile pages and sepia-toned photos. I discover references to George’s philanthropic contributions, read about the citrus groves he inherited from his own father, and piece together how Hawthorn Manor came to be. Photos show George, clean-shaven with a healthy sized gut next to his wife, Cecilia, at various town events—always smiling.

No mention of Patrick Brendamore. No sign of any affair with a woman named Phyllis. But that doesn’t ease my tension. George managed to hide me and my mother all this time, so why not hide Patrick, too?

Over the next few days, the monotony of digging through old records becomes my life. At the public library, I flip through property deeds, scanning for any hint of hush-hush transfers or secret trusts. Nothing. Zoning records, local gossip columns—still nothing. The official story is that George Hawthorn and Cecilia lived a quiet, well-respected life until Cecilia died of natural causes on Lake Dora, followed by George apparently vanishing from the public eye years ago. That’s it. No mention of children, legitimate or otherwise.

Between the searching, I hunker down in my cramped motel room eating junk food and doing my best to keep my anxieties under control. I rarely sleep more than an hour or two at a time. I often wake-up nervous and apprehensive about my life, my future with Margot and how I navigate us through this challenging phase of our life together.

Part of me wants to check on Margot—my phone buzzes with her worried texts—but I can’t bear lying to her anymore. It’s affecting me more and more each day. I’m losing weight. My thoughts are cloudy and messy; I don’t feel like much of a person at all these days. And the more I engage with her without a path forward, without a light at the end of this mysterious tunnel, the more I hate myself. No, I’ll ice her out for now to manage my worries and then once I get it all figured out, I’ll come back the husband she deserves.

But one specific question gnaws at me: Who sent me that letter claiming I was George’s heir? I remember the envelope’s local postmark. No official signature, no lawyer’s letterhead, just a few pages stating that I was entitled to Hawthorn Manor. At the time, I was too stunned—and too broke—to question the gift. Now it feels like a trap, or maybe some twisted game.

If Patrick truly believes he’s the older son, maybe he or someone connected to him set me up. But that wouldn’t make sense if he wants the place for himself. Unless… it was a lure, meant to get me here so he could challenge me face to face?

My head throbs with the effort of it all.

I slam my notebook closed. Every minute that passes by is a reminder that time is running out—sooner or later, I’ll need to confront Patrick about how to move forward. Unfortunately for me, that timeline is shifted forward significantly because I need to limit Patrick’s visits to Hawthorn Manor. If he meets Margot there, he will probably tell her what he told me which would unravel everything.

I’m done waiting. I stand up and pace the small, dirty floor of my hotel room. I think back to the manilla envelope I had received a few weeks ago. Did I look at every single sheet of paper? Was it possible I had missed a critical piece of information that was simply stuck to another page?

My mind floats to the folder and where it was when we packed up the house in Maryland. My eyes absently flutter around as I cycle through my memories trying to recall where that envelope is now. I slam my fists on the desk in frustration. Why didn’t I bring the documents with me to begin with? How dumb can I be?

I sit on the edge of the bed, my right leg bouncing with nervous energy. I think I know where the envelope is now– a box of office materials I had moved to the foyer on our first night unpacking.

But going back means returning to the very house I told Margot I was leaving for D.C. If she sees me, my lies fall apart. If Patrick’s there, it might get ugly. But what choice do I have? If I can get that envelope without being seen, maybe I can find a clue about who originally sent it to me. Someone in this town has answers, but I need to find them before Margot or Patrick find me.

I grab my hoodie and yank the hood low over my eyes. The door slams behind me as I step into the windy night. I slip into my car, pulse hammering. I’m going to break into my own home– in hopes that I’ll find answers before the facade of my fresh start crumbles around me.