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Chapter Text

A yellow sports car racing down the winding Italian countryside roads at full speed. I think it´s a Porsche. But how the hell am I supposed to know? I hardly know anything about cars.

The car nearly skids off the road once, almost runs over a group of pedestrians shortly after, and ends with a near-collision with a tractor.
The suspension’s too stiff for these bumpy, serpentine lanes and the whole car jerks and wobbles.
The kamikaze driver of said car is Alice. Her grip on the steering wheel is tense, her eyes constantly flicking from the road to the passenger seat.
Not exactly reassuring.

Isabella Swan sits beside her, a bundle of nerves. She’s pulling at her hair with trembling fingers, her breath coming in ragged gasps, cold sweat soaking through her clothes.
Let’s be honest, she’s not exactly a picture of grace right now. And she doesn’t smell great either.

In the back seat, another girl—me—is strapped in tightly. One hand clutches the overhead handle, the other grips the seatbelt like her life depends on it. (Which, let’s face it, it probably does.) I’ve wedged my legs between the seat and the car wall to stop myself from being thrown around like a ragdoll.
My hair, once neatly braided into a crown, is now a messy halo of chaos.
Yep. That’s me.
You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.
So am I.
Right now, I’m sending a desperate prayer to whatever god might still be listening, trying not to puke down Alice’s neck, and questioning all the life decisions that led me to this exact moment.

A weird remix of „Rasputin“ is playing on the radio while my entire life flashes before my eyes, as in I were expieriencing my last moments —
Which might not even be an exaggeration at this speed.

As fate would have it—and fate’s a bastard with a terrible sense of humor—
my story also begins in a car.

A black family station wagon, to be exact.
I shouldn’t remember much. I was only five years old.
But it’s funny how the worst memories are the ones that stick with us the most.
And this one?
Top five. No contest.

It was a cold night. Snow was falling hard, the roads slick as ice.
We were driving down a steep mountain pass in the Alps—because of course we were.
My stupid, stupid mother had insisted we leave the spa and ski hotel that very evening.
I don’t even remember what they were fighting about anymore. All I know is that none of my few memories of them ever looked even remotely loving.
If things had gone differently that night, maybe we would’ve stayed at the hotel.
Maybe they would’ve finally divorced.
But nope—everything went exactly as badly as it possibly could, and their shared idiocy caught up with all three of us.

The crash wasn’t even that spectacular.
My dad, yelling, distracted by the argument—
Hitting the break too late.
The car slid.
You always think tires squeal in a crash—
but they don’t.
Not in the cold.
When the roads are frozen, and you lose control, the brakes just make these weird rattling noises. No screeching. Just dread.

The loudest sound was the impact—
when we went skidding downhill and the sparse trees below tried, and failed, to stop us.
They splintered. Snapped.
Until one massive beech tree finally did the job.
Head-on.

It’s strange how some memories stay vivid.
That tree.
The type of bark.
The sound.

I think my father died instantly.
I remember the airbags, the shattered windshield, the crushed front of the car, the twisted metal that used to be the driver’s seat—
and the blood.
So much blood.
He was silent, while my mother mumbled something toward the sky.
She turned to me.
Her once-white blouse was speckled red.
There was glass in her shoulder—I remember that clearly.
She reached for me, still mumbling words I can’t recall—
and then: nothing.

I think I passed out.
Shock, maybe.

“All will be well. You will live.”

The next thing I remember is someone shaking me awake.
A paramedic. I couldn’t make out his face—it was all so blurry.
I was lying in the snow, a little ways from the smoking, crumpled heap that used to be our car.
They lifted me onto a stretcher.
The last thing I saw before they closed the doors was two other stretchers.
Two identical body bags being wheeled into a separate vehicle.
And in that moment, I knew my life would never be the same again.

Dramatic start to a story, huh?
Don’t worry. Once you hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere left to fall.
Well—usually.
But oh boy, did life still have plans for me.

The next five years were spent with chronic migraines in what was essentially a glorified orphanage.
One of my father’s business partners took me in.
He’d already collected a few other children—so, you know, could’ve been worse.

Did I want to live with a cold, eccentric old man? Not really.
None of us kids did.
But the guy had money.
Enough to crush my uncle Charlie’s custody request in court.

And this was another country.
Apparently, getting a kid with dual citizenship back to the States is a bureaucratic nightmare.
Charlie would learn that the hard way.

At the time, I didn’t know why that old bastard had insisted on keeping me.
Later, I understood.
He’d seen something in me.

But to his credit, he took good care of us.
We had food.
Healthcare.
A top-tier education.

But what I loved most was the knowledge.
His home was filled with it—
Artifacts and flora from across the globe, ancient scrolls and stone tablets in long-dead languages, depictions of forgotten gods, bones of creatures so wild you’d swear they weren’t real.
And books.
So many books.
Science, history, philosophy, theology, ghost stories, myths, natural wonders—
I devoured them all.

He didn’t mind teaching me.
Quite the opposite: once he noticed my curiosity, he doubled down.
Math, languages, theology—whatever it was, I soaked it up like a sponge.

And when he couldn’t keep up anymore, he brought in tutors who could.
Looking back…
those evenings in his library might’ve been the closest I ever came to being truly happy.
Then, five years later—
he died too.

Not the biggest loss, honestly.
But it did strip me of certain privileges.
Still, that sacrifice opened a door—
Charlie Swan could finally bring me home.
To Forks.

At least now I’d be with someone who was actually family.

It wasn’t always easy.
Charlie was 34, still reeling from the divorce.
No real experience with raising a child.
But he tried.
And that was enough for me.

Eventually, we found our rhythm.

In the summers, my cousin Isabella—Bella—would visit.
She was seven, three years younger than me.
But somehow, we just… clicked.
Suddenly, I had a little sister.
And suddenly, summers were full of laughter, conversations, and hikes through the woods.

The rest of the year?
Still mostly studying, questioning, learning.

At first, I didn’t really make friends.
How could I?
I was the new girl with the loud mouth, trying to force my way into existing cliques.
And honestly? I sucked at it.

Until I ran over a loudmouthed kid with a gap-toothed smile on my bike.
God, we hated each other.
He pulled my hair, I gave him a bloody lip.
He threw my shoes into a tree, I dumped his homework in the mud.

But hey—some of the best friendships start with mutual destruction.
We eventually became inseparable.

Our group grew.
He fell in love. I made a new friend.
Then I fell in love—
and had my heart broken.

We drowned my pain in ice cream and karaoke until I could breathe again.
Then I fell in love again—
and this time, he gained a new best friend.

At that point, I had it all.
Perfect grades.
Graduated early.
Distance learning I could afford thanks to my inheritance.
A perfect relationship.
A broken, but well-meaning father figure.
And the best friends anyone could ask for.

I thought nothing could shake me.
I should’ve known better.

Then I lost it all.

First, the friendship.
Then, my heart.
Then—me.

Sure, I finished my studies with top marks.
But the rest of my life?
In ruins.

What else could I do?
I had to get out.
I was nineteen, suffocating.

Leaving Charlie behind wasn’t fair, but I had to put myself first.
Bella was moving in soon anyway—he wouldn’t be alone anymore.
He was happier with his daughter close.

I found peace.
I found myself again.
Maybe I would’ve stayed away longer.
But then my phone rang.

It was Charlie.
Panicked.
Exhausted.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re off on your trip, but… do you have a moment? Bella ran off. Packed her things and stormed out. Then she got into an accident. She’s in the hospital. I don’t know the details yet. I just… I don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s me. Maybe everyone’s always running from me.”

“It’s not,” I said.
“I’m booking the next flight. I’ll be there as soon as I can. We’ll fix this.”

And just like that, I was packing again.

Chapter Text

Book I: The Weave

Book Song: Drops of Jupiter - Train
Book Inspiration: Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Book Color: Yellow
Yellow symbolizes light, knowledge, pattern. It is often referred to as the “color of enlightenment”.

Timeline: The end of twilight to the reveal

Actually, “The Weave” might be the wrong word for what I’m trying to describe here. And yet, it might also be the perfect one.
Information would be another term. Or signature. Or structure. Thread. Resonance. Code. Pattern. Network. Blueprint.
The very fact that so many words are both fitting and unfitting at once speaks to the complexity of “the Weave.” It shows that this concept resists simple definition.

Still, I’ll try to explain it as simply as possible:
For a long time, classical physics assumed that matter and energy were the only fundamental components of the universe. But modern fields like quantum physics, thermodynamics, and cosmology have revealed something deeper: „information“—or „the Weave“—is just as essential.
Without “the Weave”, the universe would have remained what it was at the very beginning: a tiny, trembling blob of energy—a singularity.
Because without the information telling it how to break apart and expand, how to recombine, evolve and organize, everything would have remained the same. And nothing could have become something.

It is the first thing to arise when nothingness decided to become something.

If we imagine the universe as a computer program, then “The Weave” is - simply put - the code of the universe.
An object, a living being, even a thought—they’re not just matter or energy. Everything within and around us carries information: about its state, its position, its momentum, its time.
You can imagine it simply, like DNA. Like a fundamental blueprint for everything.

A memory embedded in the cosmos.

“The Weave” is a Connection of probability, causality, and encoded structure.

The structure by which the universe functions.
The rules it follows.

It interweaves space, time, matter, and energy into meaningful patterns.
And because of it, we can observe nature, define physical laws, make predictions, and calculate outcomes.

Everything that is, was, or ever will be leaves a trace—subtle imprints in the fabric, like fingerprints written into the patterns of the world. Fingerprints we place, but which also seem to have always been there—and are constantly forming anew.

Because the universe forgets nothing. It transforms.

Information is the thread from which the weave of the universe is woven.
It is what we know, and what is.
It is memory, logic, and pattern—in every one of us, and in everything around us.

- Miss Swan, Student of the University in Seattle

Excerpt from an E-Mail to

Julius Thompson, Proffesor for theoretical Physics and Astrophysics at the University of Cambridge, Prizewinner of the „Goldmedal of the Royal Astronomical Society“

Chapter Text

The first place I went after leaving the airport was the hospital. I hadn’t landed in Forks but in Phoenix, Arizona. All I had with me was the small, black suitcase I’d left my uncle with over a year ago.

Charlie had filled me in with more details over the phone: Apparently, Bella had stormed off after a fight with her boyfriend. Packed her things in the dead of night and returned to Arizona. He told me how she’d said she didn’t want to chain herself to that boring, little town. She didn’t want to be stuck in Forks like her mother, Renée, had been. She didn’t want to make the same stupid mistake. Because she hated the small-town life.

In my opinion, that had been a pretty brutal low blow.

Knowing Charlie, and judging by how he had sounded during our second phone call, he blamed himself for her behavior.

And yet, I just couldn’t imagine Bella deliberately hurting her father like that. That she’d truly hated Forks all these years and just hadn’t said a word about it. Not once in all our summers together had she given even the slightest indication of that.

I couldn’t pass judgment on the situation until I had heard her side of the story. I was sure there had to be more to it. Maybe she had a good reason for her actions? In the end, it would probably fall to me— once again—to mediate between these two stubborn mules with the communication skills of garden furniture.

Besides, who was I to judge anyway? I hadn’t been any better; I’d run away from Forks too.

The flight had been long and exhausting. The broken air conditioning and the kid who kept kicking the back of my seat didn’t exactly improve the experience.

I arrived in Phoenix tired, annoyed… and probably stinking like the boys’ locker room at Forks Highschool. At least, that’s what I assumed from how people at the airport kept their distance from me. My greasy hair was lazily tied back. I don’t think I had ever felt so embarrassed to be seen in public. Any trace of vanity I once possessed had packed its bags and fled my brain, probably crying and clutching a teddy bear. Fortunately, I must have looked so grumpy and disgusted with myself that no one dared approach me while I waited for my luggage. That would’ve been the final straw.

So, I pulled my hood over my head and continued waiting scowling —and stinking— for my belongings. When my suitcase finally rolled onto the belt, I snatched it up and made a beeline for the bathroom. There was no way I was setting foot outside this building without freshening up first!

Too bad there were no showers in the women’s restroom…

Screw it. At this point, whatever. I stepped up to an empty sink next to a tiny woman in full vacation mode, popped open my suitcase, and rummaged around for a towel, my toiletries, and some clean clothes.

Under the horrified gazes of two elderly ladies, I stripped down to my underwear and started washing myself.

One of them huffed indignantly. The other shrieked, “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

“Washing myself. That’s what sinks are for,” I snapped back. “Now, why don’t you two kindly shut your wrinkled mouths, stick your noses in your own business, and get lost?”

God, people like that pissed me off! My already bad mood hadn’t improved with this exchange. But at least the two did exactly what I told them to do without further argument. Lucky me!

The woman beside me just laughed as I scrubbed my armpits. I was about to snap at her too when she beat me to it: “Well, you sure scared off those old harpies. Congratulations!”

False alarm.

I lowered my head into the sink, exhaling slowly. I needed to pull myself together. Couldn’t take out my bad flight experience on random strangers. The cool stream of water I used to rinse my hair helped.

“Sorry,” I replied. “I shouldn’t have snapped. Normally, those kinds of comments don’t bother me much.”

She laughed again, light brown hair swinging around a perfectly pale, porcelain dollface. “Oh, don’t worry about it. That was an thoroughly fascinating and refreshing spectacle!”

Interesting choice of words, but okay. I don’t judge.

“Thanks,” I muttered, somewhere between amused and mortified.

I was trying—unsuccessfully and clumsily —to massage shampoo into my scalp without turning the entire place into a water park, when she suddenly stepped behind me and took over. Her fingers were ice-cold but pleasant. Circulatory disorder would be my first amateur diagnosis.

“You really don’t have to—”

But she interrupted me. “I like to help. Girls support girls! And it looks like you’re having a really bad day.”

“No, not exactly bad,” I replied. “Just stressful. I took the first cheap flight home after a long trip… and I think that flight might’ve been the worst of my life. Annoying kid, no sleep, busted AC”

“I could smell the latter when you walked in!” she replied dryly while rinsing the shampoo from my hair.

I had to laugh at her honesty. “Well, thanks a lot!”

“No worries! You smell much better now,” she winked at me in the mirror.

Were her eyes red? No, that couldn’t be… Unless she had albinism? But that didn’t match her hair color. Maybe the odd shade was just a trick of the bathroom lighting? Or she simply liked the eye color and wore red contacts or had her iris tattooed? Gotta love modern times! Either way - I liked her style. And I was very grateful for her help.

“Can I ask,” she said while wrapping my hair in a towel and gently patting it dry, “why you left your vacation so suddenly?

I took a deep breath. “It’s kind of a complicated, long story. My uncle - the one who raised me - apparently had a fight with my cousin. She’s like a little sister to me. Well, she ran away from home and had an accident. She’s in the hospital now. It’s… a lot.”

“I get it,” she said softly, folding the towel and brushing through my damp hair with surprising care. “You must be worried.”

“That too. But honestly, I also find it ironic that I can’t even leave those two alone for a year without things going completely sideways.… Sorry, that was a bit tactless.”

She smiled at me, putting the brush back in my bag. “I’m a random stranger in an airport bathroom. We’ll probably never see each other again. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

Touché.

I quickly threw on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then I smiled at her. “Thanks, nameless stranger in the airport bathroom. You made my day a little less terrible.”

“Chelsea,” she replied, offering her hand. I shook it and gave her my name in return.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip—or whatever brought you here, Chelsea!” I added as I stuffed my things back into my suitcase.

“ Oh, my husband and I just wrapped up a business trip,” she replied. “Now we’re heading back home to Italy!”

“Allora ti auguro un buon volo,” I said, wishing her a good flight in clumsy Italian while pulling a black eyeliner from my makeup bag and scribbling my number onto a tissue.

“Oh, you speak Italian?” she asked, surprised. “Grazie mille!”

“Conosco solo un po’ l’italiano,” I answered—probably with terrible pronunciation—telling her I only spoke a little Italian.

I handed her the tissue. “If you ever in Seattle, give me a call. I’ll give you a city tour and buy you a coffee!”

She took it with a warm smile. “I’ll definitely take you up on that!”

Though, realistically, I doubted I’d ever see her again.

Our paths parted—permanently, in my opinion—just outside the women’s restroom. I was freshened up and headed for the exit, while she walked toward a tall, dark-haired man, waving at me one last time. That must have been her husband.

Maybe I had taken longer in the bathroom than intended because when I stepped into the airport parking lot, Charlie was already there—and he was never on time. The Arizona sun was brutal, and I was beyond grateful for the car’s AC once I tossed my suitcase into the back and finally collapsed into the passenger seat. My still-damp hair gave me an extra layer of blessed coolness.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted me. “How was your trip?”

“Impressive,” I said, strapping myself in. “Except for the return flight, which was kind of hell.” Then, turning to face him as he started the engine and navigated out of the parking lot, I asked, “How’s Bells? And how are you?”

“She hasn’t woken up yet,” Charlie said, voice thick with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—which, knowing him, was probably true.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe him. “She will, you’ll see!”

He exhaled, visibly drained. “Can you… can you maybe talk to her when she wakes up? I don’t know what drove her run off like that. You’ve always had a better connection with her. Maybe she’ll confide in you!”

“Of course,” I nodded. “But Charlie? Don’t start thinking you’re a bad father. You’re not. I’m sure Bells didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I think she did,” he replied quietly. “I know I’m not a good dad. Maybe I deserved what she said. But I just… I can’t get through to her anymore. We don’t talk like we used to. And then there’s her boyfriend. Edward… I don’t know… maybe he’s pressuring her somehow? I was so scared for her.”

Charlie’s words sent a shiver down my spine. I knew exactly which of our past memories fueled his distrust toward Bella’s boyfriend—or at least, I thought I knew. I understood his caution - truly. but it was unfair to be suspicious right from the start without reason. Still… I was hoping there wasn’t a reason for his mistrust. But I’d find that out soon enough.

“I’m sure he’s a decent guy,” I said gently. “You’re just being the papa bear trying to protect his little girl from her first boyfriend. But if it helps, I’ll check things out.”

“Thanks!” He murmured. I thought I saw the ghost of smirk tug at the corner of his lips.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. We weren’t on the road for long. When we finally arrived at the hospital, we quickly made our way to Bella’s room. I left my suitcase in the car. Charlie would take me home later anyway.

As we walked down one of the sterile hallways, we ran into Renée halfway to Bella’s room. She had a phone in her hand and was staring at it expectantly. Clearly waiting for something. When she spotted us, her face lit up.

“You’re already here?” she said, sounding relieved. “You won’t believe it—Bella finally woke up! I just talked to her.”

