Page 62 of The House That Held Her
61
MARGOT, MOMENTS BEFORE
I lay at the top of the staircase, chest heaving, my pulse hammering in my ears. Though I’m about to die, I can’t help but think back to the first moment that sent me on this journey; that night not so long ago when I came down these very steps and uncovered a hidden map in the floor of my beautiful new home. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have left the paper in the floor, and quietly walked out the door, to never set foot in Hawthorn Manor again.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know what I know now and instead, I started down a path that has led to the deaths of the people I care about most.
I hear George’s grunts, feel his muscles straining on top of me. I feel my neck muscles growing weaker, my throat growing closer to the needle like wood protrusions jutting out of the stair, yet all that I can think of is Nate.
He stands bathed in the warm, golden light of a fading afternoon. I see him with beach blown hair, covered in sand and salt from a day on the coast. He’s sporting his signature half-smile, so effortlessly kind and smooth. His eyes—always the color of polished mahogany—reflect me back at myself, and for the briefest of moments I remember how safe I felt whenever his gaze settled on me. There’s a gentle lift to his chin, a playful tilt of his head that says he’s about to tease me, or coax me into his arms, or make some silly joke he knows I’ll pretend to hate but secretly adore.
The edges of everything else blur: the house, the stairs, George. Nate is what remains, in perfect focus—his broad shoulders that carried the weight of our problems when I couldn’t, the faint scar above his eyebrow he once got skateboarding as a teenager, the compassion in his face that endures even through tragedy. It’s the details that catch my breath: the tiny flecks of gold at the center of his irises, the smattering of freckles trailing along his collarbone, the way his smile lines deepen when he sees me.
In the hush of my mind’s eye, I can almost feel his hand at my waist, his low, steady voice beckoning me closer. Everything else drifts away, dissolving into memory. This final vision of Nate is all warmth and light, the very best of him—love made manifest in a single, precious moment. And as I cling to that image, I let it carry me back to every promise we ever made, every laugh we ever shared, knowing it will stay with me far beyond my death here.
And yet, even when I open my eyes, prepared to look out over the house that was supposed to change everything for the better, I still see him; I still see Nate. Except this Nate is rushing towards me with wet hair, and muddy lips, and terror in his eyes. He rests his hand on my chin and releases the heavy pressure on top of my body.
George screams and it shocks me back to attention. He’s leaping towards me again and instinctively my foot goes out, kicking him in the chest.
Time splinters. George’s eyes fly wide, reflecting pure disbelief. He topples backward into empty air, arms flailing, and for the briefest of moments, I think I see him smile.
In the momentary silence, there’s a sharp crack that snaps through the house like a gunshot. George hits the hardwood floor in a heap, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.
I freeze at the top of the stairs. The world narrows to George’s shattered body sprawled on the floor below. My lungs constrict, and everything blurs, except for the sudden certainty that the twisted Hawthorn legacy ends here, in this place.
George Hawthorn’s death is grotesquely poetic: a fall, a broken neck—exactly how his mother killed Amelia, exactly how he’d ended her life in return. Three Hawthorns, three falls, three broken necks. And now I watch the final chapter, the last violent page in a lineage stained with cruelty, come to a brutal close on these very steps.
I curl into a ball, and Nate’s still there. He looks at me, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Neither of us moves for an endless moment. The Hawthorn curse—this terrible line of heartbreak and darkness—lies broken and lifeless below.