Page 8 of The House That Held Her

7

I stare at the map, its worn edges curled from the sticky Florida humidity, the red "X" almost taunting me—daring me to try again. Walter's warning rings in my ears, his low voice reminding me of the gators, the danger. He made me promise not to go back to the lake. But here I am, already plotting my way there. I don't even know why I care if he finds out. But I do. There's something about him—the way he genuinely seems to care—that makes me want to keep that promise. But I can't, not today.

I peer out the kitchen window. Walter's out front, orchestrating the arrival of the contractors, his hands gesturing as he talks to them about the new hardwood install. Perfect. I slip out the back door, staying low, my heart hammering with a childlike mix of fear and excitement. The house looms behind me, its dark windows hollow and knowing, like it's watching.

I dart to the remains of the old shed, where tools are scattered around like forgotten relics. My fingers close around a shovel handle, cold and rough against my palm. I glance back—Walter's still out front, distracted. Good. I wrench the shovel free and take off across the yard to my car, my breath coming in heavy waves.

I pull out the keys to my old, yellow VW Beetle, the shovel hidden beneath a tattered blanket in the backseat. The engine sputters to life with a familiar, comforting rattle. Rolling down the window, I spot Walter out front, still deep in conversation with the contractors. I lean out and shout, "Running into town for some groceries!"

Walter barely looks up but gives me a thumbs-up before turning back to his clipboard, scribbling signatures onto work orders. Perfect.

I pull out of the gravel driveway, my heart racing. The tires crunch over the drive as I steer toward the narrow road leading back to town, back to good 'ol Donny at the Rusty Anchor. The Florida sun cuts through the trees in sharp beams, dappling the windshield as I descend the winding road.

I park the Beetle behind a thick cluster of trees by the shoreline, tucked far enough to hide it from casual view. Even though I'm an adult, fully capable of handling what I'm about to do, the thought of Walter finding out sends a ripple of anxiety through me. I can't face his disappointment. So, I leave the car there, hidden, just in case.

I step out, pulling the shovel from beneath the tattered blanket in the backseat. I head back toward the dock, where I hope I'll find Donny. The scene is exactly as it was yesterday—same creaking boards, the same faint smell of gasoline and lake water—but today, the air is different. The wind's died down, the sky a flawless stretch of blue.

Donny spots me before I even call out. "Back again, huh?"

I give him a half-smile. "Can you take me to the same spot as yesterday?"

He squints at me, running a hand down his weathered face. "Forty bucks this time."

I hand him sixty.

He frowns, holding the bills up like he's checking for counterfeits. "I said forty."

"The extra twenty's for you to stay this time."

His eyes flick to mine, gauging whether I'm serious, and then he shrugs. "You got it."

I climb into the boat, the lake's stillness stretching out before me, beautiful and unnerving all at once. I don't say anything else as Donny cranks the engine, steering us toward the far shore. I grip the shovel's handle tighter, bracing myself for what's next.

The shoreline finally comes into view, with the Hawthorn's overturned boat to my right, with Hawthorn Manor still jutting out above the trees for another few moments before disappearing. Donny slows the boat, cutting the engine with a low grumble.

"Hang tight, Donny," I say, gripping the handle of the shovel tighter. "Hopefully, I'll be back in just a few minutes."

He tips his cap back, squinting at me. "You got it. But don't take too long—on a nice day like this, someone else is bound to want a tour."

I offer a small grin before hopping out. My boots sink slightly into the damp shoreline as I make my way inland. I am grateful for the larger shovel in my hand this time, as opposed to the tiny trowel I left behind yesterday.

I follow the same path I took before, weaving through the tall grass and low-hanging branches, each step stirring the familiar scent of wet earth and moss. The sun filters through the canopy above, casting fragmented shadows on the ground, and the stillness of the day feels both peaceful and unnerving.

Before long, I find it—the gumbo limbo tree, its red, peeling bark unmistakable against the green. And there, right beside it, is my freshly dug hole from yesterday, the dirt still loose and dark around its edges.

