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Chapter Forty-Five

Calum

Pregnant.

I think of the painting, her hands cradling her swollen belly. The secret she carried. The secret that killed us. I know now this is what she wanted to tell me.

The studio is quiet now. Too quiet. The paintings, dozens of them, stare back at me.

Each one a version of Annabel—laughing, serene, coy, and furious.

Her eyes seem alive in every stroke, accusing, questioning, mocking.

I’ve lost track of how many nights I’ve spent here, painting her over and over, trying to capture something I can’t even name.

I can’t do it anymore.

The thought hits me with the force of a wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. I can’t keep this up, can’t keep her locked in this house, in my mind, in my work. She’s here, always here, but not in the way I want her to be. Not alive.

And if I don’t let her go, she’ll take me with her.

I pace the studio, my footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath me. The air feels charged, as if the storm has left behind a residue of its fury. My gaze lands on the painting, the one I finished last night, the one that feels more alive than any of the others.

Annabel stares back at me, her expression a heartbreaking mix of love and betrayal.

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her lips slightly parted as if about to speak.

Around her neck is the locket, the same locket that Jonathan tried to burn in his pathetic attempt to erase her memory.

The symbol etched into the locket is faint, almost invisible, but I can feel its weight pressing on my chest like a stone.

I reach for the painting, my fingers trembling as they brush against the edge of the frame. The oil paint is dry but still seems to shimmer, as if alive. I can hear her voice in my head, soft and distant, whispering words I can’t quite make out.

“You’ve always been the knife I twist inside myself. Is this love?” The pain vibrates through me. “What do you want from me?” I ask aloud, my voice breaking. “What do I have to do?”

The room grows colder, the air heavy with the scent of lilies and decay. A soft breeze stirs, though the windows are shut. And then I hear it—a whisper, faint but unmistakable.

“Let me go.”

My breath catches. The words are so soft, so fragile, but they carry the weight of a lifetime. Or perhaps several lifetimes.

“I don’t know how,” I whisper back, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to let you go.”

The room grows colder still, and the whisper comes again, more insistent this time. “Holding on will only hasten your end.”

I stagger back, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a physical force. My heart pounds, my mind racing. She’s right. I’ve known it all along. But knowing and doing are two very different things.

I glance at the painting one last time, at her eyes filled with sorrow and something that looks almost like relief. And I know what I have to do.

The fire crackles to life in the hearth, its flames licking hungrily at the air. I carry the painting to the fireplace, my hands steady despite the storm raging inside me. The weight of the frame feels heavier than it should, as if it’s resisting me, as if she’s resisting me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

I slide the painting into the flames, the heat blistering my skin as I hold it there for a moment longer than necessary.

The fire roars, consuming the canvas with an almost unnatural ferocity.

The colors warp and twist, Annabel’s face dissolving into a blur of reds and yellows.

For a moment, I think I hear her scream—a high, keening wail that pierces through the crackle of the fire.

And then, silence.

I collapse to the floor, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The flames die down, leaving behind a pile of ash and the faint scent of burnt oil. The room feels lighter somehow, the oppressive weight that has hung over it for weeks lifted.

The days that follow feel like waking from a long, fevered dream. The house is quiet now, the shadows no longer shifting in the corners of my vision, the whispers no longer haunting my nights. For the first time in weeks, I sleep.

When I wake, the studio feels like a different place. The paintings are gone, their absence both a relief and a sorrow. I sit at the easel, the blank canvas before me both daunting and liberating.

I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the emptiness, before I finally pick up a brush. The movements come slowly at first, tentative and unsure. But then something clicks, and the strokes come faster, more confident. I lose myself in the rhythm, the world outside the studio fading away.

When I step back, hours later, the painting is complete. It’s not Annabel this time. It’s the house—Holiday House—bathed in sunlight, the waves calm and inviting, the cliffs no longer foreboding. It’s peaceful. Serene. A place where I can imagine finding solace.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel at peace too.

That night, I sit by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand, and watch the flames dance.

The house is quiet, the storm a distant memory.

I think of Annabel, of her laughter and her tears, of the love we shared and the secrets that tore us apart.

I think of the painting, now nothing more than ash, and the weight that has lifted from my chest.

I know I’ll never forget her. She’ll always be a part of me, a ghost that lingers in the corners of my mind. But I also know that I have to move forward. That holding on to her, to the pain and the guilt, will only destroy me.

As the fire burns low, I close my eyes and whisper a silent goodbye.

And somewhere, in the quiet darkness of the house, I think I hear her whisper it back.