Page 63 of The House That Held Her

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

I sit on the wide front porch of what was once Hawthorn Manor, sipping from a chipped cup of tea, and I can hardly believe how different everything looks now. The late afternoon sun casts a warm golden glow across the yard, and laughter drifts through the open windows. It’s bright, joyful—the sort of sound I once believed would never come from a place like this.

To my right, a little girl sits on the edge of the porch, her scuffed shoes swinging just above the floorboards. She reminds me so much of Lila—same untidy braids, same curious eyes—that my chest aches whenever I look at her. But it’s a good ache, one full of purpose.

"Mrs. M?" inquired the tiny voice next to me. She points toward the newly painted sign near the gate, the name carved into the wood in smooth, looping letters. "Why's it called Cece’s House now?" she asked.

I take a slow breath, letting the memory of the old manor fade behind fresh coats of paint and bright windows. “Because once upon a time,” I say, “a very kind woman lived here named Cecelia. She had a dream to turn this big house into a beautiful home full of children.” I turn to meet her eyes so my words carry weight. “But sadly, she passed away before that happened. So, we’ve worked hard to keep her dream alive by making it a safe place for children, just like–“ I take my index finger, drawing narrowing circles towards her face and then gently touch the tip of her nose as I say, “you.”

She giggles, her eyes now tracking a group of children running across the yard. Their laughter float on the breeze, and my heart swells. Where there were once dark hallways and hidden passages, there’s now light and openness.

The same night George Walter Hawthorn died, we'd made the call to the FBI. The agents had arrived in Mount Dora swiftly, like a fresh storm sweeping through the sleepy town. They'd arrested Jenkins and dragged him from his home, his face a mask of shame as he was led away in cuffs.

The investigation into the skulls was long and exhaustive, but in the end, it brought closure to families who had waited far too long for answers. The FBI combed through every inch of the house, pulling out what remained of George's twisted legacy, leaving behind only empty echoes that, in time, would fade.

When they finally left, Nate and I hired a crew of men and women who hadn't known the place’s history and saw only an old house needing repair. They'd torn down Hawthorn House and sealed the hidden tunnel below. We then completely renovated Hawthorn Manor, closing up the tight tunnels hidden along the walls, and the entryway into the run-off tunnels prohibiting anyone from ever being stuck down there again.

Piece by piece, we stripped away any remnants of George Hawthorn until nothing was left of him. And when it was done, Nate and I had stood in the center of the yard, staring at what we had remade. I felt a new sense of peace, and more importantly, a new sense of purpose.

Today, the main house, along with the smaller cottage we had built out back, forms the heart of our foundation: “Shield and Shelter Promise.” Working together, we’ve turned what was once a place of secrets and fear into a refuge for children who need a safe haven most. Shannon’s legal expertise has been instrumental in securing the grants we receive from Mount Dora and the state of Florida, while we work to create something good from our shared tragedy.

We focus on filling the gaps in the overburdened, underfunded child protective services system in America—sub-contracting social workers, sponsoring therapy, and providing food and shelter to any child, including those who’ve aged out of foster care with nowhere left to go. We do this because we’ve witnessed what happens when no one is there to protect a child. George Hawthorn grew up under the shadow of domestic violence and neglect, and by the time anyone noticed, it was too late. We can’t undo his story, but we can prevent others like it. Bit by bit, child by child, we’re creating a new legacy on this land: a place where love replaces loneliness, and hope triumphs over the darkest histories.

A low rumble from the driveway catches my attention. My fingers tighten around my teacup on instinct, but I exhale as soon as I see the Mount Dora police cruiser. A moment later, Nate steps out, his uniform catching the dying rays of the sun. His right hand is still stiff, permanently scarred by the injury he received that night on the stairs, but he’s learning how to live with it. Sometimes I catch him wincing when he forgets his limits and tries to open jars or lift heavy boxes, but he never complains. He just keeps going—keeps proving that he can be the man I always believed he could be.

My pulse flutters when he makes his way onto the porch. Even now, after everything we’ve been through, the sight of him in uniform brings tears to my eyes. He sets his hat aside and leans in for a kiss. I taste a hint of coffee on his lips—familiar, comforting.

“Hey, Margot,” he says softly, then bends to press his mouth to my growing belly. “Hey to you, too,” he adds, smiling at the life growing inside me.

I brush a hand across his temple, pushing back a stray lock of hair. “How was work?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as he adjusts the angle of his right wrist. “Quiet.” A small grin touches his lips, though there’s a shadow in his eyes that never fully fades. “Quiet is good—it means we’re keeping the worst people away. For now, anyway.”

I kiss his scarred hand, my heart warming at the thought of Nate working in law enforcement here in Mount Dora—the very place that nearly destroyed us both. “You’re doing good work,” I say, holding his gaze. “You’re doing exactly what this town needs– honest and transparent police work.”

His lips twitch, a mix of gratitude and lingering guilt. “I’m just trying to do better,” he answers simply.

From inside the house, a chorus of young voices shouts for “Mr. N,” and I catch Nate’s smile widen. Children spill onto the porch, arms outstretched for him, and he sets down his hat to pull them into a loose embrace. My heart melts at the sight, because for so long, I thought I’d lost him, lost us. Yet here he is, battered hand and all, cradling these kids with the same tenderness he once showed me.

I let out a long breath and glance over the yard. Shannon steps out from her own little cottage located catty-cornered to Cece’s House, phone in hand. She notices me looking and waves, her expression already poised to discuss some legal matter we’re working on. We’ve been partners in this new life, turning heartbreak into a home for those who need it most. And she’s thriving, too—no longer haunted by the tragedies that once threatened to drown us both.

Everything feels lighter now, like the air itself is filled with possibility. I catch the little girl beside me smiling, her gaze drifting from Shannon to the children tumbling around Nate’s legs. The battered citrus grove in the distance has started to bud once again, the vines not as gnarled, a fresh patch of green bursting through the old roots.

Hope in the unlikeliest of places, I think to myself, my heart swelling. And somehow, despite it all, that hope belongs to us. It belongs to these children—safe now, free to laugh in the sun without fear.

“You know,” I say, speaking to the girl at my side but also to the ghosts that once haunted this place, “I think things are finally going to be okay.”

She nods; her eyes bright. “Me too.”

This house once held us like a secret—Cecilia and me. One trapped in death, the other in life. We were both caught inside George’s design, ghosts of different kinds, each kept by a man who couldn’t let go.

I still wonder if she was ever really here at all. The whispers, the dreams, the weight in the air—were they signs of her spirit, or just byproducts of George’s manipulation and my own guilt? I’ll never know for certain. But this I do believe: if she was here, if some piece of her was ever caught inside these walls, she’s free now. Her story is no longer mine to carry.

The doors no longer whisper warnings, and the walls don’t watch me at night. This house holds my family, yes—but not as prisoners. Not with hauntings. It holds space for us. For healing. For quiet. For everything that comes after survival.

For the first time since arriving in Mount Dora, we are not held captive. We are free to stay—or leave—as we choose. And as for me, I’m choosing to stay.