Page 58 of The House That Held Her

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M y lungs burn with every breath as I wade deeper through the flooded tunnel, and my chest tightens with a fresh stab of panic. Just a few minutes ago, I felt a surge of courage—ready to play the hero, to save whoever might be screaming in the dark—but human resolve is a fragile, ever-shifting thing. I can sense mine dissolving as the water creeps relentlessly higher.

Two new developments set my nerves on edge. First, I see flickers of light reflecting off the water—not directly ahead but bouncing off the curved walls as if there’s a source somewhere around the bend. Second, the water is no longer just lapping at my shins. It’s up to my chest. I can hear the storm outside, pounding the ground above, sending torrents of rain through grates overhead. That run-off is funneling in, threatening to fill every last pocket of air in this tunnel.

Fear tries to claw its way up my throat. I swallow it down and keep moving, repeating a mantra in my head like a desperate prayer: Be the man she thought you were. Be the man she needs you to be. I picture Margot’s face, haunted by Patrick’s death, maybe hating me for the role I played or didn’t play. Even if I can’t right that wrong, I can do some good here. I can be the man who rescues someone instead of letting them die.

The light I saw before is growing now, but so is the water. I’m forced to hobble forward on tiptoe, my chin lifted to keep from gulping in the rising tide. Another grate looms above me, spilling a sheet of water across the entire tunnel. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and force my way through. The torrent slaps against my head, flooding my ears. I shake them clear, blinking water from my lashes. For the briefest second, I hear not one but two voices echoing somewhere in the darkness. Two women, maybe. My heart gives a violent lurch. Could it be…Margot? Shannon? No, that makes no sense. Why would they be here?

But something in my chest tells me it’s not such a crazy thought after all. A burst of adrenaline grips me, yanking me from my stupor. I shove forward, half swimming now, each push of my legs lifting me off the tunnel floor. The ceiling looms just inches above the waterline. Another corner—another bend—and up ahead, a massive, grated opening. Dim light from who-knows-where outlines the bars. Beyond it lies the open air, presumably Lake Dora. My thoughts spin in frantic circles, trying to piece it together, but the tunnel’s current surges forward, and I’m swept under.

Water covers my head, and I swallow a mouthful of salt water before I manage to resurface. Spluttering, I crane my head back, discovering I have only a sliver of space between water and stone—a few precious inches for air. I smash my face against the slick ceiling, gasping for oxygen, knowing that if I don’t get through that grate, I’m dead. I push out all the carbon dioxide in my lungs, taking the biggest breath I can manage, then plunge beneath the surface.

Underwater, I kick wildly. My hands stretch out in front to avoid slamming face-first into the iron bars. But instead of metal, I collide with something soft– human skin. I try to open my eyes, but the water is dark and brackish, stinging my vision. My heart pounds as I sense a body drifting. I claw for the surface, desperate for air.

Breaking through, I find maybe an inch of breathing room. I gulp another shallow lungful and angle my head sideways. In the murky gloom, I spot a floating shape. It’s Shannon. Her face is pale, her eyes closed, her body limp. She’s on this side of the grate. I don’t know if she’s breathing. I don’t know why she’s here. Terror lances through me—what if Margot’s down here, too, pinned somewhere by the current?

I force the thought aside and dive again, palming the rusted bars. There has to be a hinge, a lock—anything—but my fingertips graze only solid, unyielding iron. The water level pushes upward, swallowing precious inches of air. My mind reels: This is how I die. This is how Shannon dies. And if Margot loses both of us, after losing Lila, after everything that’s happened—what will it do to her?

The images slam into my brain in a series of brutal flashes: Margot, alone, devastated, with no hope left. I picture her broken. I see her on the bathroom floor again, the same horrific scene I stumbled upon a year ago– crimson red escaping from the long, straight line on her left arm. The horror of it all ignites a new flame in my chest.

I thrust off the tunnel floor, wresting another shallow mouthful of air from that last sliver of space. Then, with a roar of defiance echoing in my head, I grab Shannon around the waist. Her body is limp, but I cling to her, refusing to let go. The water roars in my ears, pounding like blood rushing through my temples. I will find a way out.

I’m not dying here. Not like this. And neither is Shannon.