Page 105 of The Devil's Canvas

“I know,” I say. And I do. Because this part—closing the door on the life that hurt her, choosing the one that’s hers now—it has to be her choice. Her path. Her hands tying the last threads.

I step back, just enough to show her I trust her to go alone. But not alone forever.

“When you come back,” I murmur, “we start everything.”

A small smile ghosts across her face. It’s soft, real.

“I’ll be back,” she promises.

One second she's there, the next, she’s gone.

No sound, no spectacle. Just a shimmer in the air where she stood. The weight of her still lingering in the space between.

I close my eyes and hold it. Not her absence. Who she is becoming.

And if anyone dares to touch her—I’ll burn them out of every realm they try to hide in.

Chapter Eighteen

Ophelia

Iopenmyeyestomy apartment. It looks like it's been torn apart. Probably the police or Bella looking for me.

I’ve never realized how loved I am until I saw the way Bella and Rosalind were looking for me. They are heartbroken.

Although it may get worse for them, I know I need to see them, to explain as best as I can.

I look around the room for my phone and that's when I realizeBella has it. Figures. Because of course, on the one night I actually need it, I’m phoneless.

My gaze lands on the dusty old landline mounted on the wall. I’ve kept it for years—never turned it off, never really used it either. Just emergencies.

Well. This feels like one.

I grab the receiver and dial Bella’s number from memory. She answers before the first ring even finishes.

"Hello? Who is this and why are you calling from Ophelia's landline?" Bella spurts out all at once.

I hear Rosalind in the background yelling, "Who is it? Is it Ophelia?"

"I don't know, mom, but I'm going to find out," Bella responds.

"Who is this?" Bella says, back in the receiver.

"It's me, Bella," I say.

"You’re sick. Whoever you are, this isn’t funny," she says.

“I know how it sounds,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “But please, just listen—”

“You’re calling from her apartment. Do you think that’sclever? You think you’re helping?” She’s shaking. I can hear it. “We’ve been searching formonths—”

“Bella.” I cut in softly. “The last time we talked, you were crying on your bathroom floor. You’d just come home from work. A case with a kid named Marcus—you said his bruises looked like shadows someone was trying to hide.”

The line goes silent.

“You said if you filed the wrong report, you’d lose him forever. That if you did nothing, you’d lose yourself.”

Bella doesn’t speak.

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