She came up to me and gave me a quick hug in greeting. She only nodded at Charlie, but he ignored that entirely.

Instead, he let out a relieved breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Thank God! She’s been out for days!”

“How is she?” I asked Renée.

“Good. Considering the circumstances,” she answered. “I think she’s still a little dazed. She says she wants to stay in Forks after all. But we should probably wait to talk about that when she’s thinking more clearly”

That was something good, at least. I shot my uncle an encouraging look. That meant his daughter didn’t hate him as much as he had feared.

He was about to say something when Renée’s phone rang again. She gave us an apologetic glance. “That’s Phil. I’ve got to take this!” And off she went, disappearing down another hallway.

When we entered Bella’s room, a nurse was checking her monitors and IV lines. And honestly? Bella looked like crap.

Whatever accident she’d been in, it had done a number on her.

Her hands were wrapped in transparent tubes, and an oxygen tube was taped to her nose. One of her hands was hooked up to a heart monitor, and the other had an IV line. One of her legs was casted all the way up. Dark circles framed her eyes, pale, lifeless skin, and dull hair completed the image.

That must have been one hell of a car crash, I thought to myself.

Sitting beside her on a chair was a boy around her age. He had pale, flawless skin and bronze-colored hair. With his tousled locks and the face of a Greek statue, he looked like an ‘80s teen heartthrob. He was holding one of Bella’s hands and looked up attentively when we entered the room.

Bella was a little slower to react. It took her a moment to recognize us. Then her face lit up.
“Dad! Sis! You’re here!”

“Hey, Bells, how are you?” Charlie immediately went to her side, placing a hand on her forehead. I just smiled and nodded at her, mainly relieved that she was responsive and alert.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she tried to cover Charlie’s hand with her own “Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry! I was so cruel to you! Please forgive me.”

“ It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

The two of them got lost in a quiet, comforting conversation, one I didn’t want to interrupt. Maybe they needed this moment to talk it all out.

Meanwhile, a dull, throbbing pain emerged in my head, creeping in like an unwanted guest. Maybe the jet lag was finally catching up to me. Or stress.

Instead, I turned to the young man at Bella’s side. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

I offered him my hand with a friendly introduction. He shook it politely.

“ Hello, Miss Swan. My name is Edward Cullen. It’s a pleasure to meet you—I just wish it were under better circumstances. Bella’s told me a lot about you.”

Oh boy, I thought. why did everybody have such cold hands today? Must be the weather.

Edward let go of my hand a little too quickly. But I didn’t blame him—I wasn’t a fan of touching strangers either.

“You can call me by my name. I’m only twenty. Being called ‘Miss’ makes me feel ancient” I said, smiling at him.

“Understood,” he replied with a small smile.

“Why did you come home?” Bella’s voice chimed in. “I thought you were still on some spiritual retreat in Asia?”

“Namaste,” I replied, turning to face her. “No idea, little sister… Why do you think I came back?”

Then I took a few steps toward her and lightly tapped my finger against her forehead. “Because apparently you can’t be left alone!”

She chuckled. “I’m glad you’re back. You look good. How was it?”

I paused for a moment, letting the past year flash through my mind.

“It was… intense, but mostly structured,” I said as I wandered to the end of her bed and casually swiped the clipboard with her chart from its hook. Then I dropped into another chair in the room, crossing my legs.

“We woke up with the sun every morning. We trained together, meditated, cleaned, and cooked. Then we went to bed with the sunset. Everything was so simple there. At first, it was hard. My head was to full. I couldn’t stop thinking about so many things, but then one of the masters took me under his wing. The old bastard was mute, stubborn, and relentless. He just wouldn’t give up. And one day, as we were meditating in the garden, I heard the birds singing, and I just… knew that everything was going to be okay. Weird, right?”

Bella and Charlie watched me thoughtfully for a while. Edward stared intensely at a random corner, probably trying very politely to pretend he wasn’t listening.

“You seem different. Calm… More at peace with yourself,” Bella murmured.

“Well,” I replied. “ Funny what a year in a Shaolin monastery can do to a person.”

“So… what exactly did you do this time?” I asked, steering the conversation in a new direction as I was flipping through Bella’s medical records and began reading aloud from her chart.
“A broken leg, four fractured ribs, some skull fissures, plus bruises and contusions all over your body… and a significant amount of blood loss!”

I glanced up from the file with an exaggeratedly disapproving expression.
“Seriously, Bells? I leave for one damn year and you go off and almost die. What am I supposed to do with you?”

She huffed a faint laugh.
“I left Forks because I was stupid. I thought… I thought being with Edward meant I’d be trapped there like Mom was. But I actually like Forks. I don’t know what got into me. Edward followed me to Phoenix to convince me to come back. We were supposed to meet at the hotel where he was staying with his dad and sister… and then… then I tripped on the stairs on my way up to his room...”

“She fell down two flights of stairs,” Edward added smoothly, “and then crashed through a window. We heard the impact and her screams and ran out right away.”

I paused. Then, just to be sure, I reread her patient file. Double-Checked it.
Nope. That made absolutely no sense.
Something about this story stank.

I turned to Charlie. “Say, did you go check out the scene of the accident?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Bella flinch. But I wasn’t entirely sure. But enough.

“Yeah, I was just there earlier. They’ve already cleaned up a lot, but it still looks like a mess. You really got tossed around, huh, Bells?” he replied.

What? He just accepted their story without question?
Renée, of course, hadn’t questioned a thing. She was a sweet woman, but let’s be honest, her cognitive skills were about as sharp as a potato.

But Charlie? My uncle wasn’t the smartest man in the world either. But he was a police officer for god’s sake! Had it not occurred to him how illogical this was? Didn’t he notice how none of this added up?

A dozen questions popped into my head immediately.

The most obvious one: How the hell do you fall down two flights of stairs? Did Bella fall, get up, and choose to tumble down a second one for fun? Or did she just keep rolling along the ground until she hit the next drop?

Then there was the window. You don’t just casually fall through a window. Not with tempered glass— what’s normally used in hotel windows.

There were other details, too—things that just didn’t track.

The question was, should I bring this up in front of Charlie… or in front of Edward?
Ideally, I’d get Bella alone. But judging by how her boyfriend was glaring at me like I’d just kicked his puppy, he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon.

Wait - why was he staring at me like that? What’d I do to him?

Edward rubbed his eyes. “I’m just relieved she’s finally awake. I haven’t slept at all!”

Huh… maybe he was just exhausted.

“Hey, Charlie,” I turned to my uncle and said sweetly, “I’m actually really tired too. Would you mind being a hero and making the sacrifice of buying us all some coffee? I left my wallet in the car.”

I needed to get the two teens alone.

Charlie grumbled in mild annoyance, but in the end, he admitted that coffee might be a good idea for all of us. So, he went off on his noble quest to find us some awful hospital brew.

The moment the door closed behind him, I turned to the two teens.

“Alright, now spill it. What really happened?”

Sure, I could’ve waited. I could have observed them longer, gathered more clues, waited for a moment of weakness.
But a quiet voice in my head, a gut feeling, told me that if I gave them time, they would come up with an even better excuse. And my gut? My instinct? Had never led me wrong before.

Bella flinched again, more clearly this time. “I already told you,” she said weakly. “I fell down the stairs.”

I didn’t miss the way she bit her lip —just like she always used to do when she was a kid and caught lying.

Edward, on the other hand, remained silent, simply watching me.

My jet lag headache was getting worse. It throbbed behind my eyes. I’d have to ask a nurse for something to take care of it once we were done here.

“No, you didn’t,” I calmly replied, raising a hand to silence her when she tried to protest. “Tempered glass requires about 400 to 700 Newtons of force to break - depending on the type. I know this because I studied it in college. A person falling down the stairs has potential energy that’s calculated as ‘mass x gravity x height.’ You weigh about… 55 kilograms? Give or take?”

I continued without waiting for confirmation.

“So let’s say you fell from a height of two meters. That would be around 1079 Joules of potential energy. But we have to consider that this energy is dispersed across your entire body. It's not just all focused on a single impact point, like it would need to break through the window. Plus you’d be slowed down by the stairs themselves on your way down. Your body wouldn’t accelerate linearly; you’d lose momentum through rotation and friction. Which means… there’s no way you crashed through that window. Unless someone threw or pushed you into it with full force.”

At that last part, I fixed Edward with a warning look. Voice soft, but my eyes sharp. My gut was giving me a bad feeling about this guy.

But maybe I was overreacting. I tended to be paranoid sometimes.

“I would never hurt Bella,” he said tensely.

At that moment, he reminded me of a cornered cat at the vets office—on edge, ready to bolt.

I gave him a carefully neutral fake smile. “That’s good to hear. But unless you two tell me the truth, I have to assume otherwise. So? Or should I keep dissecting your fantastically stupid cover story?”

Edward opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. Bella stayed completely silent.

“Alright, then” I continued before they could react “Let’s talk about the blood loss. According to your chart, you bled a lot. But where from?”

“Broken ribs don’t cause massive bleeding. Skull fissures can, but not in the amount reported here. A broken leg? Nope. A cut from the glass? Possibly— but if you’d really gone through a window, your body would be covered in tiny lacerations. Not just - ”

“You’re insane,” Bella interrupted, visibly unsettled. “I told you, what happened. I tripped and fell.”

The heart monitor beeped a little faster at that statement.
Lie detected.

Her eyes filled with tears, hoping I’d back off.

Nice try, little sister. That might work on Charlie and Renée, but not on me.

I snorted. “And told you that’s impossible. Don’t insult my intelligence. Maybe I should bring my concerns to Charlie instead?”

Bella hissed my name. “Stop it!”

Her voice shaking now, the uninjured hand clenching her blanket tightly.

“Then give me the truth!” I countered calmly and steadily.

“Bella is—” Edward started.

I cut him off with a raised finger. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not you. She answers me.”
I could practically hear his teeth grinding. But he kept quiet.

Then I pointed at my cousin—who was, in all but blood, my little sister.

Bella hesitated for a long moment. She looked torn. Then she turned to Edward, locking eyes with him. And she made a decision.

Honestly, I didn’t care what had happened. The why was more important to me. If Edward had pushed her—even in the heat of an argument—I’d kill him myself.

But I still held onto the hope that it was something completely stupid, something they were just too embarrassed to admit. Then again, why would they go through the trouble of staging an entire crime scene? Because there was no way that hadn’t happened. I hadn’t seen the site myself, but after falling out of a window, Bella’s fractures should have been concentrated on one side—the side she had landed on. But instead, her injuries were evenly distributed across her body. That alone strongly suggested she hadn’t fallen out of a window at all.

Maybe she had been clumsy and accidentally hit by a car? Maybe she was trying to protect the driver? Maybe they had tried to cover up something like a scandalous teenage pregnancy, and the plan had gone horribly wrong? Young people often did dumb things when they felt pressured. Right now, pregnancy was my most logical guess. Since there was no mention of bleeding in that area in her medical records, that meant they still had a problem on their hands.

But for now, I wasn’t going to voice any of these theories. I’d keep observing.

“I can’t tell you what happened,” my middle sister said finally, her voice low.

She shot me a warning look when I opened my mouth to interrupt.

“But you have to believe me—and I can’t explain why—that everything is fine. Please trust me when I say that Edward had nothing to do with it. He’s the one who saved me, in more ways than one. I just… I still can’t tell you the truth. If you can’t trust him—then trust me.”

I examined her carefully. Of course, I trusted her. I would trust her with my life— even if she’d probably end up getting me killed someday through sheer clumsiness or stubbornness.

“ But you’re admitting that you didn’t fall through a window,” I asked calmly one last time. If they confirmed that, I’d drop the subject—for now. I just needed to hear that I was right.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” I said, clapping my hands together softly. “I trust you and your judgment. I’ll cover for you with Charlie. But next time, if something’s wronging you have a problem—talk to me, okay?”

Of course, I still planned to keep a close eye on Edward. Toxic partners could manipulate someone into lying for them—even after hurting them. And Bella, let’s be honest, was the perfect target for someone like that.

The last thing I wanted for her was to get pulled into some twisted, narcissistic version of ‘love.’

She snorted in amusement. “Yeah, sure. Now that you’re finally reachable again!”

I ignored the jab and stepped closer to her bed.

Then, I gently brushed a few strands of hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. “I’m always reachable for you.”

Then I straightened up and turned to leave.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find Charlie. I think he still believes that busted coffee machine downstairs is going to deliver actual caffeine.”

I also needed something for this headache. At this point, it felt like my skull was too small for its contents. Maybe it wasn’t just jet lag—maybe it was stress-induced. I had had an exhausting three days of traveling with very little sleep.

As I reached the door, Bella clicked her tongue in playful disapproval. “ Did you intentionally send him to the broken machine just to buy time?”

I turned back to her and shrugged, feigning innocence. “Who knows?”

Then, I slipped out the door. The last thing I heard was Bella laughing and calling my name.

As soon as I stepped into the hallway, my shoulders relaxed. At least mentally, Bella seemed sharp. More open than she used to be.

Maybe I wouldn’t have to kill Edward after all.

With each step I took, my headache faded more and more.

By the time I found a frustrated, very defeated-looking Charlie still battling with the coffee machine, the headache had vanished completely.

Chapter Text

The day we brought Bella home, Forks was – for once and against all odds– blessed with decent weather.
I took it as a good omen—one of the few times in my life where I let myself be fooled by appearances.
But I’d come to regret that sooner than later.

She had somehow managed to convince both Renée and Charlie that she really wanted to keep living here.
Not without a whole lot of debate, of course.

We’d settled her onto the couch while Charlie and I hauled the few bags they had brought from Phoenix into the house – including my own suitcase.

When the front door finally clicked shut behind me, and I found myself standing in the hallway for the first time in over a year, I drew in a deep breath.
I had expected to feel confined, maybe even out of place.

Strange.
Like I didn’t belong anymore.
But, oddly enough, the opposite was true.

My eyes wandered across the photos decorating the familliar walls – little snapshots of our makeshift patchwork family.
Charlie, the two of us, and the Black family — Jacob, Billy, Rachel, and Rebecca — out at La Push beach.
There were photos from my graduation and Bella’s ballet performances .
From her birthday picnic, when she turned eight. Sun-kissed, wind-tousled, with ridiculous paper crowns on our heads and strawberry stains on our cheeks.
And, of course, that one painfully embarrassing picture Charlie insisted on taking when Bella and I went fishing with him—for the first and only time.

Old drawings from my school days still hung on the fridge, from the time I’d thought I wanted to be an artist. I used to endlessly sketch still lifes for Charlie and give them to him like tiny trophies.
And on the windowsill—still standing proud—those hideously ugly flowerpots we had made in that pottery class I’d dragged all three of us to, two summers ago.
My bright idea to “improve our teamwork.”

The house still smelled exactly the way it always had.
Like home. Like arrival. Like safety.
Like Charlie—Dad.
And that was comforting.

I smiled.
A little bitter.
A little wistful.
But still a smile.
I hadn’t expected it to feel like… home. It reminded me that, despite everything, I still belonged here.

After Charlie and I had carried Bella’s bags upstairs to her room, I helped her climb the stairs as well.
I slung one of her arms around my shoulders and supported her with my other hand at the waist. Then we began our slow ascent—step by careful step.

“Doing okay? Want to take a short break?” I asked halfway up.
I knew she’d never admit it herself if she was worn out.
She’d rather drag herself up every single stair in pain than cause someone else inconvenience.

A stupid habit, if you asked me.
But to be fair, I shouldn’t complain.
I wasn’t any better when it came to things like that.

Bella nodded and murmured, her face twisted in strained determination. “Yeah. I got this. Just a few more steps.”

I chuckled quietly, having predicted that exact answer, and shook my head.
“You don’t always have to be strong, you know.
It’s okay to let me be your crutch for once, little sister.”

For a brief moment, Bella looked like she wanted to argue—but then she decided against it.
Instead, I felt her fingers tighten around my arm, and she leaned more of her weight on me in silent gratitude.
And that was enough.
That’s how we climbed the last few steps—together.

Once we got to her room, I helped her into bed.
I fluffed the pillow behind her back, gently pulled the blanket over her, and gave her a once-over.
“You’ll call me if you need anything, got it? Anything at all. Because if I find out you dragged yourself out of bed just because you didn’t want to bother me—or some other nonsense—I’ll let Charlie be the one to help you shower with your broken bones.”

“And trust me, him in wet clothes is nowhere near as sexy as I am,” I added with a wicked smile.

Bella rolled her eyes and muttered dryly, “You’re sick. That’s so wrong on so many levels.”
But I caught the crooked little smile that tugged at the corners of her lips.
To hide it, she pulled the blanket up to her nose and shook her head.

I plopped down at the edge of the bed and leaned over her, still grinning.
“You haven’t agreed yet, you little slacker! Promise me!”

My little sister let out a long, heavy sigh and stared up at the ceiling, brows furrowed in dramatic exasperation.
Then, as if enduring some particularly cruel form of torture, she nodded.
“Okay, okay. I promise. Just stop grinning like that.”

Then, quieter, almost to herself, she added, “You’re worse than Edward.”

But I could hear it in her voice—that soft warmth that told me she wasn’t nearly as annoyed as she pretended to be.

“So you can be reasonable after all, slacker!”, I teased, pressing a kiss to her forehead like I used to whenever she was sick as a child.
Then I brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You should sleep now. I’ll bring you something to eat later.”
Bella blinked up at me, her eyes sleepy.
Right then, in that moment, she looked just tired.
But also… safe.
And that eased something in me.

“Thanks. I missed you,” she whispered.
Her voice was barely audible, but the small smile on her lips was more than needed.

I lingered by her side for a little while longer, watching her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. My fingers gently stroked her hair as she drifted off.
Once she stopped opening her eyes, I rose quietly and slipped out of her room.

Then I took a deep breath and braced myself to really arrive back here again.
I stood in front of the door that led to my old room.
It felt strange to open it after more than a year, especially since nothing about it had changed.
Except me.

I flipped on the light switch and looked up the narrow, wooden spiral staircase that curled up behind the door into the attic space.
A string of fairy lights was wrapped around the railing.
With the click of another, smaller switch, they lit up softly, bathing everything in a warm, calming glow.

The staircase was painted black. I‘d refinished it myself when I was fifteen and decorated the steps with hand-painted, rainbow-colored ivy vines.
Yes, yes… back then I was a total Pinterest girlie. What can I say? Everyone has some kind of weird teenage phase.

