Page 6 of The House That Held Her

5

T he Florida sun is unrelenting, its golden rays baking the streets of Mount Dora as I follow the map's directions toward the lake. The humidity clings to my skin, thick and suffocating, turning even the simplest movements into a slow, sticky effort. My grip tightens around the crinkled map, its edges soft from handling. I walk past the quirky charm of Mount Dora's streets, where pastel-colored homes and swaying palm trees stand in contrast to the mystery I'm chasing.

I enjoy my stroll through the beautiful, historic town. Charming shops like this no longer exist in big cities; it makes me happy that Amazon has yet to claim this slice of paradise from the world.

I pass by a curious little trinket shop, screaming for attention. Its large display window is crammed with a strange but cheerful collection—potted plants, baskets of fruit, gardening tools, and a spinning wire rack filled with bingo cards and dabbers. Glossy magazines featuring strong, shirtless men, shelves stacked with books, and a row of colorful watering cans catch my eye. Tucked between them are old camera antiques and framed photographs—JFK in Dallas, a serene beach at sunset, and a black-and-white photo of Mount Dora's town square.

A wooden sign swings above the entrance, painted in bright, playful letters: Frankie's Favorites.

I step inside, the soft chime of the door announcing my arrival. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers and old paper. Shelves lined with snacks, drinks, and an impressive collection of antiques stretch along the walls. Among them, I spot a sturdy metal bingo roller and a set of old metal reusable punched bingo cards. A goofy sign hangs nearby, depicting a burly cartoon bouncer with the words "Bingo or Bounce!" and a thumb pointed to the exit. Against the far wall stands an old Coca-Cola dispenser, its red paint faded but still gleaming under the store's warm lighting. The blend of vintage and eccentricity makes me grin.

Behind the counter stands an older woman with charming glasses, long black hair, and a bright yellow apron covered in embroidered flowers. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and eyes me with a playful sparkle.

"Hi there, I'm curious—what kind of store is this, exactly?" I ask, unable to hide my smile.

She grins, then gestures dramatically toward the sign outside. "This, sweetheart, is Frankie's Favorites. Everything you see here is something I love. I'm Francesca Jeann Pruitt, but everyone calls me Frankie." She winks. "I love gardening. I love reading. I love bingo. I love history. I love strong, half-nude men. Oh, and I love eating." She pats the countertop. "So, voilà, I made Frankie's Favorites."

I chuckle, wandering through the aisles. I grab a cold bottle of water from a vintage cooler and a packet of sunflower seeds—something bright and cheerful. Then, my eyes land on a sturdy garden trowel on a nearby shelf. I glance down at my own hands, and the realization hits—even if I actually find the location of the X on the map, I have nothing to dig with! Feeling sheepish but incredibly lucky, I pick up the garden trowel.

As I approach the counter, Frankie eyes my selection approvingly. "Good choices. Nothing like a little digging to uncover life's best surprises."

I laugh, handing her the cash. "I have a feeling you're right."

With my purchases in hand, I step back into the Florida sun, Frankie's quirky charm lingering with me as I continue toward the docks.

As I approach the shoreline, the wind blows my hair in every direction. A foldable sign sits halfway down the dock, its paint chipped but bold: "Rusty Anchor Boat Tours—Explore Mount Dora's Beautiful Waters!" Beneath it, the board lists various tours: Sunset Cruise: $40, Private Lake Tour: $60, Wildlife Adventure: $50 .

A man stands on the dock, squinting out over the lake, a faded baseball cap shading his face. He appears right at home with tanned skin and broad shoulders. I clear my throat.

"Hi there! I'm looking for Donald?" I ask.

He turns, his face crinkling into a smile before spitting into a stale-looking coffee cup. "That's me—your fourth-generation Native Floridian boat guide. But you can just call me Donny. You looking for a ride?"

I pull the map from my pocket and unfold it, smoothing it out in front of him. "I'm hoping you can take me here," pointing to the X.

Donny leans over the map, his brow furrowing. "Interesting. This doesn't look like any of my usual tour spots. What's out there?"

I hesitate. "Just… following a scavenger hunt."

He chuckles, but his eyes stay sharp. "Huh. Well, alright. Normally, a short trip like that's forty bucks, but with this wind picking up, gotta charge you an extra ten."

I wince at the markup but nod before handing over two twenties and a ten. "Done."

We set off in a sturdy pontoon boat, the engine sputtering to life as it pulls away from the dock. The lake stretches wide, glittering under the afternoon sun, its surface rippling in the breeze. As we cruise forward, I glance to my right. Hawthorn Manor looms above the treetops, its towering gables clearly visible—even from here—sitting at about four o'clock from our direction.

The shoreline passes by, and I notice massive concrete tunnels fixed into the retaining walls along the water's edge. They yawn open like hollow mouths.

"Storm run-offs," Donny says, catching my stare. "Keeps the town from flooding during hurricane season."

