“I—both?—”
“Because I can’t live without you, Annabel. Losing you to him would kill me.”
“You won’t, you never will. He’s married, he’s someone else’s now.”
“Bullshit,” he says, “if you wanted to be with him he would leave her tonight. He only married her to get back at you, you know that, right?”
“That’s not true, maybe he loves her.”
Calum rolls his eyes. “Do you love him?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t force the lie from my lips.
“I knew it.” Calum kicks atFalling Skyagain then walks out the door, letting the heavy wood slam in his wake. I sigh, regret and relief swirling in equal parts in my stomach. I’m not sure if I want him to stay or leave and the idea occurs to me then that I’ve always felt this way. Caught between two worlds, lost in the love that exists between two men, always wondering if love is meant to be this painful.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Calum
“Calum…”
Her voice. Sweet, lilting, but with an edge that chills me to the bone. I whip my head to the side, but there’s nothing there. Just the empty void of the bedroom, bathed in pale moonlight filtering through the cracked curtains.
My pulse thrums like a trapped bird against my ribs. The sensation returns, tracing down my jawline, light as a feather. I bolt upright, the sweat on my skin now cold and clinging. The whisper comes again, louder this time, insistent.
“Calum…”
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to look. But some primal force compels me, dragging me out of the bed with sluggish limbs. My feet hit the cold wooden floor, and the whisper transforms into a low murmur, then a chorus of murmurs, as if the walls themselves have grown mouths.
They’re surrounding me.
The murmurs escalate, each word sharper, more distinct. The faintest trace of breath lingers at the back of my neck, sending a shiver skittering down my spine. The whispers layerover one another, a maddening cacophony of words I can’t quite grasp, until finally, one voice breaks through the noise.
“You did this.”
The accusation is guttural, anguished, and unmistakably hers. Annabel’s voice. My legs carry me forward before my brain fully processes what I’m doing. The walls pulse with sound as if the house itself is alive and angry. The whispers swell, becoming a scream, and I stumble into the hallway, my heart pounding in my throat.
“You did this!” The scream tears through the air, reverberating in every corner of the cottage.
I spin in circles, desperate to find the source, but it feels omnipresent, everywhere and nowhere at once. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my hands shaking as I clutch at the doorframes for support. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the sound shifts—no longer from above or around, but below.
The floor beneath me vibrates, the whispers twisting and tangling, funneling downward. I drop to my knees, pressing my ear to the wooden boards, and there it is—soft, guttural, rising and falling like waves against the shore.
The voice is beneath me.
I scramble to my feet, the room tilting as exhaustion and fear weigh down my every move. I stagger to the shed, my fingers fumbling with the latch in my haste. The hinges scream in protest as I wrench the door open and snatch a shovel. My thoughts are jumbled, incoherent. All I know is that I have to dig. I have to know what’s under the floor.
Back in the house, I plunge the blade into the floorboards, the sound of splintering wood slicing through the quiet night. The work is brutal, relentless. Each swing of the shovel feels like a blow to my own sanity, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop.
Sweat pours down my face, mingling with the dirt and sawdust that clings to my skin. My breath comes in sharp,painful bursts. The whispers grow louder, almost mocking, their cadence in sync with the rhythm of my digging.
“You’ll never find it,” they taunt. “You’ll never understand.”
I grit my teeth, swinging harder. The hole widens, revealing the earth beneath the floorboards. My hands blister, but I don’t care. My vision blurs, but I keep going, clawing at the dirt with my bare hands when the shovel no longer suffices.
The hours stretch on, the world outside fading to nothing. There is only the hole, the whispers, and my frantic need to uncover whatever lies beneath. The dirt is damp and cold, clinging to my skin like a second layer. My nails crack, my fingers bleeding, but I don’t stop.
Finally, the first rays of dawn creep through the window, casting the room in a faint, golden light. My body screams for rest, but my mind refuses to relent. I reach down, my fingers brushing against something solid. My heart lurches in my chest. I scrape away more dirt, revealing a smooth, unyielding surface.
