Jonathan pulls me into his arms, and I let him. For now, it’s enough.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Calum
The air inside the cottage hangs heavy with the smell of turpentine and salt, as if the sea itself has seeped into the walls. The painting looms before me, unfinished but unnervingly lifelike, Annabel’s image emerging from the canvas like a memory dragged from the depths of my mind. Her eyes, dark and shimmering, seem to follow me across the room. I can’t decide if they’re accusing or pleading.
I wipe a hand over my face, the paint-smudged tips of my fingers streaking against my skin. My pulse pounds erratically, and the back of my neck prickles, as if the shadows in the room are leaning in, watching me.
But I can’t stop. I’m so close to finishing.
Each brushstroke feels guided by something outside of myself, a compulsion that overrides the ache in my back and the fog in my mind. My hand moves, swift and precise, painting details I don’t recall ever seeing in real life but which emerge with startling clarity now. Annabel’s hair, loose and wild, falls in perfect, chaotic waves. Her lips are slightly parted, as though she’s caught mid-sentence, the words just out ofreach. And the necklace—the delicate gold chain around her neck—shimmers faintly in the dim light.
The symbol etched into the pendant burns against the canvas like a brand.
It’s the same one I found in the letter, scrawled in ash and etched into the mirror. A jagged, twisting design, delicate but ominous. Just like her.
I set the brush down, my hands trembling. The storm outside rages, the wind howling like a living thing. I tell myself it’s just the storm, just my exhausted mind playing tricks, but then I hear it—a whisper. Soft at first, barely audible over the gale, but growing louder, insistent.
“Finish it.”
The voice—her voice—wraps around me like a vice. I whirl around, expecting to see her standing there, her flippant smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. But there’s nothing. Just the shadows, just the storm.
“Annabel?” My voice cracks, unsteady. I take a step back, my foot catching on a drop cloth. “What do you want?”
The whisper comes again, closer now. “Finish it.”
I turn back to the painting, my breath hitching. The air feels charged, electric, as though the storm has breached the walls of the cottage. And then I see it—her face on the canvas has changed. Her expression, once serene, now contorts with sorrow, the faintest glimmer of betrayal etched into the curve of her lips, the crease of her brow.
But it’s not just her face that’s changed. There’s a figure standing beside her now, shadowy but unmistakable. My stomach churns as I realize who it is.
Jonathan.
His likeness is unmistakable—the strong jawline, the broad shoulders, the way his hand rests possessively on her arm. The shadows on his face deepen, giving him an almostsinister edge, but there’s no mistaking him. He’s there, beside her, staring at me from the canvas.
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes my throat. “What is this, Annabel? Some kind of sick joke?”
The painting doesn’t respond, but the room does. The windows rattle violently, and the fire in the hearth sputters as if gasping for air. The temperature plummets, and the scent of decay floods my senses, overwhelming and suffocating. I stagger back, my chest tightening.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” My voice rises, raw with anger and something darker—fear. “You were going to leave me. For him.”
The figure in the painting shifts subtly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make my heart stop. Annabel’s painted lips curve into a faint, mocking smile.
“Stop it!” I yell, grabbing the nearest object—a paintbrush—and hurling it at the canvas. It strikes the surface with a dull thud, leaving a streak of black across Jonathan’s shadowy form. But the painting doesn’t flinch. Annabel’s eyes hold mine, unwavering and unrelenting.
“You were mine,” I whisper, the words trembling on my lips. “You said you loved me.”
The room answers with a groan, the walls seeming to close in. And then I see it—the locket on Annabel’s neck in the painting. The same symbol, the same chain. It gleams faintly, almost alive. My vision blurs, my head pounding with the weight of realization.
She wasn’t just wearing the locket in the painting. I bet she was wearing it that night. The night she died. The locket burns in my mind, its twisted symbol a question I can’t answer. Did she mean to leave me? Was Jonathan the one she’d chosen all along?
“Why, Annabel?” My voice cracks, barely a whisper. “Why him?”
The shadows in the room deepen, and I swear I hear her laugh, soft and cruel. The storm outside crescendos, the wind screaming against the windows. The painting seems to pulse, the colors shifting and swirling like oil on water. Her face twists again, her serene beauty warping into something monstrous. Her lips part, and I hear her voice, clear and cutting.
“You killed me.”
The words strike like a blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I stumble back, my knees buckling as the room spins around me. The shadows close in, and the painting looms larger, her image alive and seething.
