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Chapter Twenty-Two

Calum

The truth lies in the waves.

The words are scrawled hastily in one of Annabel’s sketchbooks, as if written in a moment of panic or desperation.

My chest tightens as I read it again, my mind racing.

Annabel wasn’t one for riddles, not like this.

She preferred her truths cloaked in laughter or venom, delivered with the precision of a blade. This feels different. Urgent.

I take the sketchbook to the fireplace, the flames casting erratic shadows on the walls.

My hands tremble as I hold the note up to the light, searching for more—a smudge, a clue, anything to give the words meaning.

But there’s nothing. Just those six maddening words, staring back at me like a challenge.

Annabel once joked that the waves would swallow her whole if she let them.

It was one of her endless whims, delivered with a coy smile as we sat on the cliffs, the wind tangling her hair.

“There’s something romantic about it,” she’d said, her voice light, but her eyes distant. “Being claimed by the sea.”

The memory surges forward now, sharp and unrelenting. Annabel’s laugh echoes in my memory, bright and sharp, cutting through the storm of my mind like a blade. “You’re too serious, Calum,” her voice dripping with mockery. “You see monsters in shadows, but sometimes a shadow is just a shadow.”

But this isn’t just a shadow. The sketchbook is real, tangible. Proof of... something. My mind is a maelstrom, fragments of memory and suspicion colliding in a relentless torrent. I stare at it for what feels like hours, as if the answers might materialize if I look hard enough.

Annabel’s voice whispers in my ear, unbidden. “The truth lies in the waves.”

What truth? What was she trying to tell me?

The storm rages through the night, but I can’t sleep. I sift through her sketchbook again, searching for something I might have missed. The sketches of the cliffs are detailed, almost obsessive. She’s captured every jagged edge, every twist of rock, as if trying to map out a secret.

In the margins, she’s written fragmented thoughts, barely legible:

“The waves know.”

“He’s always watching.”

“I can’t breathe.”

The words feel like a scream, trapped on the page. My chest tightens, the walls of the cottage pressing in on me. She was scared. I didn’t see it before, blinded by her light, her games. But it’s here, laid bare in her own hand. She was terrified, and I didn’t save her.

The next morning, the cliffs are slick and treacherous.

I trace the same steps along the cliff as I’ve done a thousand times before, searching for more clues, more pieces of the puzzle.

The waves crash below, their rhythm hypnotic, relentless.

I stare out at the horizon, where the sky meets the sea, and a strange calm settles over me. The truth lies in the waves.

I step closer to the edge, the wind tugging at my coat. For a moment, I feel weightless, as if the ocean is calling me, pulling me toward its depths. And maybe it is. Maybe that’s where the answers are, buried beneath the waves.

But then a voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and unwelcome.

“Calum!”

I turn to see Jonathan standing a few yards away, his expression twisted with something between concern and anger. He’s mostly dry despite the rain, his hair falling over his forehead, his coat flapping in the wind.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts, striding toward me.

I don’t answer, my mind still tangled in Annabel’s words, her sketches, her fears. Jonathan grabs my arm, yanking me back from the edge.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snaps, his grip tight.

“Maybe that’s the point,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Jonathan’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t be an idiot, Calum. You think this is what she would’ve wanted?”

I wrench my arm free, my anger flaring. “What do you know about what she wanted?”

His laugh is bitter, sharp as the salt in the air. For a moment, I see the storm in his eyes, mirroring the one inside me.

“I found her sketchbook,” I say finally, my voice low. His expression falters, a flicker of something—recognition?—crossing his face.

“And?” he asks, his voice strained.

“She wrote that the truth lies in the waves.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means she was here,” I snap. “Maybe it means she... she didn’t just drown, Jonathan. There’s more to it. I can feel it. ”

He shakes his head, his gaze darkening. “You’re chasing ghosts, Calum. She’s gone. You have to let her go.”

But I can’t. I won’t. The truth is out there, waiting to be uncovered. And I’ll find it, no matter the cost.

As Jonathan turns to leave, Annabel’s voice echoes in my mind once more, soft and haunting.

The truth lies in the waves.