Chapter Twenty-Five
Ash is curled around her when she wakes, his arm holding her in place, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her back.
The duvet has been kicked to the end of the bed, far too warm to need it.
Maybe that’s what woke her – the heat. The window is open, but the breeze it’s trying to tempt is non-existent.
She has no idea what time they fell asleep, or what time it is now.
She blinks into the dark, moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains.
She shifts a little, easing away from him.
She feels sore, in a good way. But she also feels restless, like she’s only got more energy after last night, not less.
It takes her all of about a minute to decide she can’t stay here pretending to sleep.
She’s never been very good at sharing a bed with someone – always feels too vulnerable.
And while it’s different with Ash, she figures she’ll go for a walk – cool down, work off a bit of the energy – and be back before he wakes.
She dresses in whatever clothes she can find and heads out of the cottage.
The night air is pleasantly cool on her sticky skin.
Pieces of last night come back to her, making her smile – and making her glad she is alone.
The sound of his name on her lips. The way he looked at her when he was inside her.
The feeling she had, a kind of certainty. You. Always you.
She feels it again, a restless jump inside her. Something crawling under her skin, like it’s waiting to be set free.
The ocean seems restless, too. It’s calm on the surface, but as she weaves her way down the cliff path towards the shoreline under the bright moonlight, it’s like she can sense something underneath it. It seems silly to think that. What does she know about the sea?
But still. It feels like something is happening. Like something has changed. She supposes it has, because there’s no going back after last night, is there? A choice, Saskia said. Is this it? Has she already made it?
She stops when she reaches the beach, waves coming up to the tips of her trainers. She can remember what it felt like to drown. Can imagine it now, the water sucking her under.
She was in water when she figured it out, saw the first time she died. And that’s what she needs now. She needs to see beyond the veil, or however Saskia phrased it. Because there’s got to be something else she’s missing.
She slips off her shoes, dips a toe into the water.
It’s not exactly warm, but it’s not freezing.
She’s not really thinking as she strips off down to her underwear.
She’s letting whatever is inside her drive her on.
Because of last night. Because she can’t be with Ash – really be with him – if she doesn’t understand, if she’s still lost in the past.
She wades deeper. Her heart is hammering fast, but it’s the usual fear she’s feeling. She thinks of Ash’s comment right before he jumped. You only live once.
But she hasn’t only lived once, has she?
The water is cold around her as she reaches shoulder-deep. Her lungs feel tight, like they’re preparing for something, and she can feel her heart in the base of her throat.
It’s so easy to relive the memories. The manor house from the 1920s.
The jazz band, the champagne, the laughter.
The sound of his voice caressing her skin.
His gaze meeting hers. Dancing. A hand sliding up her thigh underneath a table, somewhere no one can see.
The sleeve of her dress pushed off one shoulder, a kiss pressed there as her back arches.
Him driving her home. Thanks for the ride. You’re my hero.
Hero. Hey, hero.
Walking through Paris hand in hand. Knowing it had been hard for him, his first big premiere, without his father there. His father too afraid to leave the house.
Agoraphobia.
Yeah. I guess.
Him singing on the lake, rowing his way towards her. Drawing him in charcoal. His dad hasn’t been the same since the war.
A film composer. A location scout. A singer.
Dimly, Lissa can feel the water bobbing around her, the tips of her fingers turning numb.
But she’s only partially here. Because now she’s back there again, a different body of water around her as she falls into the loch, pain as her lungs threaten to explode.
The certainty that it’s not just her who will die, because she’s pulling him under with her.
A car speeding towards her. Too slow – she’s too slow to move out of the way, so he comes for her, trying to save her.
And now a new memory, the final piece. A feeling of utter joy as she moves hand in hand with him through New York. Because she’s chosen him, because he’s found a gig in a band right here in the city, because he wants to stay with her.
Dragging him down an alley, desperate to touch him. Laughter.
Then a gunshot. Wrong place, wrong time. An alley that she didn’t think to look down, because all she could think of was him. Him shoving her out the way, again. Trying to save her, again. His shirt stained red as the bullet goes through him.
Screaming. Her screams. Useless, because she can feel it, sharp pain, then the sound of the gun once more.
It’s not just her who dies over and over. And it’s not lots of different men – it’s the same one. The same soul. She’s drawn to him again and again. An endless loop. Every time, he chooses her. Every time, she leads him into danger.
Water pulling her under.
Blood coating her hands.
The smell of burning rubber.
He dies every time because of her.
It’s real. She’s not crazy. This has all happened before. The Devil, lord of patterns. Circles that go round and round. An endless, tragic loop. This is the pattern she needs to break. It’s not about her sister – it’s about him.
Of course it is. Because when did the flashbacks start? When she met him. On the anniversary of her sister’s death, she met him.
She can hear it still, the screaming inside her head.
Only it’s not her screaming.
‘Lissa!’ An agonised, cracked sound.
His hands on her shoulders, pulling her from the water, towards land. Carrying her, because she can’t stand, because her legs have given way, like they can’t support her through this realisation.
She is choking as she tries to blink Ash into focus, tries to bring herself back to the here and now. Choking, sobbing, gasping. Her lungs are burning, her head is spinning. She is soaking wet, tendrils of hair clinging to her face.
He sets her down when they are out of the water. He’s topless, but wearing jeans – like he didn’t stop to strip before wading in after her. She wonders how he found her. Did she scream out loud? Did she call for him?
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ His words are laced with anger – exactly like she shouted at him yesterday. Because he is allowed to be reckless, but she is not.
She is shivering, but she’s not sure it’s from cold. She hitches in a breath, then another, as she stares up at him bathed in moonlight.
‘Lissa?’ His voice is more uncertain now.
She could have drowned. She knows that. It was stupid to go in like that. Reckless. She did it like she was possessed – and he came in after her. Because that’s what happens. They are drawn together as though it is fate, over and over. He dies because he tries to save her.
And it’s so obvious. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before. It was like a mental block, an unwillingness to believe what isn’t logical.
She feels her eyes sparking with tears, even as he’s reaching for her, trying to make sure she’s okay.
She only just manages to get the words out through numb lips. They are words she doesn’t want to say – words she doesn’t want to believe. But they are words she knows with utter certainty are true.
‘It’s you.’