I nod, but my focus drifts when I spot something near the water's edge—a broken, overturned rowboat wedged among the tall sawgrass. My chest tightens.

"That's the old Hawthorn rowboat," Donny notes. "The wife drowned out there some years ago. Folks say the hubby might've gone out in that same boat and never came back. If you ask me, gator got him."

I force a polite smile, more out of courtesy than amusement, and push away the unsettling thought.

Moments before we dock, Hawthorn Manor vanishes behind the dense forest, the steep hill between it and us resembling more of a cliff than a hill.

"Twenty more, and I'll wait for you," Donny offers.

I shake my head. "I'll take the long way back."

He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "Suit yourself."

As the boat putters away, I turn toward the dense foliage. The hike will be long, but I have the energy to burn.

I trek through the woods, tracing the map with careful precision. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the undergrowth. After what feels like hours, I spot the landmark I'm looking for—a peculiar-looking tree with red, peeling bark and naked limbs.

"This is it," I whisper.

My heart hammers in my chest as I glance around, making sure no one's watching before I step into the secluded patch next to the iconic tree. It's quiet here—eerily so—tucked away from the buzz of tourists and the hum of town life. The air smells damp and earthy, heavy with the storm's aftermath. I pull the small garden trowel from Frankie's Favorites out of my bag and kneel, brushing aside a layer of slick, fallen leaves.

The soil is soft, the storm's gift, and I work quickly, my fingers moving with a sharp, eager rhythm. Each scrape of the trowel cuts deeper, the earth peeling back like layers of some long-forgotten story. I dig with purpose.

Chunk .

My mind starts to drift. The steady rhythm of metal-biting soil drags me backward.

Smack .

Lila's terrified eyes flash in my mind, wide and pleading. Her tiny body flinching as the blow lands.

Chunk .

I freeze, the past bleeding into the present. The dirt in front of me isn't dirt anymore—it's the stage of every failure I've tried to bury. My breath stutters, shallow and quick. I dig harder.

Smack.

The sounds tangle together. My trowel scrapes deeper, faster. I tell myself it's the thrill—the hunt—but the lie is thin, breaking beneath the pressure of my pulse.

Chunk.

Lila's cries echo in my head, raw and sharp. My hands tremble as I dig, the soil giving way in jagged chunks, the rhythm turning frantic.

Then—

Rustling.

I freeze. The trowel is still gripped tight in my hand, its warm handle grounding me. My ears strain, the world narrowing into that single sound. It comes again—closer.

And then the hiss.

I whip my head towards the water. A massive alligator slides forward, its scaled back barely cresting the surface.

Its glassy eyes fixed on me.

Panic slams into me. I scramble to my feet, mud sucking at my shoes. The alligator surges closer, its powerful tail cutting through the water like a blade. I stumble, my foot snagging on a root, and hit the ground hard. The trowel flies from my grip.

The hiss deepens. The gator's wide jaws gape, and it lunges.

Adrenaline rockets through me. I push up, legs scrambling for purchase and bolt. My feet slip on wet leaves as I tear through the trees. Branches claw at my arms and face, but I don't stop. I can hear it—crashing through the underbrush behind me.

The trees are thin. I break into a clearing, legs burning, heart thundering in my ears. The alligator halts at the tree line, its cold eyes locked on me.

I collapse into the grass, my body trembling, my chest heaving. My vision blurs, nausea curling low in my gut.I sit there, breathing hard, until my hands stop shaking. Slowly, I rise, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, embarrassment radiating from my face. Each step towards home feels like an epic failure, a childish treasure hunt that almost killed me.

I make my way through historic Mount Dora, the embarrassment continuing as I pass others on the street, certainly staring at the muddy mess I am. By the time Hawthorn Manor comes into view, my legs ache, and my breath comes in shallow gasps. The house looms, cold and still. I walk the last stretch, the gravel crunching underfoot.

Walter is in the driveway, tinkering with something, but his head snaps up when he sees me. Concern darkens his features as he hurries over.

"Margot, what on earth happened to you?"

"I… I was down by the lake," I manage, my throat raw. "An alligator came after me."

His face pales. "Margot! That's no place to be this time of year. The females nest along the shore—get too close, and they'll kill to protect their eggs."

"I didn't know." My voice is small, the weight of my stupidity sinking in.

"You're lucky to be standing here, goodness gracious," he says, his voice softer now. Promise me you'll stay away from that lake."

"I promise."

His features relax a fraction. "Good. You look like hell. Go clean up."

A weak laugh slips out. "Thanks, Walter."

Inside, the cool air hits me like a wave. I sink onto the couch, my body aching. I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over Nate's contact before I press call.

It rings. Once. Twice. Voicemail.

I hang up, the hollowness settling deep. I could've died today, and he didn't even pick up.

My hands shake as I unfold the map from my pocket. The thrill that once tugged me into this game is gone, stripped away by the raw edge of reality. I fold it back up, stand, and return it back to its hidden resting place beneath the floorboard.

The hunt can wait.

For now, survival is enough.