Two pots stood at the base of the staircase, real ivy growing from them.
Which had climbed up the fairy lights along the handrails—and even trailed across part of the wall.
And it was still alive, I realized in astonishment!
Charlie had actually remembered to water my plants?!
I was almost impressed.

I climbed the stairs, suitcase clattering behind me. My fingers grazing against the black paint.
At the top, I took a deep breath.

It was like stepping into a time capsule.
Everything looked exactly the way it had a year ago, when I left it behind.
Like a living memory I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to revive.

I took two steps forward and looked up at the dark wooden beams overhead.
Dust swirled in the air around me, settled here during the year I’d been gone.
It floated in thousands of tiny particles through the air, now catching the golden light pouring in through the skylights. Sparkling in the rays of the evening sun like rainbow flecks of magic. As if stardust was gently drifting to the ground.
For a brief moment, it felt like something out of a dream.

Or a nightmare for every allergy sufferer…

And then, like everything else in the turning tide of time, the moment ended. The magic broken, and the stardust became the dull gray film coating everything again.

On the wooden desk beneath one of the skylights, textbooks on history, biochemistry, and quantum physics still lay neatly stacked beside highlighters and Post-its.
The desk pad almost completely hid the black scorch mark Sam and I had burned into it at fifteen, when we tried smoking cigarettes for the first time.
He’d started coughing from the smoke, fumbled, and dropped the lit end right onto my school notes. They’d gotten singed before either of us could react.

Dust had also settled on the bookshelf in the corner of the room.
At the very top, like champions on a podium, sat Tolkien, Homer, and the Brothers Grimm.
Below them: Stoker, Shelley, Goethe, Collins, Lovecraft, Martin, Schwab, and Austen. All lined up by height and color, of course.

God, how I used to devour those books.
How many hours had I spent curled up in that old armchair beside the shelf, wrapped in a blanket, reading until my eyes couldn’t focus anymore and the letters blurred on the page?
How often had I read out loud?
To listeners who sat on the fluffy rug in front of me, like children gathered for tales and bedtime adventures.
How often had Sam listened? Or Leah? Or… or…

I shook my head.
My gaze drifted to the door beside the reading nook.
It led to a small adjoining bathroom.
Later, I thought. Not just yet. Just a few more moments until the memory.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I crossed to the other side of the room. Toward the large wooden bed nestled in another soft rug under the slope of the ceiling.
Fresh, dark red bedding was spread neatly across it—Charlie must’ve changed the sheets before heading to Phoenix.
Next to it stood a vintage nightstand with a reading lamp.
A smile crept onto my face at the thought of how much Charlie and I had struggled to wedge that stupid bed into that tight corner.
How often he’d knocked his thick skull against the slanted ceiling in the process.

Beneath the skylight windows, on top of a dresser, sat a small aquarium.
Inside swam Prometheus, my fiery red betta fish.
Apparently, Charlie had taken good care of him too.
he floated contentedly through the crystal-clear water, occasionally hiding in the thick greenery of aquatic plants.

Next to the tank, my plants were thriving.
Every single year, Rachel and Rebecca Black had given me a damn potted plant for my birthday.
It had started as an inside joke, since I had a talent for killing even the hardiest greenery—including cacti.
And yet, these little beasts were still alive.
Somehow, they’d survived both me and Charlie’s questionable gardening skills.
Maybe I should take cell samples and check them for mutations?

Beside the dresser stood a full-length mirror and an unremarkable wardrobe.

Then my gaze wandered upward.

The ceiling beams were wrapped with more fairy lights.
Clipped to them were photographs, movie tickets, carnival wristbands, festival bracelets—keepsakes of all kinds.
Fragments of my youth.
My friends.
My life.
And a version of myself… a version that no longer felt like me.

My eyes drifted across the room, and it felt like I was wearing clothes I’d long since outgrown.
Everywhere I looked, I saw traces of a teenager I had long left behind—her dreams, her plans, her memories.

No.
This was still me. Still the imprint I had once left behind.
But I no longer fit into it.

I’d seen too much.
Lived through too much.

Suddenly I understood how adults felt when they smiled wistfully and shaking their heads affectionately at a child’s naïve optimism.
It’s strange how much life can change you in just one year. How much you can age.
I felt like I’d lived an entire lifetime since then.

It took exactly one breath before I sprang into action.
Left the suitcase behind and reached up toward the ceiling instead.
If the old imprint was too small for who I’d become—then I would just have to leave a new one.

I began unwrapping the string of lights, stopping when I reached the first photo.
Sam.
Of course it had to be a photo of Sam Uley and me in his first car, grinning stupidly, that stared back at me first.
I looked at it—and strangely enough, none of the emotions I would have felt a year ago when seeing that picture surfaced.

Instead, I was overtaken by an almost peaceful calm.
I unclipped it and let it fall carelessly onto the desk.
Then I moved on, continuing to unwind the string from the beams.
Funny, how much more content life becomes once you stop clinging to what hurt you. Once you simply remove it instead of mourning it.
Or in this case— once the trash had taken itself out. Good for me.
I didn’t see it as a loss anymore.

I began humming a tune cheerfully as I unclipped postcards, photos, and movie tickets, laying them gently on the desk in a loose pile.
Then came a photo of Leah.
Summer sun in the background, both of us holding popsicles and laughing into the camera.
This time, I smiled.
I’d have to text her soon—let her know I was back in Forks.
I’d missed my best friend more than I cared to admit.
Her photo went on the desk too.
As did every one that followed.

I was in a good mood. The melody I hummed was lighthearted.
Until it faltered.
Slowed.
Eyes I could’ve painted in my sleep looked back at me from the next picture, full of warmth.
A mouth curled in that perfect, imperfect grin I had once loved to kiss.
Even now, just seeing that happy face, made my heart stumble in its rhythm and doing a couple joyful flips.
I smiled too—something between bittersweetness and genuine joy.
I couldn’t quite place it.
But maybe I didn’t need to.

I raised the photo to my lips and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to it.

There it was.
That familiar ache in my chest. The stabbing pain that reminded me I still had a heart.
I’d been expecting it.
I didn’t believe it would ever completely disappear.
But it had gotten better.
Not a single tear fell from my eye anymore.
That phase was long behind me.

Instead, I held the picture of my first love to my chest and smiled faintly as the memories washed over me.
Of being happy.
Of Freddie Mercury’s voice crooning “Love of my life” while two awkward arms twirled me clumsily and barefoot through the sand of La Push.
Of an off-key voice deliberately butchering the lyrics just to make me laugh.

Even now, the memory made me giggle quietly.
That photo was the only one I placed on my nightstand.

Then I continued to hum as I took down the rest of the string and its memories.
“Love of my life, can’t you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me…”
And somehow, with every note, I felt just a little bit lighter.

I picked up all the photos.
Stored them in a box in the drawer of my dresser.
Even the ones of Sam. Especially the ones of Sam.
Not because I was sentimental. Or attached.
But because I had an embarrassing number of snapshots of him being an idiot—exactly the kind of blackmail material that might come in handy one day.
One should always be prepared.

After that, I unpacked my suitcase.
By the time I was done, night had draped its velvet cloak of darkness over the city outside the windows.
Here and there, a bit of starlight fought its way to pierce through the heavy clouds above, casting a soft, almost mystical glow on the mist that hovered over Forks.
I liked the night.
It was quieter. Sharper than the day.
There was a kind of peace to it that I had always found comforting.

I didn’t open the door to my little bathroom until I was getting ready for bed.
I didn’t need a light switch to find my way in there.
As if in quiet blessing, the clouds parted for just a moment.
Moonlight spilled over the treetops outside and slipped through the small, round window.
It struck the cracked mirror still hanging over the sink—splintering across its fractured surface.
The rest of the shards had long since been swept from the floor.
Only this—this silent monument—remained.
A round window back into the worst moment of my life.

My reflection fractured like black-and-white kaleidoscope glass.
For a heartbeat, it felt like a younger, more desperate version of me was staring back.
Hollow cheeks.
Dark circles under red-rimmed eyes.
Chapped lips.
I held her gaze.
Compared every detail of her face to mine.
I looked so much healthier now. More alive. More grounded and balanced.
I liked how I looked.
More importantly—I liked how I felt.

And I smiled at her.
Because she had been the path that led me to who I was now.
She would always be a part of me.
And that made me proud.
And just for the briefest moment—before she faded away—I could’ve sworn she seemed to smile back.
Then I brushed my teeth.
I’d get a new mirror soon.

It was that very night that I was ripped from deep sleep by a dull, pounding headache.
The kind that felt like something foreign was trying to shove its way into my skull.

I groaned as I sleepily reached for the glass of water on my nightstand.
Of course. Empty.
I hated the universe. Or fate.
Or maybe I hated myself in that moment, for not refilling it earlier.
My back cracked as I peeled myself out of the blanket and slowly sat up.
Water glass in hand, I shuffled across my room and stumbled my way—barely functional in the moonlight—down the spiral staircase to the first floor.
Who needs a light, right? Why not risk breaking your neck in the dark?
Honestly, with how much my head was throbbing, a quick death might’ve even been a relief.

With each step, the pressure behind my forehead built.
By the time I tried to sneak past Bella’s room as quietly as possible, it got so intense that I had to brace myself against the wall—parts of my vision darkening at the edges .
That’s when I tripped over Charlie’s shoes.
Of course they were right in the middle of the hallway. Perfectly placed to murder someone.
A hissed curse—definitely not PG-rated—escaped my lips.
At that moment, the world could’ve burned to the ground and I probably would’ve laughed in gratitude…
And kicked Charlie’s damn stinking shoes into the fire first.

When I finally made it to the kitchen downstairs, I yanked the fridge door open.
Why had I even brought the glass?
The cool air hit my forehead like soothing balm. Almost healing.
It actually seemed to dull the pain a little.
I grabbed a bottle of water, took a few sips, then held it against my temple like an ice pack.
I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath.
It seemed to help.
At least a little…
Or maybe not.
Because when I tiptoed back up the stairs, the throbbing was already pushing back against the cooling relief of the bottle. Like a wave crashing into a breakwall.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was wrong.
I never had headaches.
Never.
Maybe I pinched a nerve?
Maybe something more serious?
But I had no other symptoms.
It didn’t add up.
Can you develop migraines in your early twenties?
Either way, if this became a regular thing, I’d need to see a doctor to get checked out.

I hesitated in front of the staircase to the attic.
Then, as another wave of pain surged through my head, I changed course and made a quick detour into Charlie and Bella’s shared bathroom.
Above the sink: the medicine cabinet. My salvation.
Normally, I was firmly in the “no meds unless absolutely necessary” camp.
Not because I didn’t believe in them—I was a scientist, for god’s sake. All hail modern medicine.
But because I had this toxic tendency to tough out the pain just to prove to myself how much I can handle.
Tonight?
That principle could go to hell.
Sleep mattered more than pride.
I got lucky.
Unlike the poor idiot who would have a headache after me. There was exactly one tablet left in the blister pack.
I pressed it out, carefully pinching it between two fingers.
And that was when instant karma hit me for my spiteful thoughts.
Mercilessly.
The tablet slipped from my grasp and fell—dead center—into the sink drain.
I didn’t even curse.
Just stared down into the drain, while emotion after emotion lined up like dominoes inside me.
Then I nodded to myself. Yeah. I probably deserved that.

“Okay…” I sighed in resignation as I turned back toward the door.
“Guess we’re riding this one out.”

And ride it out I did.
I didn’t count how many hours I slept that night—but I’d bet it was barely more than one.
And that single hour?
I owed it entirely to my time at the temple.
I lay sprawled out on my bed like a starfish, cold water bottle pressed to my temple, the blanket kicked somewhere down near my feet.
Trying to banish the pain from my head with meditation.
I focused on my breathing.
On the shape of the pain.
And I tried to push it out—Just like I’d learned back then.
I wasn’t sure how, or whether the effect was purely psychosomatic, but somehow, it actually worked.
Not perfectly, no. The pain was still there.
But the longer I focused, the lighter it seemed to become—like it was slowly being peeled away, layer by layer.

In the early hours of the morning, the pressure had dulled enough that I finally drifted into a light sleep.
In hindsight, I think I might’ve had a fever dream or two.
I vaguely remembered a gray dog… opening a door inside my closet that led to the forest. Running through it, while shouting sports phrases like “Left side!”, “I’ve got her!”, or “Take the other flank!”
Weird subconscious…

Anyway.
You can probably imagine that I woke up in stellar spirits.
The headache was gone.
So was my beloved sleep.

It was 7:30 in the morning, and since there was no chance of falling back asleep, I threw my black robe over my pajamas and shuffled into the kitchen.

On the way, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the coat rack.
I shouldn’t have looked.

My hair was sticking out in every direction. I had bags under my eyes like I’d lost a fistfight with The Rock, and my posture resembled the old witch from Snow White.
Great.
If I walked into a haunted house like this, they’d hand me a paycheck on my way out.

Charlie looked up from his newspaper as I walked in.
I dropped into the chair across from him and mumbled a half-hearted,
“Morning.”

He grunted in reply and stared at me intensely.
Then, in his usual dry humor, he observed:
“Rough night? You look like you’re about to audition for the ghost ride at the county fair.”

“Yep,” I muttered, dragging myself toward the toaster.
“Tell me something I don’t know. And next time, for God’s sake, move your rancid shoes somewhere else. I nearly died tripping over them, and then almost died again from the smell.”

“I forgot how cranky you get when you haven’t slept,” he replied with a smirk.

I could’ve snapped back, but I didn’t.
Charlie wasn’t to blame for my bad mood.
No need to take it out on him.

Instead, I spread butter on my toast and asked, “Bella still asleep?”

He nodded, raising the newspaper again to continue reading.
Good.
She was still on medical leave.
She could use the rest. Her battered body needed it more than anything right now.
And it was Friday anyway.

While my uncle finished the last sips of his coffee, I started prepping breakfast for Bella.
The atmosphere was relaxed.
Quiet. Comfortable.
We were never particularly talkaktive in the mornings.

I needed time to mentally boot up, and Charlie…
Well, Charlie was a grump before his first cup of coffee and his daily article.
Over the years, we’d developed a kind of silent rhythm.
It was comforting to see we still moved in sync—even after a long break.

Just as I was cracking eggs for scrambled eggs, Charlie set his coffee cup down and asked,
“So… what do you think of Edward Cullen?”

I snorted—something that might’ve passed for amusement.
It had been predictable that Charlie would bring that question up sooner or later.
One corner of my mouth twitched slightly.

It took me a moment to choose my words carefully.
I had promised Bella I wouldn’t blow her cover about the “accident.”
That didn’t mean I had to make Edward look good.

I tilted my head slightly as I turned on the stove and faced him.
“A polite young man,” I said evenly. “But there’s something about him that puts me on edge. Maybe it’s just his demeanor? After just one meeting, it’s hard to tell. I’ll watch him a little longer. Then I’ll make up my mind.”

Well.
That was at least partially true.

People form impressions of each other within the first five seconds of meeting.
How we perceive someone later is heavily influenced by that first impression.

And the impression Edward Cullen gave me so far?It had made me… more alert in his presence, made me pay attention.

There was this strange, hidden insecurity in him, wich had shown visibly in the way he reacted at the hospital when I accused him of possibly hurting Bella.
And yet, oddly enough, he radiated a kind of arrogance and need for validation at the same time.

In unobserved moments, he had this look, like he was looking down on you. As if he looked at people and thought he already knew everything about them.
I didn’t like that.

Then there was the way how quickly he had snapped when I cornered them into a confession.
The way his jaw had clenched.
Lack of impulse control, maybe?

Fact was, those traits alone would have kept me on alert.
But there was also the mystery of Bella’s so-called accident.
I still had no idea what had really happened.

Why lie about it?
Why keep that a secret?

Bella used to tell me everything.
She’d come to me with every problem.

Was she holding back now because Edward had gotten under her skin?Had he already wrapped her around his little finger so tightly she kept things from me?
Was she in some kind of toxic, codependent relationship?
Or was I just imagining things?

Either way, I’d keep watching.
Keep collecting information in silence.

And if it turned out I was wrong—fine.
I’d do nothing.

But if I was right?
Edward Cullen could pray to every god he’d ever heard of.
None of them would protect him from me.

For now, though, I had no intention of stressing Charlie with hunches and theories.
Baseless accusations without proof were annoying and too easy to dismiss.

“Edward’s Dr. Cullen’s son, right?” I added lightly, keeping it neutral.

“Yeah. They moved here a few years ago. You remember?”
He paused, then said,
“Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”

I hummed in agreement and started cutting the measly fruit we had. Which was… an apple and an orange.
Charlie wasn’t exactly a champion of balanced nutrition.

I made a mental note to do some grocery shopping later to restock.
Maybe I’d also go for a jog today so I wouldn’t lose all my stamina to Forks’ weather.
I should also start drafting job applications.
Sure, it was only my first full day back, but I needed to slip into real life again and earn money eventually.
The sooner, the better.
I couldn’t live off my savings forever.

And of course, there was one more thing I definitely needed to do in the next few days. Preferably sooner rather than later.

I had mixed feelings about it.

So I debated whether I should get it over with or delay it, just in case.
It could go horribly wrong… or be wonderful… depending on her mood, and—

“You don’t have any plans in the next couple of days, right?”
Charlie interrupted my train of thought.

I hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten up and pulled on his police jacket.
He was about to head to the station.

I looked at him, and he continued,
“Then you should go see Leah. Today or tomorrow. She’ll be happy to know you’re back and see you again. You should talk to her.
It’s been a tough year for her. Eecially without you around.”

And there it was.
My uncle had beaten me to the very thought I’d been debating and managed to land a not-so-subtle jab about the fact that I’d run off a year ago.

I nodded.
“I was planning to anyway.”

Of course I’d visit Leah.
She was my best friend.

But… we hadn’t exactly parted on good terms.

Back then, she’d been furious with me, because I was about to leave.
Understandably so.
She felt abandoned. Just like she had when Sam left her.
He’d broken her heart.

And I had tried—really tried—to be there for her.
But in her grief, Leah had overlooked the fact that I was hurting too.
That I had losses of my own.
Because of Sam… and because of him.

I never blamed her for being blind to that.
How could I?
The only space where I ever allowed myself to cry and let my emotions out was my bathroom at midnight.
Where no one would see.

I’d tried my best to hold Leah—and our little world—together.
But eventually… I just couldn’t anymore.
Not without breaking myself.

So I left.
And Leah was angry—because I ran from my problems, and she couldn’t.

Still, I’d missed her this past year.
More than I was willing to admit to myself.
I wanted to set things right between us.
Preferably sooner rather than later.