This time, I don't jump right in. I crouch low, my body tense as I scan the area. My ears strain for any sign of movement, any low hiss that might betray a gator lurking nearby. Minutes stretch thin as I wait, the air soft with the faint rustle of leaves.

Nothing.

Releasing a slow breath, I rise and plant the shovel into the dirt. The blade sinks deep, and I begin to dig, muscles straining as the ground gives way under the steady rhythm of my efforts. The sun climbs higher, its heat heavy on my back, but I keep going—this time without hesitation.

My hands blister, dirt wedges under my fingernails, but I keep going, the same relentless rhythm as before. And then?—

Thud.

Metal hits wood. My pulse skyrockets. I drop to my knees, clawing at the dirt until the edges of a chest emerge. It's real. My hands tremble as I clear more soil, revealing the ornate metal fittings. Worn but elegant—like something out of another century.

But it's locked. Of course, it is.

I grab a stone and slam it against the old, thick padlock. The clang echoes across the clearing way too loudly. I freeze, listening. Nothing but the quiet lapping of water. Good. Another hit and the lock holds firm.

I yank the chest onto firmer ground, my muscles screaming. It's heavier than I thought, awkward and unbalanced. But I can't leave it here—not where anyone could stumble across it. With sheer will, I drag it back toward the shoreline, the chest scraping over roots and rocks, leaving a rough trail behind me.

When I finally reach the dock, Donny's still there, leaning against the side of the boat, chewing on a toothpick. His eyes widen as he catches sight of me, dragging the chest.

"What in the world is that?" he barks, straightening. "What are you doin' out here, lady?!"

I don't answer. Instead, I dig into my pocket and pull out another twenty, waving it in the air. "Help me get it into the boat."

Donny blinks but snatches the bill. "You're trouble, you know that?" Still, he jumps down, grabbing one side of the chest as I grip the other.

Together, we heave it into the boat with a heavy thud. The wood creaks under its weight, but it holds. We sit in silence as Donny starts the motor and steers us back across the water, the stillness only broken by the soft churn of the engine. I can feel Donny's eyes flicking between me and the chest, the questions hanging thick in the air—but he keeps his mouth shut. A lovely trait I won't soon forget about him.

When we dock, I hop out before he can say anything, hurrying up the dock toward the road. My VW Beetle is still hidden between the trees, its bright yellow paint nearly glowing against the green. I get in, throw it into reverse, and let it roll backward down the steep hill, arriving gently at the dock's edge.

I pop the hatch and jog back down. Donny's already got the chest halfway out of the boat, grumbling under his breath. We each take a side, heaving it toward the Beetle. As we lift it into the hatch, the car sinks a few inches under the weight, the suspension groaning in protest.

"If there's gold in there, you owe me a few nuggets," Donny mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Thanks, Donny," I say, slamming the hatch closed. I hand him another twenty before sliding into the driver's seat.

I give him a quick wink. "You didn't see me today."

He tips his cap and returns the wink. "Wouldn't dream of it."

With that, I peel away, the weight of the chest pressing heavy in the back, but somehow, even heavier is the storm of questions now swirling in my head.

When the spires of Hawthorn Manor peek through the trees, I could cry with relief. Almost there. I drive my old yellow VW Beetle along the winding road, pulling alongside the incoming truck before swinging around and backing behind the manor.

I back the Beetle up to the door, the tires crunching over gravel as I ease it into place. The chest in the back shifts slightly with the car's movement, its weight pressing heavy against the hatch.

Glancing toward the front of the house, I see Walter still engrossed in directing the truck, his clipboard waving in the air. Good. I throw the car into park, jump out, and pop the hatch. With a grunt, I drag the chest out, its metal fittings scraping against the car's interior.

I haul it through the mudroom, every thud of wood against tile echoing like a siren in my ears. My heart races as I shut the back door behind me, the chest now safely inside, hidden from any wandering eyes.

The climb upstairs is brutal. The chest is incredibly awkward to carry myself, its rectangle shape awkward and punishing, the metal edges digging into my palms as I drag it step by agonizing step. I time each pull with the loud clatter and banging from the contractors below, using the cover of dropped tools and shouted instructions to muffle the scraping sounds echoing through the manor.

