Page 49 of The House That Held Her

48

I crouch lower against the wind. Even after the hurricane made its way through, leaving behind significant damage in its wake, the residual wind and rain were exhausting. Through my pulled down hood, the downpour stings my cheeks. My sneakers sink into the mud behind Hawthorn Manor, and every squelching footstep sounds like a thunderclap in my ears. I’ve parked a mile away so no headlights or engine noise can give me away, but now I’m paying the price, soaked to the bone before I even reach the house.

Our house towers against the stormy sky, the windows lit faintly upstairs. Margot’s still awake. I grit my teeth, ignoring the stab of guilt that twists my stomach. I can’t let her see me. I only need one thing: the envelope. Then I’ll be gone.

I hurry to the rear entrance, cursing under my breath as the wind whips across my face. My keys feel foreign in my hand—I’ve hardly used the back door since we moved in. The lock sticks. I fumble for the right key, heart pounding as I keep glancing over my shoulder, half expecting Margot to appear in a window.

Finally, the key slides home, and I turn it slowly. A faint click resonates over the storm’s wind. I push the door open, wincing at the soft squeal of hinges. The hush inside hits me like a wall—a stale, cold silence that magnifies every breath I take.

I pause, pressing my ear to the gap. I don’t hear Margot’s footsteps, but the wind rattles the windows so it’s hard to tell. I slip inside, letting the door drift shut behind me. Water drips from my jacket onto the kitchen tile, each plink sounding impossibly loud.

“In and out,” I whisper to myself, scanning the dim room. “Just grab the envelope and go.”

We never fully unpacked, so somewhere in this house is a box labeled “Office” that contains the letter that changed everything—the one naming me heir to George Hawthorn’s estate. I have a general idea of where I left the box, but no idea if Margot moved it since I’d left. The thought of rummaging around in my own home like a thief makes my skin crawl.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the hallway. At night, this place looks twice as big. Shadows stretch across the high walls, and every creak of the old floorboards sets me on edge. I move carefully, listening for any sign of Margot. If she finds me here—finds out I never went to D.C.—this fragile lie I’ve built will shatter.

My shoes squeak as I inch deeper into the house. Margot must have reorganized the boxes, because the stacks I left by the foyer are gone. The study is the logical place for anything labeled Office, so I slip inside, my pulse pounding in my temples. The faint smell of damp leather and old paper hangs in the air—probably a leak somewhere we’ll need to fix.

I scan the rows of half-open boxes, rummaging as quietly as possible through old receipts, dusty notebooks, random photos. My fingers tremble when they brush the thick manila envelope I remember. Even through the gloom, I can make out water stains along one edge—it must’ve gotten wet during the move down here.

I clutch the envelope, relief flooding me, and pivot toward the door. Just then, a muffled thud comes from overhead. I freeze. My heart feels like it stops entirely. Floorboards creak as Margot moves slowly across the room above me.

I can’t risk meeting her. I hurry to the threshold, sliding into the hall, hugging the wall to keep out of sight. The wind blows rain against the windows; hopefully it’s enough to mask my footsteps. Then I see a glow at the top of the stairs and hear her soft voice:

“Hello?” she calls, uncertainty lacing her tone.

She moves into view, a silhouette against the faint light. My breath catches. She’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, hair loose around her shoulders, scanning the hall for any sign of an intruder. Me.

I press myself flat against the shadows, barely daring to breathe. If she steps forward another two feet, she’ll see me. My pulse roars in my ears. Then, as if by some miracle, she turns toward the kitchen instead, drawn by a noise there.

I seize my chance, tiptoeing the opposite way. Each creak of the old floor feels like a gunshot. She pauses in the kitchen, and I see her tilt her head—sensing something. I hold my breath, gripping the doorknob of the back entrance. Slowly, I twist it. The storm howls, covering the whine of hinges as I slip outside. Cold wind whips the door from my hand, nearly slamming it shut behind me.

I half-stumble across the yard, feet sliding in the mire, until I’m safely out of sight. Only then do I let my lungs work again, heart thudding with terrified relief. Rain pours in sheets, soaking me all over again as I hurry the mile back to my car.

Back at my motel room, I’m still shivering when I drop onto the edge of the bed. My jacket’s a sopping mess, my pants caked with mud. But I’m holding the envelope, triumphant and trembling at once.

Carefully, I peel it open. Water has blurred some of the print, but I can still make out the return address: 105 S Grandview St, Mt Dora, FL 32757.

My pulse is still racing from the close call with Margot, but now curiosity surges through me, along with a fresh knot of anxiety. This letter was how I learned about my inheritance in the first place. Why would it come from a random local address?

The adrenaline still thrums in my veins as I wrestle my laptop onto the battered motel desk. I punch the address into a search, teeth chattering slightly from the cold, and wait for answers. But none of the results on the screen make sense. Confusion settles over me like a fog.

Who is Andrew Miller—and why did he want me in Hawthorn Manor?