Charlie gave me a thumbs-up and paused at the door before heading out.
“Before I forget…”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and tossed me a small cylinder.
I caught it mid-air and turned it over in my hand.

“Pepper spray?” I read aloud, half amused, half surprised.

My uncle scratched the back of his neck.
“There’ve been a few murders last year. And every now and then we get reports of animal attacks… I’d just feel better if you carried it with you.”

I chuckled softly, turning the canister between my fingers.
“Chief, I’m honored. But you do realize I didn’t go to the Shaolin Temple just to pray, right? Even before that, I could handle myself. You should know that.”

Then I paused.
Thought for a second.
And added,
“On the other hand… pepper spray is great against knife-wielding attackers.
Distance is your friend.
And if nothing else, you can blind someone long enough to get a better grip.”

I nodded seriously.
“I take it back. Good idea.
I promise I’ll carry it. Thanks.”

Charlie returned the salute lazily with two fingers on the brim of his cap.
He looked relieved I’d accepted it without argument.
Understandably so.
No one liked arguing with me.
Few ever won.

Besides, he knew I nearly never broke a promise.
He wouldn’t have to worry about the pepper spray unselessly sitting in a drawer while I got kidnapped by a mafia boss.
No, no.
I’d successfully blind said mob boss with Charlie’s little gift, thank you very much.

My uncle gave me a final wave and quickly slipped through the front door.
He was in a hurry. It was already 7:45 a.m.
He usually left at exactly 7:32.
People with such deeply ingrained routines get anxious when they fall out of sync.

No wonder he almost tripped over his own shoes the second he looked at his watch.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, without much excitement.
I took my time finishing breakfast, brought it up to Bella, and woke her in the process.

Then I helped her shower.
Thank fate I had decent reflexes, because she almost slipped and would’ve broken the other leg too.
Once my little sister was fresh again, I brought her downstairs to the living room. Wrapped her up in old blankets, fluffed her pillows, and surrounded her with books and the TV remote.

When I was sure everything she might need was within arm’s reach—food, drinks, crutches—I finally got myself ready for a run.
Not without feeling, for a brief moment, I was prepping a puppy to be left home alone for the first time.

The weather was miserable.
The sky was blanketed in clouds, and barely any light filtered through.
A steady drizzle fell from above, and didn’t seem in the mood to stop.

Some might call Forks’ weather dreary or depressing.
Personally? I liked it.

I liked the rain. The thunderstorms.
The gray skies and the ever-present cloud cover.

Weather like that made it easy to think.
Perfect for getting lost in your own mind.
And introverts always had the perfect excuse not to go leave the house.

Besides, as the saying goes—there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.
So I pulled on my rain jacket, stuffed the pepper spray into the pocket, zipped it up to my chin and stepped outside.

As the door clicked shut behind me, I inhaled deeply.

The scent of rain and petrichor filled my lungs.
I could almost feel my thoughts aligning themselves out.

I jogged down our street.
Bill, the neighbor two houses down, was repainting his picket fence. White, again.

When he saw me, he raised a hand in greeting, which I returned with a friendly nod.

Interesting.
Seemed like things still weren’t going well in his marriage. Despite the couples therapy he and Marie were clearly still attending every Wednesday.

How could I tell?

His wedding ring was dirty and neglected. You could still see grease and paint from his previous projects on it.
Nobody lets something that reminds them of their loved partner get that filthy.
Not if they care. Not unless they don’t want the reminder.

Especially not when you compare it to the sleek, polished metallic bracelet he wore on his right wrist—or the earring he had in.
Both were gleaming clean, obviously well cared for. Spotless.

The bracelet?
A gift from the affair.

She—no, correction—he had given it to Bill and delivered a well-aimed jab at Marie in the process, without her even noticing.

The clasp was striped in dark green, aqua, mint, white, light blue, lavender, and indigo.
But how would Marie know what a Pride flag looks like?
She was far too busy sneaking off on Saturdays to meet her own affair.
Nobody wears deep red lipstick to Pilates lessons. At least not her.

Was it sometimes frustrating being able to read people more easily than others?
Yes.
But not because their secrets weren’t any of my business.
If you want to hide something, then hide it properly. Don’t be so obvious about it.

No—it bothered me because I never wanted to end up like them.

Suburban house. White picket fence.
A marriage held together by nothing but obligation, convenience, and memories of a love that had long since wilted.

A life trapped in a pretty prison of routine and the illusion that happiness meant sacrificing your time for other people’s expectations.

That trip you always wanted to take?
Later, when the kids are out of the house.

That book you always wanted to write?
Someday, when there’s finally time.

Nurture your own talents?
Climb the career ladder?
Only after your partner has fulfilled their dreams—you don’t want to get in the way, right?

That one thing you’ve wanted since you were a kid?
No. Not yet.
You have to spend your money on more important things.

And before you know it, you’re eighty.
You’ve lived your entire life for everyone except yourself.
Dreams and desires ground to dust by time.
And suddenly you realize.
And suddenly, the regret hits.

If only you had…
If only you would…
If you could just go back…

No.

I could say with absolute certainty:
I’d rather die than end up like that.

But most people are cowards and lazy.
They stay in their routines, even if that life is no longer their dream, and slowly rot in it.

Instead of leaving their partner.
Instead of taking that trip.
Instead of choosing not to have kids just because only their partner wants them.
Instead of going back to university.

Maybe that’s why so many people annoyed me.
Most didn’t stand up for themselves.
And what use were beautiful lies if I could see through them so easily?

Why build friendships or relationships on foundations I already saw were shaky from the beginning?
I had enough of my own shattered dreams—I didn’t need to carry anyone else’s, too.

I turned onto the forest path at the end of the street.
The ground was slightly muddy from the drizzle, but I didn’t care.
My lungs burned in that satisfying way, soaking in the scent of pine needles, wet leaves, and rain.
It was calming. Grounding.
I hadn’t even realized how fast I’d sprinted here.

Forests have always had a calming effect on humans.
They reduce stress and pent-up emotions.
That has a lot to do with the calming chemical substances trees release. Phytoncides. They act on our biochemistry.
Kind of like a very, very, very low-dose of weed.

On top of that, birdsong and the color green are naturally soothing to most people.
As evolution hardwired us to feel safe in the forest.

At least, that’s how it should be.
That’s how it had always been for me.

But the moment I entered the woods, something felt… off.

No shiver down my spine.
No prickling at the nape of my neck.
It was something else.
Much more subtle.

A faint tingling, deep in the furthest, most hidden corners of my awareness.
Almost like the feeling of being watched… but quieter.
Fainter.
Just a whisper of it.

I didn’t look back.
That would’ve been too obvious.

Would’ve signaled a potential stalker that I knew they were there.
That would’ve pressured them to act—and put me in more danger.

Instead, I scanned the area in front of me instinctively. Wached my visible surroundings carefully.

I listened.
For any sound that didn’t belong here.

Nothing.

Still, you should always trust your instincts.

Sure, I could have turned around and jogged home.
But Charlie didn’t raise a coward.

And if he had, it would’ve been Bella.
But that didn’t really count either, because she got raised by Renee. Nobody would turn out normal after that.

I, on the contray, was reckless, slightly depressed, with a touch of nihilism—and most of all, I could fight. All of that often led me into situations of mild self destruction.

In short that meant I didn’t particularly fear death.

Call it crazy or unhinged.
And yes, I really should’ve scheduled another therapy appointment by now.
I took life far too lightly.

But what was I supposed to do?
We all ended up dead anyway.
So what if it was sooner rather than later?

Honestly?
I’d rather die young and in action than slowly wilt like a cut flower that had overstayed its welcome.
Whether that mindset was intelligent or completely delusional… well, that was up to interpretation.

So I kept running.

Took the next turn to the right.
After the curve, I subtly picked up my pace.

Another curve. Another right turn.
Faster again.

My lungs burned in a good way, and it actually felt nice to push my muscles again.

Another fork.
Again to the right.
And again, I picked up speed.

I had looped myself back to the original path toward Forks—just in the opposite direction now.

To any possible observer, it looked like a perfectly normal jogging loop.
To me?
It gave me the chance to check the trail behind - now ahead of -me.
To see if there were footprints.
Aside from mine. Any that hadn’t been there before.

And sure enough. There they were.

Faint.
But they didn’t match mine.

They hadn’t followed me far. But they were there. A short stretch before vanishing deeper into the woods.

I kept running.
Unbothered. Unremarkable.

If someone had wanted to kidnap or kill me, they would’ve done it further back in the forest.
Somewhere my screams wouldn’t reach the street.

No—whoever it was had just been scouting.
For now.

Maybe just out of curiosity.
Maybe with darker intentions.

Whatever the reason, I didn’t like being watched.

But for now I’d play it smart.
One of many things I’d learned from obsessively listening to true crime podcasts next to work.

A deliberate, calculated step.
Subtle.
Just a bit shorter than my previous strides —like a tiny slip on the muddy path while I casually looked down, pretending to adjust my jacket.

My heel landed perfectly at the toe of the other person’s footprint.
The next step landed directly beside it.

Two steps.
Just enough to estimate size based on the comparison to my own feet.
Roughly a men’s 10.5, give or take.

The sole: smooth.
Some kind of lightweight shoe. Athletic. Not rugged.
No boots. No work shoes. Nothing heavy.
Sporty, probably young.
Expensive, maybe.
I filed that information away.

As I finally stepped back onto the asphalt of Forks, the strange, prickling sensation vanished. Just like that.

Maybe I really should stick to running in town from now on?

Although, statistically speaking, more people go missing inside towns than out in the wild.

I shook my head and decided to slow down for the last few miles.

By the time I finally got home—thighs burning, clothes soaked in sweat—a silver Volvo XC60 was parked in the driveway.

I didn’t recognize the car, but I was pretty sure Bella had once mentioned Edward only ever drove Volvos.

Apparently, he was visiting.
Nice to know he cared enough to check on her.

I slipped off my shoes before going inside, leaving them on the porch so i could clean the mud off later.
Then I climbed the steps and unlocked the door—intentionally loud.

The last thing I wanted was to walk in on two teenagers playing tonsil hockey… or worse.

Especially not when one of them was my little sister.

That’s why I rattled the keys a little extra in the entryway and shut the front door louder than necessary.
Just in case anyone needed a very unsubtle heads-up.

A pair of men’s sneakers sat neatly by the coat rack.
I tilted my head thoughtfully and inspected them closer.

Roughly size 10.5.
Sporty, not necessarily youthful, but definitely high-end.
A luxury brand.
Sleek soles.

Not a speck of dirt or mud on them.

Not that I really expected Bella’s boyfriend to follow me through the woods.
That would’ve been way too easy.

On the way upstairs, I poked my head into the living room and found the two of them curled up on the couch watching TV.

Well, Bella was curled up, leaning against Edward.
A blanket between them, wrapped around her shoulders.
His arm resting lightly across them.

Not surprising.
Her body still hadn’t fully recovered since the fall.
Of course she’d need the extra warmth.

“Please don’t inhale too deeply. I’m sweaty and I stink,” I warned with a crooked grin as both their heads turned toward me.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m back and say hi to Edward. I’m hopping in the shower and then I’m off again. Quick trip to the Clearwaters and then groceries.
Any special food requests while I’m out? You’re staying for dinner, right, Edward?”

Bella snorted, clearly amused, before covering her face in half-embarrassment. “Grab some chips and that soda we used to drink as kids!”she muttered through her fingers.

I saluted casually with two fingers.

Edward answered politely,
“Good afternoon. Unfortunately, I can’t stay for dinner—my mother is making her specialty tonight. But maybe next time.”

“All right then. Enjoy yourselves while you…”
I glanced at the screen, blinked, and raised an eyebrow.
“…watch The Godfather?”

Ah yes—back when movies still had soul and well-written scripts.

Bella nodded, amused.
“Yeah. I never cared much for old movies—until Edward introduced me to them.
But these classics really do have soul… and a damn good script!”

Edward looked between us, with what I would describe as the faintest flicker of confusion in his eyes—quickly masked.
Then his gaze lingered on me, almost curiously, as if trying to figure out why I was starting to laugh.

I tilted my head with amusement and replied,
“Funny. That’s exactly what I was just thinking.
Two apples from the same tree…”

At that moment, I must’ve turned my neck the wrong way, because a faint, dull ache began creeping in.

“…always share the same taste,” Bella finished for me, and we both giggled quietly.

It was something our grandmother used to say.
An old saying. A family code.

It was good to see her laugh again.
After her accident, I’d been afraid she might bottle up all her emotions.
Especially if one—or both—of the darker suspicions I had about the real reason behind her fall turned out to be true.

Part of me simply hoped she would come to me on her own, eventually.
She’d always confided her problems and worries in me.
I’d never judged her.
I always helped her find a way out.
I would do so again. Unconditionally. No questions asked.

But some things—like a pregnancy—couldn’t be postponed forever.

Another part of me wanted to know now.
Just to be sure I wasn’t being paranoid.
That I wasn’t conjuring up demons where there were none.

Even though my gut still said otherwise.

For now, I left the two lovebirds alone in their cozy space to watch Don Vito Corleone and his shady business, and made my way upstairs for a relaxing shower.

Or at least, the shower should have been relaxing.
But my now all-too-familiar friend—headache—decided to knock again.

I didn’t know what triggered it this time.
Maybe the water was too hot.
Maybe I hadn’t had enough to drink today—definitely hadn’t. I should fix that after.
Or maybe my body was just overworked from the exercise.

Wonderful.

And here the day had started out so nicely.

I’d need to pick up new headache pills later while I was out.
For now, I had to rely on my old master’s meditation technique again.

It helped.
Barely.
But it did help.
And I definitely chalked it up to be psychosomatic. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue with my own placebo effect.
Mentallypushing the pain out of my head at least didn’t make it worse.

I finished up quickly, blow-dried my hair, and threw on a simple pair of jeans and a gray ACDC T-shirt.
Fed my fish and hopped back down the stairs.
The sooner I got all my errands done, the sooner I could curl up in my room with a book and be grumpy about my stupid skull.

I made a quick stop in the kitchen to rehydrate.
Bella was there—leaning against the counter near the fridge, awkwardly balancing on her crutches as she poured herself some orange juice.

Edward must’ve still been in the living room.

And I would’ve bet my academic degree that she had insisted on getting the drink herself. Or at least making it to the kitchen without help.
That girl was the most stubborn mule alive.

Without a word, but with firm intent, I nudged a chair behind her knees, forcing her to sit.
If you won’t listen, you’ll feel and lerarn.
Not my problem.

Then I pushed the chair—with her on it—toward the table and set the full glass down in front of her.
Not angry.
Perfectly calm and clear.
No commentary.

She blinked, caught halfway between surprise and embarrassment.
As I poured myself a glass, I caught the faintest sheepish smile tugging at her lips.

“Ahem… thanks,” she mumbled.

I nodded, leaning back against the counter and taking a slow sip while I studied her.

The dark circles under her eyes were gone.
The color was returning to her skin.
She looked like her spirit was slowly coming back to her.

That was good.
Very good.

“How are you feeling?” I asked softly, tilting my head with genuine interest.

She nodded twice, then licked her lips and replied,
“It’s getting better every day. The pain isn’t as bad today as it was yesterday.”

“That’s not what I meant.”
I took a step closer and gently tapped a finger against her forehead.
“How are you in here?”

She blinked, startled.
The gentle approach had always worked better with her whenever I needed to get something out of her.
And with Edward out of earshot, I figured it was the perfect time to start laying the groundwork.
To open a little door, earn a little trust—so I could eventually get her to talk later.

“I’m fine. Really. You worry too much!”

Ah. There it was again.
That old familiar lip bite.
The tiny twitch in her right eyelid.
The slight shift in her tone—barely half a note.
Honestly, it was almost embarrassing how transparent she was sometimes.
There were moments when I couldn’t believe we were related—she had none of my deviousness.

Then I remembered we were technically cousins, not sisters.
And felt a bit less insulted by the genetic discrepancy.

Most people are terrible liars, in my opinion.
You can read 95% of them like an open book. If you just look closely enough.

Everyone has a tell.
Some people twitch slightly around the eyes, bite their lips, or always pull at the same little facial muscle.
Others unconsciously change their voice, or their breathing pattern.
Some give themselves away with their posture—or with a nervous habit they don’t even realize they have.

But very few people pay close enough attention to catch those signs.
Most would rather drown themselves in a well-worded lie than risk seeing the shoreline of an uncomfortable truth.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to meet—just once—someone who was truly good at lying.
How I would love to play a game with fully hidden cards.

I smiled at Bella.
I wouldn’t push her.
But I would make sure she felt safe—at least as far as I could manage.
I was well aware that neither Renée nor Charlie had ever provided her with that kind of stability.

Especially considering how young Bella still was.

I finished my glass—not that it had done anything for the pressure in my skull—then set it in the dishwasher and replied calmly:

“I will never not worry about you.
I know there are things you don’t want to talk to me about.
And that’s okay.
But I need you to know—no matter what—I’m always here for you.”

“I know,” she said softly.
And for the briefest second, I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes.
Sadness. Or maybe… melancholy.
So my words weren’t falling on deaf ears.

There was something else, too—something I couldn’t quite name.
Not guilt, not fear… but close.
A shadow of something unspoken.

Then I added, casually twirling the car keys in my hand:
“And I don’t care how bad it is—whatever you come to me with.
You don’t need to be ashamed of anything.
We’ll always find a way out together.”

A faint smile touched my lips, barely visible.
“Whether you’ve committed murder, robbed a bank…
or you’re in trouble of a different kind.
If anyone ever tries to hurt you, pressure you, force you into something—
a so-called friend, a classmate…”

“It’s fine. I know you’re there,” she cut me off.

Interesting.
Her interjection came a little too fast.
A little too tense and pressed.
Not panicked—but clearly cautious.

She was scared.
Not of me, not of the conversation—we were speaking softly, and she could’ve just walked away.
No, she was afraid Edward might hear us.

Which was ridiculous.
We were talking quietly, and he was two rooms away.
He couldn’t possibly hear us.

Still, it made me sit up mentally.

Time to poke the wasp nest a little.
Apply just the right amount of pressure.
People under stress slip up.

My brows drew together slightly, feigning mild confusion.
My voice stayed soft and unassuming, nearly apologetic as I replied:
“Sorry. I know I’m probably overstepping.
It’s just… you’re my little sister.
I know you’re old enough to make your own decisions.
But I guess some part of me still wants to shield you from the world.
There are so many people out there who take advantage of kind hearts, and—”

While I spoke, I was mentally making a list of things I absolutely couldn’t forget.

