Page 56 of The House That Held Her

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I stalk back and forth across the basement floor, my pulse thudding in my ears so hard it almost drowns out the sick gurgle of my stomach. A thousand times, I consider bolting for the stairs—away from the rank smell of congealed blood and the heavy feeling of death pulsing in this place. But I can’t leave Patrick a second time. Even though his head is gone, the sight of his torso sitting in that tub still makes my insides twist with guilt. The last thing I want is to abandon him down here like a discarded piece of trash, so I hover at the bottom of the steps, grimacing at the sticky residue of dried gore that coats each riser.

Every few seconds, I rehearse what I’ll say to the cops. The words tangle in my throat. Who’s going to believe me? This entire situation, from the moment that manilla folder arrived on our doorstep, feels like the plot of an Agatha Christie novel. While Chief Miller will be able to vouch for portions of the story like that envelope, I imagine what his face will look like as I stand here, half delirious, trying not to throw up while I relive every dark secret and every fatal decision that led us here.

It’s then that I hear it: a faint, distant noise, so soft I almost mistake it for my own thumping heartbeat. I freeze, head tilted. Could it be the police outside? Or maybe someone else entering? No—this sound is different. The hush of dripping rain seeps through the walls. The threatening clouds I saw on my run here are now crying over Mount Dora. But still, somewhere, deeper in the gloom, there’s another sound.

I pivot, the hair on the back of my neck standing up as I wander toward the far corner of the basement. I’ve always assumed these walls were it—the boundary of this godforsaken space. But I discover a shadowed alcove that recedes beyond the flickering light. My lungs constrict with a fresh wave of dread as my shoes sink into frigid water that’s pooled along the floor. The force of the storm overhead must be sending water down here, turning this corner into a shallow lake of icy muck.

That’s when the sound tears through the silence again—louder, distinctly human. A scream. A woman’s scream, carrying the unmistakable edge of terror. My entire body goes cold. I glance back at the main room, where the single yellow bulb sways, illuminating Patrick’s final resting place. Only a few feet separate me from my makeshift vantage by the steps. I clench my teeth, summoning every ounce of courage just to lift one shaky foot deeper into the dark.

I flick open Patrick’s ancient flip phone. The green glow is pathetic, but it’s enough to see the jagged outline of a tunnel, hunkered low under the foundation. Water trickles down the walls, the dank smell of wet earth flooding my nostrils. From somewhere in that black maw, another scream reaches my ears—this time impossibly clear. The kind of scream that chills your blood.

I spin back, heart slamming against my ribs, torn between charging in and waiting for the police. My mind snaps to the memory of myself frozen in this same basement last night—immobile while someone was murdered in front of my eyes. I feel the shame all over again, the hot burn of regret in my throat. I won’t let that happen a second time.

“All right,” I whisper, voice shaking so badly it’s hardly audible. “All right… you can do this.”

The phone’s meager glow dances across the water. Fear floods my senses with every step I take into that low tunnel. Darkness closes in, wrapping around me like a living thing, but I keep going, because there’s a voice—someone who needs help. And for once, I’m not going to run. For once, I’m going to be the man Margot once believed in, the man I lost somewhere behind years of secrets and mistakes.

My lungs struggle to pull in enough oxygen in this tight space, and my skin crawls at the cold water soaking my ankles. Every inch of me screams to turn back, but I push forward, because if I give in now, if I cower again, that scream might stop. And that would be the worst sound of all.