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Chapter Ten

Calum

I haven’t slept in three days. Maybe four. The nights bleed into mornings, and the mornings into something else entirely, something shapeless and gray. The sea outside roars its indifference, and the waves pound the cliffs like fists.

The door creaks open before I touch it, a slow groan that shudders through the house like a living thing. Holiday House feels alive tonight—its warped floorboards and faintly salty walls pressing in as though it’s inhaling my presence, holding me tight in a grip I can’t escape.

I pour another drink. The glass feels heavy in my hand as I lift it to my lips.

Bourbon. Annabel used to tease me for drinking it, called it an “old man’s liquor,” but she’d always steal the glass when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I used to catch her, her smile curling like smoke as she tipped it back.

A knock jolts me. Sharp, insistent. Not the wind, not the house settling into its bones.

I set the glass down with a thud and make my way to the door, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the house’s silence. When I open it, Jonathan Grey is standing there, framed in the glow of the porch light.

“Jonathan,” I say, my voice flat. The name feels foreign, like I’m speaking a language I’ve long forgotten. He looks the same—still tall, still polished, still perfect. His dark hair is damp from the mist rolling off the ocean, and his sharp jaw is set tight. His eyes, though, are tired.

“Calum,” he says, and there’s something in his tone I don’t recognize. It isn’t pity, not quite, but it’s close enough to make my teeth clench.

“Why are you here?” I step aside, letting him in because it’s easier than standing there in the doorway like a fool.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shrugs off his coat, the fabric dry despite the mist falling outside. His eyes scan the room, the empty bottles lining the sideboard, the ashtray overflowing with the remnants of my insomnia. He looks back at me, his gaze steady.

“Ravensreach felt like the only place to be,” he says finally, his words slow and deliberate. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t move farther into the house. He just stands there, taking me in like he’s cataloging every inch of my unraveling.

“Funny. I thought you hated this place,” I say, my voice sharper than intended. I leave him to his judgments and cross the room, picking up my glass again. The liquor burns its way down, a welcome reprieve from the gnawing emptiness.

“I didn’t hate it,” he says, following me now, his shoes echoing against the floor. “I hated what it did to you.”

I laugh, a harsh sound that doesn’t belong to me. “Spare me the concern. You didn’t come all this way to play therapist.”

Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s always been the composed one, the one who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Annabel loved that about him—his easy charm, his poise. She used to call him her “ steady ship” when I was the storm threatening to capsize them both.

“I’ve been grieving too, you know,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.

The words hit like a punch. I stare at him, the glass in my hand trembling just enough to spill a drop onto my wrist. “Grieving?” The word tastes bitter. “Grieving what, exactly?”

Jonathan’s jaw tightens.

“Annabel,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

I laugh again, louder this time, setting the glass down before I hurl it against the wall. “You barely knew her. Not the heart of her, not like I did,” I spit, my voice rising. “You spent what? A handful of summers here? Don’t stand there and tell me you’re grieving her like you understand.”

“I knew her,” he snaps, the crack in his polished veneer startling. “I knew her better than you think. Better than you ever let yourself believe.”

The room tilts, the bourbon surging in my veins like a second heartbeat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jonathan steps closer, his face inches from mine now. “It means you were too busy worshipping her to see her for who she really was.”

The air between us feels like static, charged and dangerous. His words claw at something raw inside me, something I’ve tried to bury beneath layers of paint and smoke and alcohol. “Don’t pretend you know what we had,” I hiss. “She was mine. ”

His laugh is low, bitter. “Was she? Or was she just something you wanted to own?”

The accusation lands with a weight I can’t shake. My fists clench at my sides, the urge to lash out burning hot. But his eyes don’t waver, and the tension between us feels like it might snap .

“You think you were any better?” I say finally, my voice low and venomous. “You’re standing here, in my house, claiming to grieve her like you had some claim to her. So tell me, Jon —what exactly are you mourning? The idea of her? Or the fact that she never wanted you the way you wanted her?”

Jonathan’s composure cracks further, his shoulders stiffening. For a moment, he looks like he might hit me, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But then he exhales sharply, stepping back and shaking his head.

“I loved her,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Maybe not the way you did. Maybe not enough for her to stay. But I did love her, Calum. And whether you believe it or not, I’m grieving her too.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I don’t know how to respond, don’t know what to do with the tangled mess of anger and guilt and jealousy boiling inside me. Instead, I pour another drink, the sound of liquid hitting glass the only thing cutting through the silence.

Jonathan doesn’t speak again. He stands there for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for something he’s lost. Then he turns and walks to the window, his gaze fixed on the dark expanse of the ocean beyond.

“She was brilliant,” he says finally, his voice soft. “And maddening. And impossible to hold onto. But you already know that, don’t you?”

I swallow hard, the alcohol burning its way down.

“She was everything,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jonathan turns back to me, his expression unreadable. “She was human,” he says. “And she’s gone, Calum. No amount of bourbon or paint or self-destruction is going to change that.”

The words sting, but they also carry a weight of truth I’m not ready to face. I set the glass down, my hands trembling. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in. I need air, need to get out before I suffocate under the weight of it all.

“I need to paint,” I say abruptly, the excuse weak and transparent. Jonathan doesn’t argue. He simply nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer before he walks toward the door.

“Take care of yourself, Calum,” he says quietly before he leaves, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing through the empty house.

The silence that follows is deafening. I stand there for a long time, staring at the spot where Jonathan stood, his words replaying in my mind. The house feels colder now, the shadows longer, the scent of jasmine creeping back in like a ghost.

I pick up the brush, my fingers curling around it like a lifeline. The canvas stares back at me, blank and unyielding. I dip the brush into the paint, the colors swirling together into something chaotic and dark.

As I work, her face emerges again, unbidden and haunting. But this time, there’s something different in her expression—something I can’t quite place. It’s as if she’s watching me, her eyes filled with a sadness that feels almost accusatory.

The shadows creep in around her, darker and more distinct than before. And in the distance, just beyond the edges of the canvas, I swear I can see Jonathan standing there, his figure blurred and indistinct but unmistakable.

I drop the brush, my chest tightening. The room spins, the weight of everything crashing down around me. Her voice whispers in my mind, soft and lilting, a melody I can’t escape.

“You’ll never let me go,” she says, her words a promise and a curse.

And she’s right. I won’t. I can’t.

Because she’s mine.

Even in death, she’s mine.