Page 54 of The House That Held Her

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I crouch low among the citrus groves, though the leaves have long died. So instead they cast long, skeletal shadows on the ground. The air is thick with humidity and the branches scratch at my skin. I ran until my legs gave out, and now I’m here, surrounded by neat rows of trees.

My body trembles as the last drops of adrenaline drain away, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion and a suffocating wave of guilt. Patrick is dead. I watched it happen—hidden in the darkness, helpless to stop the horror. And now Margot has seen him—what was left of him in that tub, my ring, all that blood. She saw it, and I wasn’t there to protect her. I didn’t prevent any of it. What will she think if she discovers I was there the entire time, lurking in the shadows?

I press my forehead against my knees and inhale, trying to steady my breath. I have to tell her. About Walter, about Patrick, about my gambling addictions, about the lies and manipulations, about everything our lives have become. I recognize I can’t keep running. Margot deserves to know, no matter how twisted or impossible it sounds.

The thought of seeing her again, of touching her, almost doubles me over with longing. But fear quickly follows. What if she doesn’t believe me? From her perspective, I was there and watched Walter murder Patrick. I incapacitated him in the first place. He had a pulse when I last checked, but maybe he died before Walter even threw him down those steps. Am I positive that I’m not the murderer here?

I lift my head, peering through the branches at Hawthorn Manor, a ghostly shape in the distance. Lights flicker weakly in the windows, like the house itself is alive, exhaling some malevolent gasp. It calls to me, tugging at my heart. Suddenly all my lies and schemes—the web of deceit I spun over the years—feel meaningless. None of it matters next to what I witnessed down there.

Patrick is dead, and Walter killed him. My throat clenches as I remember the crack of bone on the basement steps, the sickening thud when Patrick’s body landed in the tub. Margot saw him. She saw him and thought it was me lying there. The idea twists my stomach into knots. She thinks I’m the one in that tub, missing a head, blood everywhere. And here I sit, in the safety of these groves, while she’s inside that awful house. My chest tightens under the weight of it all.

I just want to hold her. To hear my name on her lips again. To tell her about the addiction, the secrets, the reasons I hid so much of myself from her. I wanted to be the man she deserved, but now all of that is ash. As much as I crave to cross that threshold, I know I can’t face her yet. Not without a plan.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my words vanishing into the warm, night air. My hands shake; shake from everything I’ve done, everything I’ve failed to do.

I can’t go back to that house—can’t step foot inside that vile place, not even to get my car. It’s cursed, and whatever dark force lives there has stained me as well. I need time to think, to rest. Maybe food. Anything to keep my mind from splintering apart.

Leaves and twigs crunch under my shoes as I head toward the main road. The manor fades behind me, swallowed by the black night. Am I doing what’s right, or am I just running away from the hardest choice?

When I finally reach town, it’s quiet. The streetlamps cast weak puddles of yellowish light onto empty sidewalks. My limbs feel like lead, but the thought of stopping sets my nerves on edge. I duck into a rundown gas station, the fluorescent lighting buzzing overhead. The clerk barely glances at me as I grab a few sandwiches, a bag of chips, and some water. Just enough fuel to keep moving.

I trudge to my cheap motel, where the door groans disapprovingly at my return. The stale air inside reeks faintly of mildew, but I’m too spent to care. I sink onto the bed, ignoring how the thin mattress sags beneath me. I choke down part of a sandwich, forcing it past the nausea clawing at my gut. I need the energy. I need to think.

My eyes land on a battered spiral notebook on the nightstand. I flip it open and force myself to write, the pen scraping across the paper in uneven strokes:

Walter killed Patrick.

Margot thinks I’m dead.

Get my story straight for Margot and the police.

Prove I’m not responsible.

My hand stops, the pen hovering above the page. I’m not a saint. I’ve done terrible things—lied to Margot, manipulated her trust, stolen from her even. But I am not a killer. I won’t let anyone believe otherwise.

I try to scribble more, to figure out how I can make Margot understand. But my head sags forward, the pen sliding out of my grip. Exhaustion claws at me, dragging me under. I slump onto the bed, breathing in slow, ragged pulls. The notebook lies open beside me, its final words scrawled in a desperate, looping script:

I’m not a monster. I’m not a monster.