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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Calum

The morning comes heavy with fog, the air thick enough to cling to my skin as I set up my easel outside. The cliffs stretch ahead, jagged teeth biting into the restless ocean below. It’s the kind of day Annabel loved—gray and unpredictable, where the sea seemed alive with secrets.

The easel stands steady against the uneven ground, and I pull out a fresh canvas, its surface glaringly white. Another painting, another attempt to capture her essence, to bring her back. My brushes feel worn, like me—overused, stretched to their limits.

This one will be different, I tell myself. This one will be perfect.

The cliffs where she fell loom in the distance, their presence like a gaping wound.

I’ve painted them before, of course, countless times in the weeks since her death.

But never from this angle, never with this perspective.

I press the charcoal to the canvas, sketching the scene before me—the rough outline of the cliffs, the wild brush of the sea, and in the center, her figure emerging like a memory I can’t erase .

“Just you and me again, Annabel,” I murmur, my voice swallowed by the wind.

As the image takes shape, my focus narrows.

The brush moves, following instinct more than thought, and her face appears on the canvas—her lips curved in that maddeningly playful smile, her eyes holding secrets that no painting could ever fully contain.

She seems alive, more alive than I feel in this moment.

The sound of voices drifts up from below, sharp and urgent.

I glance over the edge and spot two figures standing near the base of the cliffs.

One of them I recognize immediately: Jonathan.

His broad shoulders are tense, his hands gesturing wildly as he argues with a fisherman whose face is weathered like the sea itself.

I strain to hear them over the crash of the waves, but their words are lost to the wind. My stomach knots, a sick sense of unease settling over me. Jonathan’s presence here feels wrong, intrusive. He has no right to be near these cliffs, not after what happened.

The fisherman raises his voice, loud enough for fragments of his words to carry. “...saw you that night... meeting her here...”

The charcoal slips from my fingers, tumbling to the ground as the meaning of his words sinks in. Meeting her? Annabel? My pulse pounds, my hands clenching into fists as I watch Jonathan step closer to the fisherman, his movements aggressive, defensive.

Jonathan shakes his head, his voice rising above the surf. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You didn’t see anything.”

The fisherman stands his ground, jabbing a finger in Jonathan’s direction. “I know what I saw. You were here, arguing with her. She was upset.”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. My legs move on their own, propelling me down the narrow path toward them. The world blurs around me, my focus narrowing to Jonathan’s figure and the fury building in my chest.

By the time I reach them, the fisherman has turned away, his hands raised in frustration as he retreats toward his boat. Jonathan doesn’t notice me at first, his back to me as he stares out at the sea, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“What the hell was that about?” I demand, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Jonathan turns, his expression a mix of surprise and irritation. “Calum. What are you doing here?”

“This is my property,” I snap, stepping closer. “I could ask you the same thing. What did he mean, meeting Annabel? Were you with her the night she died?”

His jaw tightens, his gaze shifting away. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it to me.” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. The weight of his silence, his evasiveness, is unbearable. “Tell me what happened.”

Jonathan exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Yes, I met her that night. She asked me to.”

The admission is a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs. “Why?”

“She wanted to talk,” he says, his tone defensive. “She was upset, said she needed someone to confide in. Someone who wasn’t you.”

The words cut deeper than I thought possible, but I push the pain aside. “And? What did you talk about?”

Jonathan hesitates, his gaze flickering to the cliffs. “She was scared, Calum. She said she felt trapped, like she couldn’t be herself with you anymore. She... she wanted to leave.”

My hands curl into fists, the anger bubbling beneath the surface threatening to boil over. “ You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, meeting my gaze with a defiance that makes my blood run cold. “She wanted out, Calum. She was tired of being your muse, your... project. She wanted to be free.”

The world tilts beneath my feet, the ground feeling unstable, like the cliffs themselves might crumble beneath the weight of his words. “You argued with her,” I say, my voice low and accusing. “The fisherman said so.”

Jonathan looks away, his silence damning. “It wasn’t an argument. Not really. She was upset, and I tried to calm her down.”

“And then what?” I demand, stepping closer. “What happened after that? Did she fall, or did you?—”

“Stop,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp. “I know what you think. I didn’t push her, Calum.”

My chest heaves, the air around me feeling too thin, too oppressive.

“You were the last one to see her,” I whisper, the accusation slipping from my lips like a curse.

Jonathan flinches, his expression hardening. The image of Annabel falling, her body tumbling into the sea, fills my mind, and the rage inside me explodes.

“You should have told me,” I shout.

“What?” he snaps, shoving me back just as hard. “That she was miserable? That she wanted to leave you?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I stagger back, the fight draining out of me as the truth crashes down like the waves below. Annabel wasn’t happy. She wasn’t safe. And I was too blind to see it.

“I loved her,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I loved her more than anything.”

“So did I,” Jonathan says, his voice raw with emotion. “But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough for her.”

We stand there in silence, the weight of our shared grief pressing down on us like a storm. Jonathan turns away first, his shoulders slumping as he begins to walk back toward the path. “She’s gone, Calum. You can’t change that. None of us can.”

I watch him go, my chest hollow and aching. His words are true, but they offer no comfort. Annabel may be gone, but her ghost lingers, haunting every corner of this cursed place.

As the wind picks up, I look back toward the cliffs, my gaze falling on the jagged rocks below. The waves crash against them with relentless force, their roar a symphony of anger and despair.

The fisherman’s words echo in my mind, mingling with Jonathan’s confession and the memories of Annabel that refuse to fade. There are pieces missing, fragments of a story I can’t quite piece together. But one thing is clear: I won’t stop until I uncover the truth.

Even if it destroys me.