Sweat pours down my back, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I brace my foot against each step, yanking the chest upward. It slams into the risers with dull thuds, the old wood creaking beneath the weight. My arms burn, my hands slick with sweat, but I can't stop—not here, not where anyone could stumble across me.

The contractors shout something to Walter outside, and I seize the moment, heaving the chest up the last few steps just as a hammer strikes metal, masking the final crash. I barely make it to the landing before my legs give out, and I collapse beside it, my breath wild and uneven.

I hook my fingers under the rough metal fittings and drag it inch by inch down the hallway, each tug sending a dull thud through the old floorboards. With one final grunt, I reach my bedroom door and haul the chest inside. It scrapes loudly against the hardwood as I drag it into the center of the room. I kick the door shut behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding impossibly loud in the sudden stillness.

The chest sits there, muddy and ancient, like it belongs here. Like it's been waiting.

But I need the key.I found the chest through clues hidden in this house, so logically, the key is likely to be here, too. George Hawthorn wouldn't have buried it somewhere random. It would be concealed, just like the map.

I scan the room, my mind racing. My thoughts snap back to the map hidden under the living room floorboards. Could the key have been there, too? My stomach sinks. The contractors. The torn-up floor.

I bolt downstairs, every step a hollow thud echoing in my ears. The living room is stripped bare, the subfloor exposed, and the wooden boards are gone, hauled off as construction debris. My heart pounds as I dart to the nearest contractor, my voice rough and desperate.

"Where's the trash from the demolition?"

He barely glances up from his clipboard, jerking a thumb toward the driveway. "Dumpster out front."

I don't hesitate.

The metal dumpster towers like a rusted beast, filled with splintered wood and rusted nails. I scramble up the side, hauling myself in, my hands clawing through the debris, breath tight in my chest. The sharp stink of old wood and metal fills my lungs, but I keep digging.

Minutes stretch, my pulse pounding in my ears, until?—

A glint.

I dive for it, but my foot slips. Pain explodes as a nail pierces my sneaker, driving deep into my foot. I cry out, tears springing hot and fast, but I yank my foot free, blood slick against the torn fabric. I don't stop. I can't. My fingers close around cold, heavy metal.

The key. Except, it isn't a key at all; it's a nail plate—rusted and jagged. My heart sinks.

For a moment, I just stand there, my breath shallow, blood still seeping from the hole in my sneaker.

The ache in my foot sharpens, reality crashing back in. I look around the dumpster—splintered boards, shards of wet wood, the head from a broken hammer—but nothing else gleams beneath the debris. Nothing that could be the key.

Defeat coils tight in my chest. I'm bleeding, tired, and the damn chest is still locked. Crawling to the edge, I haul myself out of the dumpster, boots scraping against rusted metal, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through my foot.

I land heavily on the pavement, staggering before limping toward the house, utterly embarrassed. The cool air inside barely registers as I drag myself through the foyer, the weight of failure pressing in heavy. I rest a hand against the wall for balance, feeling the warm trickle of blood through my sock.

No key. No answers. Just me—lost, bleeding, and more confused than ever.

I'm half-hunched over the sink when Walter appears, his face a perfect blend of concern and disapproval.

"Oh no, what happened this time?"

I hesitate, the sting in my foot sharp and unforgiving, but I muster a smile. "Lost something in the dumpster," I lie, my voice light despite the throbbing pain shooting through my ankle. I wince as I shift my weight, the pain betraying me.

Walter's brow furrows, and before I can wave him off, he steps in closer. "Sit down," he instructs, his tone soft but unarguable.

I don't fight it. I sink into a dusty chair as he crouches in front of me. His hands, rough from years of manual work, surprise me with their gentleness as he inspects my foot. Every dab of the cloth, every careful swipe cleaning the wound, makes my throat tighten. This was the kind of care Nate should be giving me—the kind of presence I miss. But here I was, with Walter, the landscaper, the stranger, showing me more kindness than my own husband had in months. My chest aches, and I blink hard, refusing to let the tears win.