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

Thinking of something mundane is a great way to appear more relaxed on the outside.

But Bella had taken the bait.
She interrupted me again—this time in a flustered whisper, clearly embarrassed and sharp, as if the words stung her lips:

“Edward doesn’t hit me. He’s not narcissistic or toxic or manipulative, okay?
And before you go there—no, I’m not in the middle of some scandalous teenage pregnancy!”

I smiled at her, visibly relieved.
“That wasn’t actually what I was getting at—but good to know.
Guess that means we can skip the ‘how to spot a narcissist’ lecture.”

I sounded completely sincere.
Warm, even.

But the second the words left my mouth, the hair on the back of my neck stood up—
and my heart skipped a beat.

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

Bella nodded, clearly reassured by the honest smile on my face and the way my shoulders visibly relaxed.

She looked relieved that I wasn’t going to dig further.
That I believed her.

“Nope. No need for that talk,” she said. Lightly now.

A playful click of my tongue as I stepped toward her, ruffled her hair, and kissed her forehead in passing.
“Alright. I’m off then. Time’s ticking. I’ve got job applications to write later.”

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

She gave me a thumbs-up as I left the kitchen.
In one fluid motion, I grabbed my jacket from the coat rack and slipped into my boots, calling back over my shoulder:

“Enjoy your day, you two. See you later!”

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

The door clicked shut softly behind me, and the keys clinked faintly in my jacket pocket.
I headed toward the garage, opened it with a loud, groaning screech of the old door—and there it was.

The polished rear end of my ‘69 Mustang Shelby GT500.
Still as beautiful as ever.

It had taken years of my teenage life to restore that old car.
It was my pride and joy—and simultaneously my worst nightmare.

I slid into the driver’s seat almost on autopilot, my fingers gliding over the soft leather of the steering wheel.
Just like they used to do so many times bevore —over a year ago.
A trained habit I would probably never shake.

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

I turned the key.
The old engine purred like a predator welcoming back its long-lost owner.
As if it held no grudge for being abandoned so long.
Charlie must’ve taken good care of it—probably driven it now and then to keep the engine running smoothly.

A genuine smile crept across my face.

Fruit. Chips. Soda. Headache pills.

For a brief moment, it felt like I’d never left at all.
I backed the Shelby out of the driveway and drove down the road—slower than I was used to.

Then the thoughts began.
Like raindrops pounding on a windshield.
Swarming in, circling around one single question:

What?

What the hell had that just been?

My heart was beating faster than usual.
My fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel, keeping time with Freddie Mercury’s voice on the radio.
My eyes focused on some distant point on the empty road.

Outwardly, I probably looked calm.
That part was trained.
Inside, though, my mind was racing—spinning so fast it almost tripped over itself.

Apparently I was so deep in it, even the headache had decided to give up.

But what was bothering me wasn’t the pain.
It was Bella.

She’d slipped up. As predicted.

But…

How had she known?
My suspicions about Edward.
My unspoken guess about a possible pregnancy.

I was absolutely certain I hadn’t let a single one of those suspicions show.
Not a word. I was sure of it.
I hadn’t even hinted at it in front of her.

At least Bella would never have picked up on it. I knew her too well.
She never would’ve seen through my doubts or my behavior.
My sister had never been able to read me—not when I didn’t want her to.
The girl just wasn’t observant enough for that.

That only left Edward…

Possible.
But I’d only spoken to him twice.

Even if he was good at reading people—that specific a thought?
No.
That wasn’t possible.
Not even I could pull something that precise from someone else’s mind.
Especially not when I hadn’t shown a single external clue.

Yes, my mistrust, the fact that I was wary of him—that, sure, might’ve been guessable.

But the rest?

That I suspected him of being toxic, narcissistic, or a manipulator?
That was much harder to pin down.

Not when I hadn’t treated him any differently.
Not even a hint of hostility.

And the pregnancy?
No way.
Absolutely not.
Impossible.

I had never said it aloud.
I hadn’t written anything down.
I hadn’t acted suspicious.
Hadn’t treated anyone with animosity.

The only place those suspicions had ever existed…

…was in my mind.

I frowned.
Now that I thought about it, Bella had practically repeated—word for word—the thoughts I’d had in the hospital.
And again earlier in the living room.

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.
Turned onto a country road.

The Clearwaters would have to wait.
First, I needed to think.
Logically. Structurally.

Maybe I was going crazy.
That’s honestly what it felt like.

Maybe this was the moment I officially became the mad scientist in my own story.

But my thoughts kept circling…
around thoughts.

I knew enough about quantum physics and biochemistry.
Hell, I’d studied that crap.
I knew mind reading was theoretically possible.

The human brain constantly emits electromagnetic waves—
not unlike any technical device.
Of course, there are additional biochemical processes involved—quantum entanglement, wave theory, and all that jazz.
And no, I didn’t feel like going into the exact mechanics right now.

The bottom line was:
Theoretically, the brain is like a radio.
It’s not designed to be one—
but it could be hijacked and used that way.

So what was stopping someone else…
from simply listening in on the broadcast?
In theory.

Still my fingers kept rhythmically tapping on the steering wheel, along to the music.
The idea was absurd enough to entertain me.

I almost laughed at myself and my paranoia.

Almost.

I wasn’t even sure I could take myself seriously as I finally spoke the theory it out loud for the first time:

“Mind reading… Edward, that snekay little rat, read my damn mind!”

Chapter Text

Why did the suspicion fall on Edward and not Bella?

I was convinced it had to be him.

Bella would’ve called me out long ago—
during our earlier conversation, or any of the others we’d had in the past where I’d subtly manipulated her.

Because, let’s be honest -
She was neither manipulative nor emotionally intelligent enough to keep up a flawless facade for years while secretly reading my mind.
That just wasn’t her.

Bella was smart.
But she also had a tendency toward impulsiveness—
even if you wouldn’t guess it at first glance.

So it had to be him.

At least, that was my theory.

Honestly, it was almost laughable that I was accusing some boy I barely knew of something like this.
But I was overly cautious by nature.
And, well… generally paranoid.

I didn’t believe in magic, supernatural beings, or any of that nonsense.
Vampires? Werewolves? Witches? Zombies—or why not throw in ghosts while we’re at it?

Absolutely not.

That kind of thing went against every law of logic and nature.

But I did believe in science.
That everything had a rational explanation.
All those things people once labeled as “magic” were really just phenomena they hadn’t understood yet.

Here are a few examples to illustrate my train of thought:

Changelings—
children who behaved “strangely.”
Who banged their heads against the wall because they were sensitive to certain sensory input or emotional shifts.
Who refused to speak.
Who seemed unnaturally intelligent for their age.
Who observed and knew things they shouldn’t.
Who acted socially withdrawn or simply stood out in some inexplicable way.
Who perhaps suffered repeated seizures?
In earlier times, that’s how people tried to explain conditions like ADHD, epilepsy, or autism.
Of course, for a medieval family, the most logical explanation was that fairies or trolls had stolen their child and left a sick or strange one in its place.

Lycanthropy—
or shapeshifters in general.

People who suddenly acted differently.
Had violent mood swings.
Behaved like animals.
Or wandered around at night—possessed by something—especially under a full moon.
People with excessive hair growth.

Lycanthropy could stem from a number of things, which is why literally every little European village has its own weird werewolf folklore.

Hypertrichosis is a medical condition that causes abnormal hair growth.
Sleepwalking was once called “moon-sickness.”
I mean—hello?

And the behavioral changes often described in werewolf legends?

Could just as easily be traced back to a variety of mental illnesses.
Bipolar disorder.
Hallucinations.
Schizophrenia.

Truth is, up until around the 1930s, we simply didn’t know all that much about mental states or neurological conditions.

And do I even need to explain how women who were knowledgeable in herbs and medicine—or, heaven forbid, could read and write or dared to contradict a man—were still being labeled as witches well into the early twentieth century?

Didn’t think so.

That one’s clearly traced back on the patriarchy and the systematic oppression of women.
Obvious.

Vampires—now those were genuinely quite interesting.

Back in the day, people used them to explain the symptoms of diseases like porphyria, rabies, and tuberculosis.
After all, how else were people who’d never heard of viruses or bacteria supposed to explain light sensitivity, pale skin, receding gums, coughing up blood, or people going mad and biting others?

Albinism was also frequently demonized—often interpreted as demonic possession.
People with the condition were often labeled as “white witches” and ostracized by their communities.

And those born with gigantism or acromegaly, branded as giants or dwarves, didn’t have it much easier.

What I was getting at was this:
there’s a logical explanation for everything.

Things the human mind couldn’t yet comprehend?
We’ve always liked to dress those up in stories about magic or the supernatural.

But those things didn’t actually exist.
There was only what we knew—
And what we hadn’t deciphered yet.

So some might now wonder why, of all things, I was so certain that Edward Cullen could read minds.

Wasn’t that, too, something “magical”?
Something that should’ve been impossible?
Unexplainable?
Wasn’t I contradicting myself?

The answer:
No.

Because I knew—from a purely theoretical, scientific standpoint—
that mind reading was absolutely possible.
And perfectly explainable.

My own thoughts were racing now—barely keeping pace with each other—
as I let the Shelby’s engine roar across the country road, pushing the car to its limits.

The brain continuously generates weak electrical currents during every bit of neural activity.
Anyone who paid attention in physics class knows this:
every electric current—no matter how faint—emits continuous, measurable electromagnetic waves.

These waves can even be measured outside the body using a device called an EEG.

Which, logically, means:
Every thought produced a specific combination of waves, a unique pattern, that the thinker emits.

With the invention and use of the EEG, it was proven that thought-waves can be measured.

What an EEG couldn’t do—at least not effectively or only to a limited extent—was decode or interpret those waves.
After all, it was just a machine.
And it was far from refined enough to decipher the thousands of different thought-rhythms of the brain can produce.

Theoretically, though, this too would’ve been possible with the right computer program…
In fact, to a certain degree, it already was.

We knew, for example, what types of brainwaves were associated with sleep, dreaming, or cognitively demanding tasks.
But that was about it.

Thankfully, our computers couldn’t decode more than that yet.
Because the human mind—the biological computer we call the brain—was still far too complex.

I turned onto a coastal highway, the ocean stretching alongside me, while I kept spiraling deeper down this rabbit hole—asking myself the next logical set of questions.

But what if a similarly complex object—
say, another brain—
could receive those electromagnetic waves?
Could it theoretically process and decode them, especially considering that, at our core, most humans share similar patterns of thought?
And if so—how?

The answer was actually quite simple: mutation.
Not even a particularly rare one.
But an exceptionally weak one.

Some people possess, so called neuroreceptor cells in the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain.
A bunch of ridiculously complex words, I know—But basically, these are simply, underdeveloped and wakened cells that function - or should function—
like living antennas.

Or at least, they once did.
In some long-forgotten ancestor, probably.
These cells have been regressing slowly over the course of evolution.

So far, I hadn’t met a single person in whom those cells were developed enough to pick up anything significant—like actual, complex thoughts.

Most people with this mutation could only pick up on far more primitive, more subtle signals.

Moods.
Emotions.
Physiological responses.

That weird feeling you had when you saw someone the other day?
The “vibe” you get when you meet someone new?
That chill running down your spine when you suddenly feel like you’re being watched?

Yeah.
All of that could be traced back to these little neuroreceptors.
A well-documented phenomenon in science.

So why were the abilities of neuroreceptor cells so limited in scope?

Simple.
The average brain couldn’t decode more than subliminal signals, and the cells themselves were too far regressed in most people.

But like any muscle in the body, they could be trained.
The better you knew a specific person, the easier it became to “read” them.

You and your best friend think the same thing and say it out loud at the exact same time?
Congratulations.
You were—quite literally—on the same wavelength for a one fleeting moment.

Things like that happened in one out of a thousand cases.
And even then, only because people subconsciously learned to recognize the thought patterns—the mental handwriting of those they’re closest to.

I tapped my thumb thoughtfully on the steering wheel.

“What we know is a drop. What we don’t know is an ocean.”

Statistically speaking, with 8.2 billion people on Earth, it was obvious to me that there had to be individuals out there with better-developed neuroreceptors.
I knew this gene sequence existed.

And I knew that those individuals—whether consciously or not— would have a much easier time training themselves in a kind of empathy, a kind of neural mirroring, which could allow them to reconstruct the thoughts of others in their own minds using the waves they received.

In other words:
They could read minds.
Or even influence them.

Just because I hadn’t personally witnessed it in others didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.
At least… not until now.

Now, I was sure it was both explainable and possible.

If my suspicions proved true, then Edward Cullen was the Holy Grail of neuroscience.
Then—for whatever reason—he was able to decode other people’s thoughts.
His neuroreceptor cells had to be more developed than average.
Maybe he’d somehow learned to bring his own thought patterns into resonance with those of others?

If he truly could read minds, then I needed to know.
If someone was intruding so freely and shamelessly into my privacy, I damn well i had a right to know how!

And above all, I wanted to understand how.

I chuckled softly to myself.

If I was wrong, if he couldn’t read minds, then this would go down as nothing more than the paranoid inner monologue of a twenty-year-old scientist that no one would ever hear about but me.

…Or maybe be the final proof that I needed to go back to therapy.

Whatever the case—
That day, in my Shelby, cruising down the country road outside Forks, I made myself a quiet, little promise:

If he really could read minds—
I would expose him.
And I would study him.

Because let’s be honest:
I couldn’t just ask him.
I sure as hell wouldn’t admit either it if I had a gift like that.
Would you?

Otherwise, you’d risk becoming the subject of some crazy scientist’s research project…

That last thought made me snort again—
and this time, I actually smiled as I hummed along to Highway to Hell,
feeling in a surprisingly good mood.

I wasn’t a detective by any means—
Even if I had read Sherlock Holmes a few too many times.
But I was a scientist.
And it just so happened that this whole neuroreceptor mess was exactly the field I was interested in.

Which meant I’d approach this problem the same way I approached every one of my experiments and theories.

I mentally switched into work mode as I turned the car back onto the road toward Forks.

Step 1: Formulate the hypothesis.
Edward Cullen can read minds.

Step 2: What led me to this hypothesis?
The fact that my exact, word-for-word private thoughts had been thrown back at me. Thoughts I had neither spoken aloud nor written down.
They had only ever existed in my head.

Step 3: The scientific background.
Already explained above.
Nobody wants to read that part twice.

Step 4: Design an experiment to test the hypothesis.

An experiment…

I smiled faintly as I began to consider how one might expose a mind reader—
without letting him know he was being watched.

Absolutely not an easy task.
But I liked challenges.

Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

As I turned onto the road to La Push, A chilly misty rain was falling, and I had to crank up the heat to keep the windows of my old car from fogging up.

Something about this March felt darker than usual.

And as I pulled into the Clearwaters’ driveway, I made myself a very clear promise:
I would prove—if only to myself—that Edward Cullen was a mind reader.
Or I would prove to myself that I had officially lost it.

The car door slammed shut behind me, and at the exact same moment, my eyes found Sue—peeking curiously out of the kitchen window.

She must’ve heard the sound of my car pulling in.
Her gaze swept over the Shelby, then landed on me.

Instantly, her face lit up.

At the sight of her, something warm bloomed in my chest.

She had the front door open before I’d even taken a few steps toward it, and called out warmly,
“Well, look who’s come home—my lost girl!”

“Hey, Sue,” I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
It was soft and honest.
Now that I was standing in front of her again, I realized just how much I’d missed her
and the comfort she radiated.

The moment I reached her, she pulled me into a tight hug.

That was what had always defined her - warmth, Kindness, Hugs and words so sincere and heartfelt they could thaw even the coldest soul.

Sue smelled like sunshine and wild berries.
And like the closest thing I’d ever had to a mother.

I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in a little tighter, resting my head on her shoulder—
just like I always used to.

For one brief moment, it felt as though I’d never been gone.

When we finally pulled apart, her gentle hands cupped my cheeks instinctively,
and her eyes scanned me—head to toe—like she was checking for cracks in the surface.

She smiled and gave a small nod, almost as if she liked what she saw.

Then she placed a hand gently over my heart and said,
“You’ve grown strong on your journey.”

I didn’t answer.
Just looked into her eyes.

I didn’t have to say anything.
She had already sensed everything going on inside me—
Just like she always had.

I couldn’t even remember how it had started—how Sue had come to treat me the way she did.

All I knew was that she had always been there,
whenever I needed her.

Harry was Charlie’s best friend.
So of course I’d known him, his wife, and their kids basically from day one.

Harry had always been like an uncle to me.
Leah? Two years younger than me, had been my partner-in-crime from the start. Inseparable.
Seth had been our little ankle-biter back then. And later became our fiercely protected little ray of sunshine. Adorably annoying little treasure.

But Sue…
Sue had been the one to look after me when Charlie had to work.
The one who scooped me into her arms when I was a child and stuck colorful Band-Aids on my scraped knees— even though I’d fought both with loud protests.

She taught Leah and me how to bake.
Braided our hair during sleepovers while humming old tribal lullabies.
She was the one I went to when I got my first period at thirteen.
The one I came to, as a teenager, to talk about boys—with her and Leah, in the warmth of her kitchen.

Sue was the one person who probably understood me better than anyone else.

No,
Sue wasn’t my mother.
And I wasn’t her daughter.

We both knew that.

But in some tangled, imperfect way…
we were.

She stepped aside and pulled me inside the house in that familiar way of hers.
As I took off my shoes, she said,
“Charlie mentioned you’d be coming home, just before he left for Phoenix. The others will be so glad to see you again!”

A soft, almost sarcastic laugh slipped out of my mouth before I replied,
“Yeah… I can think of at least one person who definitely won’t be thrilled.”

We both knew exactly which grudge-holding grump I meant.

Sue shook her head, a mixture of concern and gentleness flickering in her eyes.
I noticed how she started fiddling with her fingers. Something she only did when she didn’t quite know how to express herself.
When some helpful or wise words were right on the tip of her tongue, but she hadn’t yet figured out how to wrap them.

She took a breath, clearly about to say something— but before she could we heard fast, thudding footsteps coming from the living room.
The door burst open,
and there was Seth, staring at me with those big, round, brown eyes of his.

As far as he knew, I had been on an extended trip through Southeast Asia.
That was the half-truth the rest of us let him believe.
None of us had ever had the heart to tell him what had really happened.

And honestly,
that was for the best.
He was still young and carefree enough that the cruelty of the world hadn’t yet touched him.
And I hoped, with everything in me, that it would stay that way a little longer.

