“Because of her!” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Because I loved her, Calum! I loved her, and she told me—” My voice breaks, and I turn away, raking a hand through my hair. “I couldn’t let her go.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy and raw. Calum exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. “You... loved her,” herepeats, the words slow and deliberate. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Yes,” I say, turning back to him. “I loved her in a way you never could. You suffocated her, Calum. You wanted to own her, to trap her in this goddamn house like some fragile little doll.”
“And you think you’re any better?” he spits, his voice venomous. “You think stalking her, watching her from the shadows, is love?”
“It’s more than you ever gave her,” I fire back, the anger surging through me. “At least I saw her for who she was. I didn’t try to make her something she wasn’t.”
Calum’s laugh is cold, cutting. “You’re delusional. She chose me, Jonathan. Not you. She always chose me.”
The words hit their mark, but I refuse to let him see the wound. “Maybe she didn’t have a choice,” I say, my voice low. “Maybe you never gave her one.”
Calum’s expression darkens, his fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, I think he might hit me, the tension between us teetering on the edge of violence. But instead, he turns away, his shoulders heaving with barely restrained fury.
“You don’t know anything,” he says, his voice quiet but laced with venom. “You didn’t know her the way I did.”
“Did I?” I challenge, stepping closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like she was terrified of you. Terrified of what you’d do if she ever left.”
Calum whirls around, his face inches from mine. “Shut up,” he growls, his voice trembling with rage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But I do. I’ve read the journal. I’ve seen the fear in her words, the way she tiptoed around him, always careful, always calculating. And now, for the first time, I can see that same fear in him.
“What are you afraid of, Calum?” I ask, my voice soft butcutting. “That the truth might come out? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the perfect couple you like to pretend you were?”
His hand shoots out, grabbing the front of my shirt and yanking me forward. “I said shut up,” he hisses, his breath hot against my face. “You don’t know anything.”
But I do. And he knows it.
The memory of that night claws at me, the rain soaking through my coat, the cottage glowing like a beacon in the dark. I remember watching them, my heart pounding in my chest as Annabel stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the firelight.
All of me wanted to go to her, to pull her away from Calum and his suffocating love. But I couldn’t. Instead, I stood there, drenched and desperate, until the lights went out and the cottage was swallowed by darkness.
“You did this to her–she would still be here if not for you and yourlove,” I hiss.
Calum shoves me back against the wall. His face is a mask of fury and grief, his eyes wild. “No, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“It’s not me that’s saying it.” I retort. “It’s all there, in her own words.” I think of the journal. “Your love took from her–it should have been you. Not a day goes by that I don’t think our world would be better if it’d been you that lost your life that night.”
His grip loosens, eyes falling closed as he steps away from me. “I–I…” his eyes lock with mine, fury and pain simmering, “I think that every day too.”
I straighten my shirt, my heart pounding as I meet his gaze. “Fine,” I say, my voice steady. “At least we’re in agreement about something, Calum.”
He walks toward the door, the weight of the conversationoppressive in my small cottage. He opens the door, salty air blowing in a gust as he goes as one thought lingers in my mind.
The truth may not bring her back, but at least we agree, his love drowned her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Calum
The wind howls against the cottage walls, an unrelenting chorus that drowns out the ticking of the clock. The fireplace spits and crackles behind me, its warmth barely reaching the icy fingers of dread crawling up my spine. My canvas stands before me, the stark white expanse mocking my every attempt to capture her. Annabel. Perfect, infuriating, unattainable Annabel.
I can feel her presence here, as though she’s just stepped out of the room. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs filters through the walls, though the sea tonight is calm. It’s an impossibility, but I’ve learned not to question the peculiarities of this place—or of her.
My hand trembles as I lift the brush. I haven’t eaten in days; the crusted remains of uneaten bread lie abandoned on the table. My body screams for rest, for sustenance, but I cannot stop. Not now. Not when she’s so close. The brush drags across the canvas in slow, deliberate strokes. The paint flows effortlessly, too easily, as if the image already exists beneath the surface, waiting for me to uncover it.
Her eyes come first. I’ve painted them a hundred times before, but tonight, they stare back with an unsettling clarity. Wide, dark, and brimming with sorrow—no, accusation. My breath catches. I set the brush down and step back, my gaze locked on the canvas. The room seems to tilt around me.