Looking for something, anything to distract me, my eyes fall on Walter's baseball cap. It dawns on me that I've never seen him without it. "Walter, without sounding rude, can I ask about your hat? It's the Yankees, but I always assumed you grew up here in Florida."

A small smirk crosses his lips. "Born and raised here, yes ma'am. But my dad was a huge baseball fan, adored Babe Ruth. 'Love a team for its players, not its location, son' is what he'd always tell me."

He pulls the hat from his head and flips it upside down for me to see. "He even met Babe once, had him sign this very hat right here." He points to a faded marking that says "Bambino."

I don't care about baseball at all, but seeing Walter cherish something of his father's adds another layer of depth and kindness to the man in front of me.

"But enough about me. You , Mrs. Margot, shouldn't be digging through dumpsters," Walter teases, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I let out a soft laugh, the tension easing for a beat. "Yeah, clearly not my brightest moment."

He wraps the bandage neatly, his hands still steady and sure, before rising to his feet and dusting off his khakis. A wave of gratitude washes over me, but it comes laced with sadness—how starved I'd been for even this simple, human connection.

I bite my lip, debating whether to speak up as Walter starts gathering his things. But curiosity claws at me, the thrill of the hunt outweighing caution. "Walter?"

He pauses, glancing down at me. "Yes, ma'am?"

I swallow. "What was George Hawthorn like?"

Walter's expression shifts, softening into something nostalgic. "George? He was a good man. Real generous. Kind. But there was always this… weight on him. Had a rough childhood, lost a lot early on. I think that's why he loved games and puzzles so much—like he was trying to reclaim something he'd been robbed of."

My heart beats faster. "What do you mean by games? Like children's games?"

Walter chuckles under his breath. "No, no. He'd turn everything into a mystery. Loved hiding things, leaving riddles. It was his way of making life more interesting. Like, one time, there was this roadside library in town—you know, those little book boxes? —and one morning, all the books inside were gone. Instead, there was a single note left behind, and before noon, half the town's kids were running around, solving riddles, trying to find the missing books. Took them hours, but they finally found them stashed in a P.O. box at the post office. And get this—every single book had a dollar bill tucked inside as a reward."

Walter's stories paint such a vivid picture that I couldn't help but laugh, the sound escaping me before I could stop it. "George sounds like a great person," I say, the warmth of admiration threading through my voice. "Creative, generous… a mind that loved giving as much as it loved the mystery."

"Absolutely," Walter confirms with a nod. "It was like a constant treasure hunt around here."

I force a grateful smile. "Thanks, Walter. That really helps me understand the legacy Nate and I have inherited here."

He studies me for a moment, a flicker of pride warming his features. He doesn't say it outright, but it's there— the small, almost imperceptible smile in the way his eyes soften. He was proud to have known the Hawthorns. Then he pats my shoulder gently. "Just… be careful, alright? And stay outta dumpsters."

I laugh more genuinely this time. "I'll try. Thanks for everything, Walter."

As he leaves, my mind is already racing. George Hawthorn loved puzzles. If he'd hidden the map beneath the floorboards, perhaps the key was never under the floor to begin with. Maybe it was hidden somewhere equally clever. Somewhere, he'd want someone worthy to find.

I push myself up, limping toward the stairs, each step a dull throb in my foot. I scan the living room—the aged bookshelf in the corner, the ornate wooden fireplace, the old grandfather clock near the window. So many possibilities.

George wouldn't make it obvious. He'd want it to be a challenge. My gaze drifts over the intricate carvings on the front entrance's doorway—maybe one of the flourishes twists or slides open to reveal a hidden compartment. The heavy curtains hang awkwardly near a vent—could something be tucked behind them? I scan the chandelier overhead, wondering if George had ever tampered with its base, hiding something in plain sight. Even the old grandfather clock seemed suspicious; perhaps its hollow base held more than gears and springs. The possibilities multiply, each one more tempting than the last.

I can feel it in my bones—there is a puzzle here waiting to be solved. And I am going to solve it.