“You’re back!”
In an instant, he came sprinting toward me like an overexcited puppy, tackled Sue out of the way, and nearly knocked me off my feet as he threw his arms around me in a sibling-like hug.
He’d gotten stronger over the past year.
But that kind, loyal heart of his?
Still exactly the same.

I laughed—real and happy—ruffling his long hair.
“Hey, pest! You’ve gotten taller!”

His hug was the same as always.
And yet… somehow warmer. Firmer.
More heartfelt than before.

When he finally pulled back, he beamed at me like a kid on Christmas morning.
“I thought I heard your voice! Come on, Dad’s gonna be so excited to see you!
You have to tell me everything you’ve been up to!”

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the living room, where—judging by the sounds—I guessed he’d been watching baseball with Harry.

Sue followed behind us, laughing fondly at her youngest’s enthusiasm.

Whatever she’d been about to say—
whatever quiet, wise words she’d had in mind for me—
they were forgotten.
At least for now.

The Clearwaters’ house hadn’t changed much.
It was still full of wood accents, light, and warmth.
Family photos and little keepsakes hung on every wall. Harry’s hand-carved wooden figures, and plants.
God, so many of Sue’s plants.

Harry was sitting on the couch,
watching baseball—just like I’d guessed.
His graying head peeked just over the backrest.

He flinched in surprise when Seth came charging back into the living room, yelling,
“Dad! Look who’s here!”

Harry turned his head—almost annoyed—clearly ready to scold Seth for shouting.
Then his brown eyes landed on me,
the lines on his face folded into a warm, familiar laugh.
“Well, would you look at that!”

Seth shoved me into the armchair to the left of the couch.
It was upholstered in faded red fabric and had gathered its fair share of wear and tear over the years.
But in my opinion, it was the most comfortable seat in the entire living room.
Scratch that—the most comfortable seat in the world.

Leah’s chair. My chair.

We had always shared it since we were kids.
Back then when we were little girls —me ten, she eight- we used to squeeze ourselves into it.
Even when we got older and bigger, we’d rather sit on top of each other, our limbs tangled up like ivy, than ever consider giving up that throne.

From his spot on the couch, Harry reached out a hand and gave my shoulder a quick pat.
In his quiet language, that was more than enough to say he was glad I was home.

Then he asked,
“Did you find what you were looking for out there in the world?”

I nodded, crossing my legs as I settled deeper into the chair.
“I think I did.”

When I had left, I had been searching for something—anything—that would ground me.
Something to dull the pain and stitch all the broken parts of me back together.
Something to keep me from falling into the dark hole I’d been hovering over.

I searched and searched, in every corner of the world I could reach.
And in the end, what I found was myself.

Harry looked at me intently.
Then gave my shoulder another silent squeeze.
That was all the confirmation I needed.

Seth squeezed in beside me—just like his sister used to do - and promptly jabbed his elbow into my ribs.
Still the same rambunctious little brother I remembered.

His knee bounced restlessly up and down as he urged me, wide-eyed,
“Come on, tell me already! What was it like?”

I flicked his forehead for the elbow jab,
but couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at my lips.
Then I began to tell him.

About all the beautiful things in my journey.

About the traffic chaos on Bangkok’s streets. Where bicycles and mini-cars raced one another to claim the last free space in the intersection.
Where hesitation meant defeat.

About the temples and towering statues in Vietnam. Some only reachable after hours of hiking through steep, winding paths.

About getting lost three times in the Hong Kong airport. Because it was so massive,
I simply couldn’t find my way.

I told him about the fish markets in China’s coastal cities. Sprawling across areas twice the size of Forks. Filled with sea creatures I’d only ever seen in nature documentaries.

I described what it felt like to walk along the Great Wall of China. Past cliffs and gorges so deep, you couldn’t see their bottom.

I spoke about the flora and fauna thriving in Southeast Asia’s warm, humid climate. Strange and wild and so different from what we knew.
Alien, almost.

I painted pictures in his mind of mountain peaks so high, they were permanently veiled in forest mist and clouds.
And of secluded monasteries perched on those peaks.
With monks who never spoke, who could disable you with a single flick of the hand. Who lived completely in harmony with nature, their lives shaped by its rhythm.

I told him what it was like to be there.
To learn.
To grow.

As I spoke, Harry and Sue listened too—silent, but captivated.
Even though Harry tried to hide his curiosity…
It didn’t work.

When I finished speaking, Seth gave a thoughtful nod.
And Sue clapped her hands together with delight, immediately asking questions about the plants I’d seen, the cultures I’d experienced.

Seth had jumped up and run to his room, eager to look up the places I’d described online.

Harry, however, eventually turned his gaze back to the baseball game on TV.
He knew I hadn’t come just to share stories.
Maybe he felt it.
Maybe he was just putting two and two together.

After a moment, he said, his voice carrying a faint note of melancholy,
“She’s upstairs in her room. You should go to her. I don’t think she’s found what she’s looking for yet. But maybe you can help her.”

I doubted I could ever truly help anyone.
I wasn’t built for that kind of thing. I was far too blunt.
If I’d been as empathetic as Harry—or as some people liked to imagine me—
I would’ve become a doctor. Or a psychologist.
Someone who actually helped people,
not just analyzed them.

Still, I nodded as I rose to my feet.
“I can at least try.”

I had put off this encounter long enough.
It was time to face her.

I found Leah in her room.
Her back was turned to me, her long, pitch-black hair cascading down like a midnight waterfall.

Of course, she had heard me coming.
But she didn’t turn around.
No greeting.
No smile like she used to wear.

Her arms were crossed.
She leaned against the window frame, as she stared silently into the rain outside.

Her gaze slid down to the driveway, and she remarked dryly,
“You came in the Shelby.”

“Obviously,”
I replied with a quiet nod, gently closing the door behind me and leaning back against it.

She kept staring stubbornly out the window.
At the muddy driveway.
At my car that stood there like a phantom from our shared past.

Leah stayed silent for a moment.
When she finally answered, her tone was cold and biting:
“How long did it take you, before you could even get in? Until you could sit in it without gasping for air? Before you could start the engine without stalling it, because you couldn’t see through your tears and shaking?”

She asked it like she meant to wound me.
And probably she did.
Like a cornered animal lashing out, because your very presence feels like a threat.

“One single try,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
“I got in and just drove.”
My tone remained completely calm.
There was no point in reacting to her provocation—it would only lead to a fight.
And honestly, I was so tired of conflict.

“Just drove?”
Now she finally turned halfway toward me.
I could see she’d lost weight.
I could almost trace the dark circles under her eyes.

But she’d also built muscle—
And for a second, that confused me.

She let out a dry, almost bitter laugh—
the sound of a wound reopened too many times:
“Then I guess you’re not hurting anymore.
Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

Still watching her closely, I answered:
“Neither. A year ago, all I could see were the bad memories it held. Now I’m finally able to appreciate the good ones.”

“Wow. Poetic now, are we?”
Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“What’s with the calm tone? Looks like all your old impulsiveness has been washed away. You’ve lost your bite.”

There was mockery in her voice.
But it was born from pain.
And from the places that still hadn’t healed.

Her words weren’t neither right nor wrong.
I had grown calmer because I’d learned to tame the storm inside me.
Because I’d had to.
Otherwise, it would’ve torn apart everything I was.

But that wasn’t what Leah wanted to hear.
She wanted to wound.
To make others feel what she felt.
She wanted a fight.
If only to feel something other than the emptiness and pain that had haunted her for over a year.

I understood that.
Truly.
I’d been exactly the same once.

But she wasn’t going to see weakness from me.
And she wouldn’t get the fight she was looking for.

So I said simply:
“Impulsiveness doesn’t get you anywhere.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.
Or maybe it was exactly the right one.
Because at those words, she finally turned to face me fully.

And in her eyes was so much hatred. So much pain.
So much raw, unshielded emotion
that I had to fight the urge to look away.

“But running away like a coward does?”
Her voice hit like a blade made of ice.

“Leah—”

She cut me of. Cold and sharp:
“He would have despised you if he saw how easily you threw away your loyalty. Your friendship. All for a year of some epic self-discovery.”

Her words hit like an arrow made of fire,
slicing straight through my heart.

I knew she was still trying to provoke me.
I knew her words were a lie.
He was the one who, in frail, whispered words, had sent me on this journey.
Because he’d already known what was going to happen to me. Because he knew me.
And he knew he could never, ever hate me.

Still, I had to bite my tongue not to rise to it.
Instead, I answered quietly, with a cold edge to my tone:
“I don’t think you have the right to speak for him.”

Maybe it was something in my voice or in my eyes,
but she flinched. Just barely.
Her shoulders tensed, drawing back.

A moment of silence passed.
Only the sound of rain tapping against the window, like the fingers of a thousand tiny fairies.

Then I said, dryly:
“You listened in while I talked to Seth.”

Of course she had.
For all her anger, she was still curious.
I’d written to her.
Over and over.
Told her everything.
She never replied.
Not once.
Until I finally stopped trying.

Her reaction now told me she’d at least read them.

“And what if I did?”
She lifted her chin defiantly, hands curling into fists.

“You just waltz back in here and think everything’s the same again? You’re not my best friend anymore.
And I’m not the girl who waited for you.”

There it was.
The next blow.

I took a deep breath in and out,
crossed my arms over my chest.
Then I tried again—in the same voice you’d use to soothe a frightened animal:
“I know you don’t understand. But I had to leave.”

“No. You didn’t have to go. You wanted to.
Even though there were people here who needed you. Even though I needed you.”
She shook her head and pointed a finger at me, taking a few steps closer.
“That’s selfish! You’re just like Sam.
I needed you—and you just left me. Do you hear me?”

Her voice was louder now. Firmer. Sharper.
And in that moment,
I saw the first crack in her armor of anger and bitterness.

There were no sobs. No trembling.
Leah was far too proud for that.
Just that raw, unfiltered honesty as she threw her truth at me.
Spoken like a wound still open.

And then,
as if she herself had noticed the crack and wanted to patch it over,
she turned away.

Her next words came faster, sharper, meant to bite:
“But hey—everyone dies sometime, right?
One from an incurable disease…
The other from a lack of backbone. I just wish you’d stayed gone.”

If it had been anyone else who’d thrown those words at me—
anyone but Leah—
I would’ve turned around then and there and walked away.
Cut my losses. Let whatever scraps of our friendship remained rot on the spot.
Taken out the trash and let it discard itself.

But it was Leah.
My Leah.

“I never planned to come back.”
My voice, for just that one moment,
sounded hollow. Bitter.

Then I continued—
my voice calm,
but cutting—
like the icy storm raging inside me in that moment:

“Go ahead.
Call me selfish if that helps you feel a little better in your self-pity. Call me selfish because, for once in my life,
I made myself a priority instead of powdering your damn ass.
You want the truth?
I left because it was my last way out.
I was there for you when Sam left you.
I held you together.
I wiped your tears and kept picking you up, over and over again.
But you were so caught up in your own pain,
that you forgot I hadn’t just lost Sam.
I lost two people.
My best friend
and the love of my life.
You know what I would’ve given for him to just break up with me?
Because that would mean he was still alive.
I never blamed you, Leah.
Because I never showed you how much I was falling apart.
I tried to be strong. To not need help.
That was my mistake, I admit that.
And I’ll never compare my pain to yours.
But don’t think for a second
that I’ll just stand here and let you despise me for making a mistake you’ve made a thousand times yourself!”

I shook my head.
There was no point trying to talk to her when she was like this. Boiling with rage.
She wouldn’t listen anyway.

One part of me understood her pain.
Truly.
But another part— a much less charitable voice buried deep inside—was just tired of it.
And right now, that voice was louder than I wanted it to be.

It had been a year.
A damn year, and she still wasn’t over Sam.

Jesus. People break up. It happens.
Yes, he was a jerk.
And yes, now he was screwing her cousin.
The world’s a cruel place.
Swallow it and move on.

Statistically speaking, only 5% of first relationships last into old age.

She should be glad he was gone.

Clearly, he was never the person either of us thought he was.
One rat less in her life…

I shoved those thoughts aside as fast as they came,
turned to the door and opened it.

But before stepping through, I looked back at her one last time:

“And one more thing.
If you ever think you have the right to use him or his memory
to hurt me again
just because you can’t control your emotions
and you’ve run out of arguments—
then you’re dead to me.
I’ll always be there for you.
But just because you’re hurting,
doesn’t give you the right to act like an asshole to everyone else.
Call me when you’re done acting like a bratty child.”

I closed the door behind me with surprising gentleness, leaving a stunned Leah in my wake.
The shock was written all over her face.

This wasn’t how that conversation was supposed to go.
But honestly?
I had no desire to continue it.
Even less did I feel like letting her foul mood ruin my entire day.

I huffed and muttered to myself as I walked down the hallway,
“What a damn kindergarten.”

Just as I reached the first step of the stairs,
she shouted after me from down the hallway:
“I’m not a bratty child!”

Of course.
She had always needed to have the last word.
I almost smirked.
Almost.

I didn’t turn around.
Instead, I battled the urge to flip her off over my shoulder.

But before I could even react,
she had already slammed her door shut—loud enough to make the walls shake. Dramatic. Predictable.

I ignored it.
Said goodbye to Harry, Seth, and Sue.
The latter gave me a sympathetic look,
as if she truly regretted how things had turned out between her daughter and me.

She made me promise I would come by again soon.
I agreed without hesitation.

Then I stepped back outside into the light, persistent drizzle and climbed into my car.

Before I drove off, I glanced one last time up at Leah’s window.
There she stood—brow furrowed with bitterness, her dark eyes locked on me like a hawk.

She was the one who looked away first.

I didn’t look back again
—not when I reversed out of the driveway,
not even when the Clearwater house faded from my rearview mirror.

The supermarket in La Push layed right on my way home.
It was small and quaint, but I quickly found everything I needed. Headache pills included.
A week’s worth of groceries later, I was already back in the car.

Charlie’s police cruiser was already in its usual spot next to Bella’s pickup truck
when I pulled the Shelby into the garage.
Had I really been gone that long? Long enough for him to be home from work already?

I glanced at the time on my phone.
Yes. I had.
It was early evening.

With the grocery bags in both hands,
I fumbled my house keys out of my pocket and finally managed to unlock the front door—after a few failed attempts.

I hadn’t even taken one step into the house
when the smell of freshly cooked food hit me like a wall.
I paused, momentarily puzzled.
Had Charlie ordered takeout?
Or—God forbid—had he actually cooked something himself?

That would have been a rare occasion.
Charlie hated cooking.
He only ever did it if someone - I - really guilt-tripped him into it.

Maybe this time he’d come to the brilliant conclusion all on his own, since Bella was still recovering?

I kicked off my shoes, humming in a decent mood, and stepped cheerfully into the kitchen, a grocery bag in each hand.
“Hey, I brought the promised groceries…”

But I nearly choked on the end of that sentence.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my brain struggling to process the scene before me.

Bella stood at the stove, leaning on one crutch and bracing herself against the counter.
Charlie sat nearby, in front of an empty plate he clearly hadn’t set himself, waiting for the meal his injured daughter was preparing for him.

Lazy.
Selfish.

How could I have expected anything different?
I had been too naïve.

Bella greeted me with a shy smile,
while Charlie just grunted in acknowledgment.

I set the bags down on the table and forced a polite smile as I asked,
“Hey, Bells, would you mind giving Charlie and me a moment alone?”

She looked at me, confused.
“But I was just about to make the sauce—”

“Please, sweetheart.”
My tone remained gentle—but firmer now.

She obeyed my order without protest and hobbled out of the room on both crutches.

As soon as she was gone,
I closed the kitchen door behind her
and turned to Charlie, assessing him with a cold, quiet stare.

Voice silent—at least for now.

Chapter Text

Charlie glanced after Bella, his brow furrowing briefly. Then his eyes shifted to me, almost with a hint of confusion.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. The slightly uneasy tone in his voice told me he knew exactly what was wrong.
Or maybe it was the disappointed look I deliberately sent his way.

I didn’t answer right away. I just kept looking at him in silence—no blinking, no breaking eye contact.

Then he did the next thing that proved to me he had a pretty good idea why I had sent Bella out of the room—maybe even that he knew his mistake perfectly well and was just ignoring it, taking advantage of it.
He started justifying himself before I had said a single word:
“Bella wanted to do something. She said lying in bed all day would drive her crazy. What’s wrong with that?”
His tone was feigned casualness, but with that faint, hurried edge — like he wanted to downplay the topic and wrap it up as fast as possible.

His jaw muscle twitched. Just barely, but enough to tell me exactly what I needed to know.

So that’s how quickly you feel cornered, Charlie?

And I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet. The weight of one’s own guilty conscience is always the heaviest to carry…

I decided to push him a little further into that own guilt. Looking at him with a blank, almost cold expression, I said:
“I don’t care whether she wanted to or not. She’s seventeen and injured. That’s your daughter, not your housekeeper!”

There was no way he could know why I was so allergic to the idea of a child carrying so much responsibility. How could he?
Still, I made sure he felt it in the bite of my words. Whether that would turn out to be a mistake or an advantage would reveal itself as the conversation went on… For now, I needed to rein myself in.
Aggression rarely helps when you're trying to convince someone, I was reminded by a voice coming from a deeply buried, formative memory.

Charlie snorted. Then he shifted into his typical defensive stance. The one he always used when he didn’t know how to talk about feelings—or when he simply didn’t want to hear my opinion. Probably because by now, he had long since learned that I was either right, or I would argue him dead.

Leaning back in his chair, arms folded in a show of casualness, chin slightly raised — so he could at least convince himself he had the upper hand in this conversation. Ever the police chief.

He tried to defend himself by downplaying everything:
“I know she’s hurt. I just thought the housework might help her somehow… You’re acting like I handed her a shovel and told her to dig up the flowerbeds!”

He paused, glancing toward the pot that was cheerfully simmering on the stove, then added:
“Besides, you know I can’t cook. She can.”

“You’re her father,” I reminded him, one eyebrow arched. “You’re responsible for her, not the other way around. She should be doing teenage things, not cooking for you. And for the record, I didn’t have to do housework when it was just the two of us, so don’t act like you’re completely helpless.”

Something in that landed, because he broke eye contact.
But then he seemed to think better of it, set his jaw, and turned back to me.

He did what most people do when backed into a corner and running out of arguments — he went on the offensive, sharpening his tone:
“I didn’t bring you back to Forks so you could tell me how to raise my daughter!”

