Page 7 of The House That Held Her

6

I sit on the edge of my bed, my heart heavy, my phone cold and useless in my hand. I reach Nate's voicemail again—just as I expected. The silence in our master bedroom is suffocating, pressing against my chest like the heavy air before a storm. I'd been hoping, foolishly, for something more than his curt text: "Stuck in a meeting. Will call later." No warmth, no concern, just empty words on a screen.

I set the phone down, the screen fading to black as if it had even given up. Outside, I hear the rhythmic thudding of Walter working on the roof, each hammer strike like a heartbeat in this hollow house. The storm had ripped through the place, leaving the roof battered and the rooms damp with the smell of wet wood. Walter had done what he could, patching things here and there, but the house was like me—barely holding together.

The damp scent drifts upstairs, mingling with the faint buzz of oscillating fans Walter must have set up. I try to focus on the sound, but my mind races. I need to do something, anything, to break through the oncoming cloud of depression I can feel seeping into my chest.

"Come on, Margot. No one likes a pity party," I mutter, forcing myself to my feet.

I head downstairs. The kitchen tempts me with the half-eaten pint of Ben & Jerry's Gimme S'more, whispering promises of sweet, mindless comfort. But the living room—soggy boxes, overturned tables, chaos—demands my attention. I eye the ice cream longingly, but the living room wins.

"Not fair, Ben and Jerry," I smirk. "We'll hang out later—you, me, and our friends from 90 Day Fiancé."

I tackle the mess, setting the side tables upright and drying off my lamps. The boxes, though—so many damn boxes—are a different beast. They shouldn't even be here. Thanks to the movers' mix-up, my office boxes ended up here instead of in the study. I heave one onto the table, the cardboard soggy and heavy, dust and water stains streaking its surface.

The tape gives way under the box cutter, the flaps springing open to reveal my past—case notes, memos, CPS paperwork—my old life—the one I left behind. Or maybe the one that left me.

I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't dig through this stuff. But I can't help it. I rifle through until a name jumps out— Lila Griffith.

I freeze. Her case file sits right there, ink smudged from water damage, but the words are still legible. I trace my finger over the notes I wrote—hopeful, stupid notes. "Warm, stable foster home. History of long-term placements. Ideal environment for adjustment."

I swallow hard. I remember how confident I was in placing Lila with the Thompsons. I'd been so sure they were perfect. But the bedwetting, the avoidance, the broken eye contact—it had all been there. I'd seen the signs and convinced myself they were just part of the adjustment period. I wanted it to be fine. I needed it to be fine.

But it wasn't.

The reality of it crashes over me again. Lila was hurting. And I failed her.

I shove the papers back into the box, my throat tightening, fighting back unshed tears. It's too much. I can't?—

But then, that feeling—that prickling, spine-tingling sensation like something is watching me. My breath catches. I turn, my eyes scanning the dim room.

Nothing.

Still, the feeling lingers, heavy and cold.

"Jesus, Margot. Pull it together," I whisper.

But I can't shake it. It's that childhood fear, waking up at night, certain there's something at the foot of your bed. Your eyes haven't adjusted yet, but you know something's there.

I force a shaky laugh. "You're fine. You're fine."

I turn to leave, to leave this room and its ghosts, but my foot lands on a familiar warped floorboard. It groans under my weight, and I slowly stare down at the unspoken dare - try again, Margot. Slowly, I kneel and pry it up. My fingers brush against thebrittle paper once again as if it always knew I'd come back.

I stare at it for a long time, my eyes tracing the lines I walked, the bold red "X" and the naked Indian tree. Then the alligator with its yellow eyes, hovering above the water, its snapping jaws, and the mud sucking at my legs—it all floods back, my pulse quickening. I fold the map halfway shut, my hands shaking. I should put it back, forget I ever found it, bury it again for the next owner to find.

But I don't.

Instead, I sit there on the cold, warped floor, the map open in my lap, my mind unraveling. Nate isn't here. He hasn't been here, not really, for a long time. Every ignored call and hollow text is a reminder that I'm alone in this house. And worse, I feel untethered, floating without purpose. My career is gone. My pride is gone. And whatever version of me that existed before, the one with purpose and drive, the one with reasons to really live—she's gone, too.

The emptiness is terrifying. It's always been here, floating just outside my peripheral vision. I've fallen victim to it at various times throughout my life, though I've always had something to anchor me, to keep me going. But now, sitting alone in a giant house that still feels strange and foreign… it feels like the kind of darkness that could swallow a person whole for good.

"What am I even doing here?" I whisper to no one.

I trace the X on the map with my fingertip, circling it repeatedly.

The thought claws at me, sharp and unrelenting.

If people exist without purpose, they stop existing altogether.

The words sit heavy in my chest. And for a split second, I wonder if that's already happened to me.

But then the house groans around me, the wind rattling the windows, and something shifts. Not outside, but inside me. A flicker—weak but present.

I look at the map again. Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's dangerous. Hell, I almost died last time. But at least that day, I felt something. Adrenaline. Terror. Purpose.

I refold the map, slipping it into my pocket.

The house creaks again, almost like it's cheering my recommitment like it needs its secrets revealed.

"I'm still here," I whisper. "And as long as I'm still here, I'm going to keep searching—for answers, for purpose, for whatever parts are left of me.”