I need answers.
I dress quickly, throwing on the first clothes my shaking hands can find. My body feels like it’s operating on autopilot, my mind too fogged with fear and confusion to register the simple acts of pulling on jeans, a sweater. My cheek burns hot as I shove the bedroom door open and step into the hallway.
The ash marks are still there, streaking the walls with their haunting repetition. The sight of them makes my stomach churn, but I don’t stop. I don’t know where I’m going—there’s nowhere left in this house that doesn’t carry her imprint—but staying still feels like an invitation for something worse.
I wander through the cottage, my footsteps hesitant. The storm from the night before has passed, leaving behind an eerie stillness. The air smells faintly of salt and decay, and I find myself drawn toward the studio where I’ve been painting her. It’s the only place that might hold answers—or at least distractions.
The studio is exactly as I left it, the unfinished portrait of Annabel still dominating the center of the room. Her image stares back at me, serene and beautiful, but I can’t look at her without remembering the anger in her face this morning. The way her shadow moved, the force of her hand on my cheek.
I approach the painting cautiously, as though it might spring to life again. The locket around her painted neck gleams, its surface catching the light in a way that seems almost deliberate. I’ve been avoiding it, too afraid to inspect it closely. But now, I feel an undeniable pull.
I reach out, my hand trembling, and press my fingers to the painted locket. The surface is smooth, cool to the touch, but as I lean in closer, I notice something I hadn’t seen before.
There’s a faint engraving on the locket’s surface. A symbol. The same jagged lines that have haunted me, carved into the painted gold.
A shiver runs through me, and I step back, my hand fallingto my side. The room feels colder, the shadows deeper. The mark on my cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of her presence.
“What do you want me to finish?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “What am I supposed to do?”
The air around me shifts, a faint rustling like the sound of fabric brushing against skin. I spin around, half-expecting to see her standing there again, but there’s nothing. Just the empty room and the lingering scent of decay.
I can’t stay here. Not like this.
Grabbing my coat from the back of a chair, I throw it on and head for the front door. The morning light is harsh as I step outside, the chill biting at my skin. The ocean stretches out before me, endless and unforgiving, and for a moment, I feel like I’m staring into a void.
The wind whips around me as I make my way toward the cliffs. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but the pull is undeniable. The waves crash against the rocks below, their relentless rhythm matching the pounding in my chest.
As I stand at the edge, the symbol flashes in my mind again, burned into my memory. It feels like a key, but to what, I don’t know. Annabel’s voice echoes in my head, her anger, her pain, her demand:Finish it.
I close my eyes, the wind tearing at my hair, and for the first time, I let myself surrender to the fear, the grief, the guilt. Whatever she wants, whatever she’s trying to tell me, I have to figure it out. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll survive her wrath.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Annabel
“Annabel.”
The sound of my name cuts through the wind, sharp and accusing. I stop mid-step, my toes digging into the sand and breath catching in my throat. I don’t turn right away. His voice carries weight, a tether pulling me back to a reality I’m not ready to face. “You’ve been avoiding me since the night of the gallery opening.”
“How did you find me?”
“I knew you’d be here.” Jonathan’s words come closer now, each one heavy with something unsaid. “You’re always here. Remember when we used to hide out on this stretch of beach as kids?”
I turn slowly, my arms folded against the chill—or maybe against him. He stands just beyond the line of shadows, his face half-lit by the pale moon. His hair’s disheveled, his coat unbuttoned, and his jaw clenches with a mixture of anger and something softer, something I don’t have the strength to name.
“What do you want, Jonathan?” My voice is brittle,carrying none of the sharpness I wish it did. I try to hold my ground, to summon the flippant shield I’ve perfected, but tonight it feels thin, transparent.
“What do I want?” He takes a step closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I bristle at his tone, lifting my chin. “If you came here to play the martyr, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”
“Why are you even here, Annabel?” His eyes are dark, searching mine for answers I refuse to give. “Is it because of him? Or is it just you running again, pretending you don’t leave destruction in your wake?”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap, the words sharper than the wind. “You don’t get to stand there and act like this is all my fault. Like I owe you some neat little explanation tied up with a bow.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might turn and leave. But then he exhales, his breath visible in the frigid air. “I’m not asking for a bow. I’m asking for honesty, Annabel. For once in your life, just tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” I laugh, though it’s hollow and bitter. “The truth is you don’t want honesty. You want validation. You want me to say everything you’re desperate to hear.”