“As pedagogically incompetent as you are, somebody has to tell you!” I shot back without missing a beat.
I was starting to enjoy this conversation. If only Charlie were better at debating! I would enjoy myself far more with an evenly matched opponent…

Charlie, however, seemed to be having anything but fun. He couldn’t hold my gaze any longer. He had no excuse left, knew I was right, but was too proud to admit it.
It was always astonishing how easy it was to disarm him in a conversation with just a few well-placed hits. I couldn’t help remembering how, as a child, I’d been able to talk him into anything — because sooner or later, he always ran out of arguments.
Talking had never been his strength.
Taking advantage of that, however, had always been mine.

He ran a hand through his hair. Anyone who had studied him long enough knew that was a sign the situation was starting to overwhelm him. For a second, it looked like someone had just overloaded “Charlie.exe.”

It took him a moment to answer:
“I thought it might help her. You know, to have something to do. So she wouldn’t just sit around thinking about the accident…”

He stopped briefly. It must have occurred to him how weak that argument sounded. Then he went on:
“I’m not a good talker. Especially not with her. She doesn’t open up to me. But I do what I can.”

I blinked once, twice, then took a step toward the dining table.
Charlie was my father in every way that mattered. But sometimes, he was just… so much the stereotype of an old white man that I wanted to knee him in the groin. Thoughtless. Conservative. Unaware of his privileges.

I set my hands gently on the edge of the table opposite him and leaned forward slightly, fixing him with a steady look as I tried to speak to his conscience in a calm tone:
“If you want to give her something to do, buy her a puzzle. Hasn’t it been enough that her mother already used her for housework? And now you too? Are you really that damn lazy?”

Charlie stared at me for a moment like I’d just slapped him. Good. That meant he was starting to think.
Of course, I had brought up Renée deliberately, just to make him feel guilty. Even if he’d never admit it out loud, he hated being compared to his bubbly, impulsive ex-wife.

He looked away from me—at the table, or maybe at his hands, which he clasped together.
“I honestly thought I could handle raising her. I raised you, after all. But you’re completely different,” he exhaled almost in defeat and shook his head.
“I never had to correct you or push you in the right direction, because you were always five steps ahead of me. Sometimes I think you shaped yourself — your ambition and perfectionism — and I had no part in it. You’re stubborn, tough, direct. You’ve always told me when there was a problem or what you needed. Bella is… the complete opposite. Quiet. Withdrawn. She doesn’t open up to me anymore. Not like she used to. Not since Edward… and I don’t know how to reach her.”

I gave him a mock-understanding nod, then said in a sarcastic tone:
“And so you thought using her for housework was a good idea? That’s proven to strengthen family bonds, right? Then one day, you’ll be wondering why Bella cut off contact with you. You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you? This has been going on since she moved back here. The whole year I was gone, she’s been running the household by herself. All while going to school. And you kept it from me on purpose because you’re selfish.”

“And as for me—I was never a normal kid. Besides, you only got me after my rebellious phase. I was already tame by then!” I added with a teasing grin.

That wasn’t entirely true, of course. But Charlie would never know that. It would only burden him unnecessarily.
Before I came to live with Charlie at ten, I’d spent the five years after my parents’ deaths in another… institution.
I was already used to being perfectionistic and ambitious — those were the things that had always gotten me further.
And I’d wanted to cause Charlie as little trouble as possible. I didn’t want him to regret taking me in—or, worse, think about sending me back. The more independent I was, the better my grades, and the less trouble I caused him, the easier it would be for me to stay.

Of course, that kind of thinking was total nonsense. Charlie would never have sent me away. But back then, in those first years here, I hadn’t known any better. I was just a naïve kid.
And once I did know, I’d already ingrained those habits too deeply to bother changing them. Besides, perfectionism, cunning, and ambition had their advantages.

Naturally, as a kid and a teenager, I’d still gotten into trouble plenty of times. Especially after meeting Sam. And then Leah. And him…
But I’d always managed to keep my “criminal” activities hidden from Charlie and the other adults, keeping my spotless image and innocent smile intact. And I was still ridiculously proud of that.

Charlie’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. He sounded more thoughtful now:
“You have no idea what it’s like. Seeing her like this. And knowing that she…”

He cut himself off, staring stubbornly at the table. Clearly, he was searching for different words—or refusing to say something that was sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m a cop. In a small town. I know how to arrest a drunk now and then, or keep the locals on their toes. What I don’t know is how to talk to a teenager who doesn’t want to talk to me! I never asked Bella to do the housework. But I never stopped her either.”
He shook his head.

When he looked at me again, his expression hovered somewhere between guilt and self-protection. And… there was something else there. Something I couldn’t quite Place.
It almost felt like a lie… no, deeper than that. Fuzzier. Something slipping out of my perception. I couldn’t define it, no matter how hard I tried.

It made me pause for a moment. Charlie was usually easy to read. Maybe it was just the time I’d been away?

Still, it was an admission of guilt. As honest and open as Charlie Swan could manage.

I snorted softly and went in for my final psychological dagger, delivering it in a smooth, penetrating voice:
“That girl out there is your daughter. Let her be the child she’s never been able to be. Take responsibility. Buy yourself a cookbook and a parenting guide.”

He exhaled heavily, then lifted his gaze—not offended, but listening.

I went on, serving him the sugar after the mental whip I’d just given him. A light at the end of the tunnel, a reward to make it easier for him to accept my offer:
“I’ll help you with the housework. The fact that I haven’t so far—that’s my mistake. I’m old enough. But Bella won’t lift a finger here anymore. Okay?”

My uncle didn’t answer right away. He let the words sink in — heavy and clear, like footsteps on fresh snow.

Then he nodded. Firm and serious.
“Okay.”
One word. Simple, but loaded with meaning. He had made his decision.

The nice thing about Charlie was that when he set his mind to something or made a promise, he stuck to it. A character trait I’d copied from him a very long time ago.

He cleared his throat and reached for his coffee cup. It was empty. He must have forgotten he’d already finished it during our talk.

My name left his lips quietly, and when I looked at him, he gave a single nod.
“Thanks.”
Not quiet. Not loud. But genuine.

I smiled faintly and nodded back without comment. We didn’t need more than that to understand each other.

When I called Bella back into the room, she hobbled slowly into the kitchen, leaning heavily on her crutches — clearly still far too weak to do any kind of work.

Before she could make a move toward the sauce, I was already standing at the stove, cutting off any chance for her to keep cooking.

She frowned slightly at that. Her eyes searched mine — almost like in the old days when we’d cooked up schemes together and she’d try to communicate with me silently.

“Okay. What’s going on here?” she asked suspiciously, stopping a few steps from the table. And when she didn’t get an answer from me—because I’d silently decided Charlie should fulfill his paternal duties and tell her himself—her gaze shifted to her father.

He was sitting up straighter now, maybe a little tense. My uncle rubbed the back of his neck, then nodded toward the chair beside him.
“Sit down first, Bells.”

Bella obeyed. She dropped onto the chair without an ounce of grace — excusable given her exhaustion — and Charlie pushed his empty plate aside. It almost looked like he was trying to ease the tension of the moment.

“We need to talk about something.”

He glanced briefly at me, and for a moment, I felt oddly awkward. He looked like a kid needing one last spark of encouragement before taking his first step.
I’m half your age, old man — I’m not any wiser!
But fine—if I had to… I gave him an encouraging smile and nodded. I spared us both the ridiculousness of a thumbs-up.

His expression actually brightened a bit, and he looked back at Bella. His voice stayed fairly steady as he told her directly:
“I’ve been doing some things wrong. You’re doing way too much around here, Bella. I’ve been letting it happen. But that stops now.”

“What?” Bella blinked at him in confusion, then at me.

I nodded and took the third chair, explaining calmly:
“What Charlie means is that from now on, you won’t be doing any housework. At all. No cooking, no laundry, nothing else. Not even when you’re fully recovered. Your dad and I are going to handle the house from now on.”

My little sister frowned. I could see right away she didn’t like this new rule.

“I’ve always done it. It never bothered me.” She searched my face like she was looking for something.

Apparently, she didn’t find it, because she added:
“I can handle it, really! I don’t want to be some little princess who just gets waited on.”

Typical. Of course she’d rather neglect herself than be a burden on anyone else. Which was exactly why I was about to force her into doing the opposite.

Oh, and I already knew exactly how…

I leaned back in my chair, fixing Bella with a steady look while suppressing my smug, anticipatory grin with all my might. My arms rested lazily on the chair’s armrests as I answered her in a completely dry tone:
“This has nothing to do with being a princess. You’re a teenager. Your job isn’t to take care of everything here — it’s to go live your youth and make out with Edward in the back seat of a car at the edge of the woods while you shove your tongues down each other’s throats.”

I hadn’t even finished the sentence when Charlie choked on his own spit. His eyes went wide in shock and he sputtered, horrified:
“Please! Don’t put images like that in my head! For crying out loud…”

As if he could physically wave the image away, he made a halfhearted swatting gesture in the air.

Bella, meanwhile, had her head buried in her hands in embarrassment. Even so, I could still see the red on her cheeks through the veil of her hair and fingers.
She only managed to mutter, “Oh my God,” in a quiet, mortified voice.

Nice to hear her talking again.
While I’d been speaking, she had just stared at me in shock, mouth opening and closing over and over like a fish. For a moment, I’d honestly thought I’d broken her.

And then both of them retreated into awkward silence. Like father, like daughter.

I chuckled in amusement. It was always delightful to watch how utterly prudish the two of them became at even the slightest hint of anything suggestive—especially when they were in each other’s company.

I’d always been different. Open. Uninhibited. Bella had once called me “scandalous.” And I was certain my way of talking had already cost Charlie a few years off his lifespan and more than a little of his heart health. Not that I cared.
As long as I was the kind of person my younger self would have wanted to become, I was content. And I believed I was.

To finally break the awkward silence — and rescue both of these nuns from their misery — I turned to Bella and added,
“If you’re bored, find a hobby or throw house parties… Or I’ll get you a pet. Or a pony. But no more housework!”

Following a sudden flash of inspiration, I leaned closer to her with a wicked grin and added:
“Charlie and I will punish you from now on if you do any chores. Every single time you’re caught, we’ll drag you to a social event. A disco, a party, baseball games…”

I paused, letting more ideas come to me — things I knew Bella hated — and listed them with almost teasing delight:
“Or family cooking classes… bowling… and karaoke!”

My sister raised one eyebrow at me in disbelief. She knew exactly what I was doing.

“You’d force me to go bowling with you?” I could hear the faintly amused undertone in her voice. I’d caught her off guard, disarmed her, and taken the pressure out of the conversation.

“You’re cruel,” she said flatly, before throwing a sidelong glance at Charlie. “I hate bowling.”

Charlie grunted in agreement and looked just as unenthusiastic about my threat as his daughter.
“So do I.”

Then he glanced up, letting his eyes move between Bella and me. There was barely a smile on his lips, but there was mischief in his eyes when he said thoughtfully:
“Although… the family cooking class could be something for us. Don’t you think?”

He was dead serious—solely to torment Bella further. I had to bite back an amused snort.

“No, Dad!” Bella groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead and sinking back into her chair. But she didn’t look angry—almost amused, in fact. Her shoulders were looser. For that one moment, she looked like the seventeen-year-old girl she actually was.

Meanwhile, I was idly twirling a strand of hair between my fingers. Tilting my head with a sweet smile, I said,
“I’m looking forward to the day you break the rules—and Charlie gets punished too for not keeping a close enough eye on you. Ah! I think the first time, we’ll go to karaoke!”

“You’re the devil,” Bella shot back, half joking, half in despair, squinting her eyes at me.

My uncle just shook his head in resignation and muttered, “I didn’t sign up for this when I adopted you.”

I only laughed, standing up to set the food on the table, and soon our conversation drifted to other topics over dinner.

Charlie handled the dishes afterward.

When Bella hobbled out of the room to do teenage things she now finally had time for, she still looked a little put out — but I caught the telltale twitch at the corners of her mouth she was trying so hard to hide.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. After a while, I retreated to my room to work on my applications, but in the end, I gave up. My thoughts kept circling back to Leah, Charlie, and the conversations I’d had today.

I liked doing that sometimes — replaying important talks in my head, analyzing them to notice patterns, emotions, and behaviors I might have missed before.

But even that I gave up on after a while, because my head was starting to ache again.

Seriously? Why now of all times?

Sighing, I got up from my desk, fed my fish, checked the battery on the pet camera I’d set up for him, then grabbed my laptop and crawled into bed.

It was a little easier than yesterday to use the meditation technique and push the headache aside — maybe it was just imagination, wishful thinking, or a well-placed placebo effect.

I spent some time browsing the internet for possible causes for my headaches.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep over my screen, because I dreamed of misty, moonlit pine forests and two wolfhounds racing each other across the undergrowth.

I never saw who won — I woke up first.

My neck ached from the awkward sleeping position. But at least the headache was gone for now.

After yesterday’s research, I’d narrowed it down to three possible causes for my condition:
A) Cancer
B) The spark plug
C) I needed to arrange healing crystals around my bed.

Yeah… I figured I’d go to the doctor this afternoon—especially since my headache was starting to creep back in. Bella wouldn’t be here anyway. Alice, Edward’s little sister, had invited her shopping. The two of them were supposed to head out soon with Edward. Charlie—yet again—was planning to go fishing.

I freshened up and got dressed. Simple. Black pants with a belt, a thin black sweater. Nothing special.

Then—because Edward might already be here, and I wanted to begin my investigation as early as possible—I decided to execute Plan A from my mental playbook “How to Expose a Mind Reader Without Giving Myself Away.”

That meant grabbing the first book I could reach from my shelf — I didn’t even check the title — opening it to a random page, and reading a few lines:

God preserve my mind, that’s all I can say. Safety and the feeling of safety are things of the past for me. As long as I’m still alive, I only hope for one thing — that I will not go mad, if indeed I am not already so. But if I am still sane, then the thought is enough…

A quiet, amused snort escaped me. How fittingly unfitting.

I knew the book well. It would be easy enough to keep my thoughts circling around its plot while in Edward’s presence.

I gave myself an encouraging nod in the mirror, then headed downstairs, the book closed and held loosely in my hand.

As it turned out, my precaution was paying off. Edward was sitting in the living room, apparently waiting for Bella and his sister, who were still holed up in Bella’s room. When I entered, he lifted his gaze. Like every other time I’d seen him, he looked flawless. He radiated a polite, almost too perfect calm.

My thoughts drifted to banal things: the last scene in the book, the housework I still had to do later. I took the armchair opposite him and smiled warmly at the teenage boy.
“Hello, Edward. Nice to see you.”

For a moment, he seemed to study me intently, as if trying to place me somehow. That was when I first noticed what a rare color his eyes were — somewhere between amber, honey, and gold. Such a hue was typically caused by the pigment pheomelanin, which was also responsible for red hair. But in eyes, it was rare—found in, I guessed, less than one percent of the population. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t recall knowing anyone with such a distinct golden shade besides Edward. But why had I never noticed it before?

He glanced away, almost shyly. His voice was soft, cultured, and maybe a bit too friendly when he answered with a small smile,
“Hello.”

Then his gaze fell on the book in my hands. He tilted his head slightly, as if to catch the title on the cover, though I think my hand was covering it. I didn’t register his curiosity at first, because the pain in my head was swelling again and I was focused on pushing it away.

“What are you reading?” he asked. But when I looked more closely, I caught the tiniest flicker of hesitation in his expression, in the angle of his head—almost like he was straining to listen for something in particular. Questioning. Maybe confused.

Edward was hard to read. He seemed to keep his physical signals and reactions under far better control than most people around us.

I set the book gently on the coffee table and slid it toward him. It was a special edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, with the page edges coated in a silvery metallic finish.

“I don’t know if you’ve read it. Books like this aren’t very popular with younger people anymore. But I enjoy it.” I smiled at him — maybe a little strained because of my headache. “If you’d like, you can borrow it. But please take care of it. I’m very fond of it. The pages and the cover even glitter in the sunlight.”

In my mind, the scene I’d read earlier rose vividly again—the one where Jonathan Harker slowly, almost imperceptibly, begins to understand the Count’s true nature, starting with his encounter with Dracula’s brides:

In the clear moonlight three young women stood before me. At first, I thought I must be dreaming, for although the moon stood behind them, they cast no shadow. Their eyes were piercing, almost red in color. I felt as if I had seen their faces before — in a nightmare. All three had dazzling white teeth, gleaming like pearls against the ruby red of their lips. I was drawn to them, and yet I feared them…

Edward had already started to reach for the book, but when I spoke, he froze for just a heartbeat. Suddenly, and only for a moment. It was subtle enough that a less analytical mind might have missed it entirely.

He took the book slowly, almost gingerly, as though determined not to damage it in any way. I couldn’t quite read his expression. His eyes swept over the deep red, almost black cover, then the title, then back to me.

For a brief moment, there was something in his gaze. Even though he was skilled at hiding it, I saw it clearly—concern? Fear? Unease?
It was hard to tell, which unsettled me, because younger people were usually the easiest to read. But I knew one thing—it wasn’t a good feeling he was having right now.

Edward was hard to read in the sense that his gestures and expressions often seemed… petrified. Strange, isn’t it? But I couldn’t describe it any better. I picked up fewer of the unconscious signals people normally gave off. No bouncing knee. No tapping fingers. No increase in perspiration when he was uncomfortable. Sometimes I could have sworn he even blinked less than the average person.

Usually, people trained themselves out of those little tells for a reason—often to be less transparent. That was my reason, at least. But why would a seventeen-year-old boy do that?

Edward said nothing. He flipped through the first few color-illustrated pages with an almost graceful elegance. But his eyes weren’t reading. They didn’t move across the lines. Was he buying himself time?

“A classic,” was his eventual brilliant observation. His tone was even, but somehow faintly constricted—deliberately calm.
He set the book back down on the table and pushed it toward me. The gesture didn’t seem disinterested — quite the opposite. More like reverent caution. Almost as if this stupid book could suddenly become dangerous to him.

I almost laughed out loud; he looked so absurd. There was something odd about his behavior, and I nearly derailed Plan A by letting myself dwell on it — but Edward, unknowingly, saved the investigation against him when by asking,
“You… like it? Which part, exactly, do you find most interesting?”

His gaze wasn’t just polite anymore. It was sharper, searching — as if scanning my reactions for something, carefully probing. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, needing to push past both the headache and the fleeting thought that maybe Edward had noticed something.

So I kept my thoughts harmless, musing about his question — while, in the background, I idly wondered if he was eating enough—he always looked so pale. Keep scattering those banal thoughts.

I smiled at him and answered honestly, staying true to my actual thoughts:
“Dracula isn’t my favorite piece of Victorian horror — though I do think the subtle, creeping dread Mr. Harker experiences in the castle is brilliantly executed. Personally, I prefer Carmilla. That novel’s far less ruined by pop culture.”

“But even that’s not my favorite work,” I added without being asked, crossing my legs loosely and resting my chin on one hand, “My favorite is the Iliad. Most people prefer the Odyssey, but I can’t help but admire the perfect butterfly effect the goddess Eris caused with her Golden Apple. She set the foundation for the Trojan War, pulled the strings flawlessly. The other gods destroyed one another, and she’s almost never blamed for it to this day.”

I didn’t know why I was rambling like that. It didn’t matter. It was a effective distraction — keeping the telepath away from the more guarded thoughts I couldn’t allow myself to have around him.

Edward didn’t seem bothered by my digression. He listened without interrupting, only letting his golden eyes drift now and then between my face, my hands, and the book. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said he was weighing every word I spoke.

“Eris,” he said. And he spoke the name almost like a statement, not a repetition. “Interesting that you’d admire her in particular.”
The one goddess who was always underestimated. Dangerous.

His voice wasn’t judgmental, but it wasn’t neutral either. It masked whatever his true feelings were.

And when he leaned back slightly — almost as if to put some distance between us without seeming rude — with his eyes still unnervingly focused on me, I suddenly realized: we were in the middle of a chess match, and Edward was trying to predict my next move before I made it.

So that was it. I had, in some way, already betrayed myself. Or at least aroused enough suspicion for him to test me. And now we had opened a subtle, double-edged game—one where neither of us knew the full rules, let alone exactly what the other knew.

I leaned back as well, straightening my posture slightly. My smile was as pleasant and fixed as if it had been painted on my face. Fine. If this was the rethorical game, I’d play. From now on, everything either of us said could be a blade with two edges. And I would absolutely not give myself away — no more than I apparently already had.

“And Carmilla,” he continued, without waiting for my reply. His eyes had glinted when I sat straighter, and one corner of his mouth lifted—so faintly it was almost invisible, even to me.
“In that story, the hunt is more personal. Closer. More intimate.”

He let the words linger in the air before asking me, in that polite, calm tone:
“So you like stories where hidden forces are at work?”

His head tilted, as though he was expecting some form of confirmation in my next answer.

I raised one eyebrow. Outwardly, my thoughts still circled harmlessly around the Iliad and Eris. In a deeper, more shielded corner of my mind, I wondered if his “hidden forces” were a pointed reference to his ability to read minds.

Maybe the smartest move right now would be to steer the conversation somewhere else.

I pushed down another wave of headache as I leaned forward again, letting my thoughts circle lazily around my taste in literature. With an almost conspiratorial smile, I spoke them aloud. Word for word. No lies, no detours:
“Hidden forces do certainly have their appeal. But that’s not what I like about these stories. I have a weakness for intelligent characters. I like those who quietly pull the strings. Who plan. Who play the long game. I like those who can surprise me.”

Edward hadn’t taken his eyes off me once. Through his stone-hard mask, I caught the faintest flicker of suspicion.

“That… is very revealing,” he said, his voice not loud but clear. I knew that, in truth, nothing was “revealing” to him in this moment.

Then he did something that surprised me—something I wouldn’t have expected from him. He cast out a bait, saying smoothly:
“That sounds like you’re interested in psychology.”
He wanted to test how I’d react. To see if I might be testing him in return.

“Psychology?” I gave a quiet laugh, thinking back to my university lectures.
“I took it for a while during my studies. Incredibly interesting, very complex. Though my strengths lie more in science than in the soul.”

Edward had leaned forward too now, deliberately or unconsciously mirroring my posture. He nodded silently at my answer.

“And what about the characters who believe they’re running the game — until someone else proves they never really were?”
His question sounded casual enough, framed like an innocent inquiry.
If he was reading my thoughts, he’d find no trap there. No second layer.

For a second, he almost seemed… unsettled. Or maybe I was imagining it.

I rested my chin in my hand and thought aloud:
“Is there ever truly someone who controls everything in a game? Isn’t the question of who holds the upper hand really about who can adapt best? Call it wrong if you like, but I think adaptability and quick thinking are sometimes more important than pure foresight. It’s very unlikely a character can always predict exactly what their opponent is thinking. Don’t you think?”

That last edge I’d inserted deliberately — a careful, innocent prod.

Edward looked focused, calm, tilting his head slightly as though weighing his next move like a chess player hovering over a piece. Maybe that’s exactly what he was.

A faint smile passed over his face. At first, I thought it was mocking. But then I thought I saw approval in it.

“That’s a very pragmatic perspective,” he said, as though my answer had been unexpected. “Most people believe they can control the game if they just plan far enough ahead. They forget the rules themselves can change at any moment.”

His phrasing confirmed my suspicion — this was no longer a conversation purely about books.

He held my gaze with those unreal eyes longer than necessary, then leaned back slightly, as if forcing himself to reestablish distance between us.

“What do you think would happen if two people met who could both adapt?”
From anyone else, it would have felt rhetorical. From him, it didnt. He was genuinely waiting for my answer.

I gave a quiet laugh, inwardly wondering—ever so innocently—what the real reason for Edward’s questions might be. Then I mentally shrugged and simply enjoyed the fact that I could philosophize about literature with someone. A literature-loving young woman with a fondness for classics. That was all he’d read from me.

“If both could adapt…” I said thoughtfully, “Well, that would be fascinating to read. But I think very few authors could portray such a meeting authentically and well. At least, I’ve never come across a book with that kind of plot. Do you know one? You seem very well-read. I’m really enjoying our conversation.”

Flattering words, followed by an innocent smile and thoughts full of books.

Edward held my gaze a fraction too long before answering slowly and deliberately:
“I know a few books that try. But most fail.”

Then he added, almost as if weighing the words before speaking:
“Perhaps because it’s difficult to create two evenly matched players without one of them losing too much of themselves in the end.”

For a moment, a shadow seemed to pass over his expression, as if he’d just thought of something personal. But it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.

“But wouldn’t it be interesting,” I said before I could stop myself, “to read a story where no one ends up losing themselfes?”
I shook my head slightly, as if to dismiss the thought.

“No one loses…” he repeated quietly. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if considering whether to pursue the idea further, then simply nodded and said:
“I enjoy this conversation as well.”

It sounded genuine. I couldn’t detect any trace of forced politeness in the words. Though I was sure he didn’t mean them the way they sounded. The boy played well. But not perfectly.

He lifted his head again, meeting my eyes — still assessing, but softer now. Had my flattery gotten to him? Or was this part of his own strategy? Either way, I needed to stay alert.

“Maybe we should continue this conversation. About a book we both read beforehand,” he suggested warmly — though to me, it sounded like a challenge.

My voice stayed friendly and open as I replied,
“Gladly. Just tell me which book we should read by then.”

And in my thoughts, I made sure to sound like an innocent bookworm delighted to have found a friend to read classics with.

But he didn’t seem to buy it a hundred percent. Because at my answer, the faintest, almost secretive smile tugged at his lips.

“I’ll pick a book,” he said, like a quiet challenge.

Before I could reply, I heard footsteps coming from the stairs. The thump of Bella’s cast in rhythm with a lighter set of taps across the wood.

At the same time, my little sister’s voice rang out—faintly annoyed—followed by a bell-like laugh that definitely wasn’t hers. That had to be Edward’s infamous little sister, the one I’d heard so much about.

Edward’s gaze shifted to the stairs at the same time as mine. For an instant, something almost irritated flickered across his expression. Not because of me. Not because of Bella—he’d never worn that look about her. So… because of his sister?

Well, not exactly surprising. Plenty of siblings I knew didn’t live as harmoniously together as Bella and I did.

Just before the two girls came closer, he said, in a tone that was almost too casual,
“I look forward to our next conversation.”

“Oh, so do I.”

A young girl, maybe seventeen, stepped into the living room with a light, almost dancing gait. Her short hair was styled into artful spikes. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. There was something fairy-like about her.

Her gaze went to Edward first — there was a spark there that almost made me think they were having a silent conversation — then to me.

I stood and greeted her with a warm smile.
“You must be Alice. Edward’s sister, right? Bella’s told me a lot about you.”

“Adoptive sister,” Edward corrected. We both ignored him as Alice came closer.

“And you must be Bella’s sister,” she said, speaking my name and letting it linger in the air, as if she’d known it for a while. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.”

She offered her hand — icy cold, just like Edward’s had been that day at the hospital. Well, maybe it was the weather. I often had cold hands on rainy days, too. Alice’s smile was bright and warm, her eyes carrying a curious gleam.

It was then I noticed she had the same peculiar golden eye color. And with that, I’d met the second person in a single day with that rare trait — the second person I’d ever met who had it at all. Odd, especially considering they were supposed to be adoptive siblings. Quite the strange coincidence.

Edward had been watching me; I caught it out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t pay him much mind, though, because my headache-filtering technique was finally starting to work.
When Alice spoke again, he shifted his focus away from me.

“I’ve heard you have an interesting taste in books.”

I arched an eyebrow and tilted my head in interest.
“Oh? Bella’s been spilling my secrets?”

How else would she know? Although it was strange she brought it up right after Edward and I had just finished a conversation about books.

Alice responded with a bright, innocent laugh — the kind that left no doubt she knew exactly the effect it had on people.

“Maybe she did. Or maybe I just spotted your copy of Dracula on the coffee table?”
Her voice was open and friendly, but there was a glint in her eyes that told me there was more to Alice Cullen than her fairy-like exterior.

Bella came in behind her, leaning lightly on her crutches, and glanced between the three of us with interest.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

I answered with a gentle smile.
“Edward and I just founded a book club, apparently.”

She looked between me and Edward for a moment, as if we were two aliens and she was the only normal one in the room. Then she nodded and said, long and drawn out:
“Okaaay.”

In that moment, she was more like Charlie than she’d probably ever admit.

With a small shake of her head, she decided to change the subject.
“We’ll be back tonight.”

I nodded and slipped out of the living room to grab my wallet from the hall stand. I pulled out my bank card and held it out to Bella as I explained,
“Take your time. I’ll probably be out myself later, so I can’t cook tonight. Go spoil yourselves on me.”

“No arguments, Bells! I insist. You know what we agreed on when it comes to housework and cooking,” I cut her off before she could start protesting.

At the same time, I silently hoped the card would distract her enough that she wouldn’t ask me where I was going. No point in making her worry.

“No worries—we’ll follow the rules with the greatest pleasure!” Alice chirped, snatching the card from my hand with quick fingers and linking her arm through Bella’s in a teasing gesture.

My sister sighed softly.
“You’re impossible.”
Whether she meant Alice or me, I couldn’t say. I just gave her a saccharine smile in response.

Edward had followed the exchange quietly. His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat too long. Then, almost casually, before turning away, he said,
“Then I hope you have a good day.”

I nodded back.
“Thanks. You too.”

Alice, practically buzzing with energy, tugged Bella toward the door.
“Come on. Or all the good deals will be gone.”

Edward was the last to leave.
Before he closed the door behind him, his eyes found mine one last time. And in that brief, silent moment, I could feel that he regarded me with the same wariness I felt toward him.

I replayed our conversation in my mind while I did the laundry and vacuumed, searching for the exact moment I might have slipped—given myself away. The moment he must have realized I suspected him of being a mind reader.

I couldn’t find it.

Edweird - as I decided to call him from now on - had seemed more attentive ever since I’d handed him my book — but no matter how I turned it over in my mind, I couldn’t see how Dracula could have betrayed me. How that book could possibly connect to telepathy.

No, it had to be something else that made Edweird suspicious.
Something I simply hadn’t noticed yet.

When I’d finished with the house, I changed clothes and left myself.

The day was relatively nice. I unlocked the Shelby and noticed a little girl playing across the street, watching me curiously.
Before I got in, I smiled and waved. She smiled back and waved in return.

My mood had lifted slightly by the time I started the engine and pulled away.

—————————————

The drive to Port Angeles for shopping was unusually quiet.

Edward sat at the wheel, eyes on the road, lost in thought. Even Alice, in the back seat, seemed less chatty than usual.

Bella, in the passenger seat beside him, finally turned to him and asked,
“What were you talking about before Alice and I came into the living room? You’ve been acting weird ever since.”

“Nothing important,” Edward replied with a disarming smile, shaking his head — though he didn’t really look at his girlfriend.
Briefly, barely noticeably, his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror toward Alice.

She caught it and gave a small nod before answering Bella herself in a slightly drawn-out, cheerful sing-song:
“They were having a long talk about literature. I listened in. It was… very enlightening.”

She placed the faintest emphasis on the last word, almost dreamily gazing out the window — deliberately not looking at anyone in particular. She didn’t need to. She knew Edward could hear her thoughts anyway.

“Enlightening is an understatement,” Edward said without taking his eyes off the road, though his tone was wrapped in a way only Alice would understand. “The way she speaks is very… knowing.”

Bella shrugged.
“I’ve told you before she’s really well read and kind of a know-it-all. What’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one. It’s just unusual to hear a human speak about the classics like that,” Alice replied, her eyes flicking back to Edward’s in the mirror. “She has a unique way of describing things. Like her book, for example.”

Edward nodded.
“Yes. Very confident in her knowledge. Very self-assured. Her choice of words feels… refined and precise. Just like her mind. It’s rare to meet someone who thinks exactly what they say.”

“Well, then say hello to my sister. Sharp-tongued on the inside as she is on the outside,” Bella snorted, amused at the slightly puzzled look Edward gave her.

She didn’t even notice Alice’s pensive, slightly crooked smile as Alice remarked:
“Interesting. I wonder how many layers your sister really has.”

“Plenty,” Bella answered.

“None,” Edward said at the exact same time, quietly enough that to human ears it could have been an exhale.

Alice smiled at Bella.
“I think she has more layers — just like anyone else. And I’m curious to see more of them. Especially since I haven’t seen any yet. I’m sure she’s just as interesting as you are.”

The siblings exchanged a brief look in the mirror — a silent conversation.

Then Edward said, “I’ll drop you off for shopping and then keep driving. I wanted to meet up with Carlisle.”

Chapter Text

The hospital in Forks wasn’t big. It hadn’t really changed much during my absence from town either. There was a small new annex on the east wing, but the rest was exactly the same as it had always been. If someone had blindfolded me, I probably could have navigated through the entire building without missing a turn.

The waiting room I was sitting in now was one of the few spaces I didn’t know that well. I’d only been here twice in my life.

Once, when I was twelve, after I’d broken my wrist trying to throw a punch at Sam —I’d missed and hit the wall, though I still counted it as a win, since I’d managed to break his nose in the process.

The second time, I was just there as company. Heart racing, stomach twisted in knots, hands trembling uncontrollably… Yeah, this room didn’t exactly stir the best memories. Even now, it sent a shiver down my spine and left that unpleasant prickling sensation in my stomach.

I shook my head, banishing the images that had come creeping back. I’d long learned to let them go, not to let them control me. I had to. For my own sake.

So I shoved the thoughts as far away as I could and tried to focus on something else.

I was here because of my headaches. To get checked out. Sure, I could’ve gone to a GP, but they would have sent me here for further testing anyway. My headaches had to be my priority now. That’s what I focused on while I breathed deeply in and out — another meditation exercise.

I was so concentrated that I almost didn’t notice the door to the waiting room open quietly.

“Miss Swan?” Only when a smooth, calm voice called my name did I look up.

And holy shit. For a second, I thought I’d stumbled onto the set of Grey’s Anatomy — and I didn’t even like the show, let alone watch it. Because the doctor standing in the doorway looked like Dr. Sexy himself.

Golden, wavy hair framed his pale, angelic face. A straight nose set against prominent cheekbones. Full,  rose-colored lips curved into a serene smile. A white coat hid the lean, sculpted body and the designer clothes clinging to him like a second skin. If I wasn’t mistaken, that was Louis Vuitton’s spring collection. Way too expensive for a small-town doctor’s salary. But hey—maybe he’d inherited well, or invested smartly.

His long, elegant fingers held a patient file —my file, as I realized in that moment.

I cleared my throat quickly and got up. Really… who had hired this guy? He was far too good-looking to be a doctor. To be honest, he looked way too young, too. How old was he? I wouldn’t have guessed more than twenty-five. Tops.

And everything about him was perfect. Not a hair out of order. Not a wrinkle in his clothes. It was almost eerie how little I could read in him.

I walked toward him as he approached me. His footsteps were astonishingly quiet. His smile professional, but warm, as he extended his cold hand in greeting—a wedding ring gleaming on his finger. The design was old-fashioned. Married, and the ring was probably a family heirloom.

“I’m Dr. Cullen. I’ll be taking care of you today. If you’ll follow me, please.”

For a fraction of a moment, my thoughts froze, even though I made sure not to let it show on my face. I masked my surprise with a faint, uneasy smile that likely just looked like my headache was bothering me. Then I followed him.

Of course, I’d known Edward’s father was a doctor at the hospital.

Had I expected to get assigned to him of all people? No.

Had I expected him to look like that? Definitely not.

Hard to believe, I know—but in all my time in Forks, I’d never actually crossed paths with Dr. Carlisle Cullen. Not even back when the hospital had been like a second home to me. As far as I knew, he’d worked nights a lot back then. A phantom I only knew by reputation.

I’d always imagined the adoptive father of—God knows how many teenagers he’d collected by now—very differently. Like a richer, better-dressed version of Charlie, with his beer belly and the wrinkles that were starting to show. Certainly not… this.

Dr. Sexy didn’t look much older than me. And I couldn’t imagine myself adopting teenagers at my age. I would’ve liked to ask him how that had come about. But I didn’t know him—or Edward or Alice—well enough for that.

He held the door of an exam room open politely and gestured for me to sit on a chair. Then he closed it gently behind us and settled at the desk across from me, laying down my file and skimming over the notes Adrianna, the nurse at reception, had made.

When he looked back at me, his gaze was attentive, almost curious — but not impolite.

He repeated my name and remarked,

“Miss Swan, it’s nice to finally put a face to Bella’s famous sister. You were involved in the idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis project here at the hospital, correct? And today you’re here because of severe, recurring headaches?”

“Exactly. Pressing headaches. Coming on irregularly, often at night.” I paused briefly, weighing how I wanted to answer his first question. Of course he knew about the project and my involvement. How could he not? I was as well known in this hospital as a circus clown in neon paint.

Finally, I nodded with a light smile.

“That’s right. I was part of the project a little over a year ago. It’s also nice to finally put a face to Edward and Alice’s father—and the most famous doctor in Forks.”

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis was an incurable disease marked by unexplained, progressive scarring of the lungs, without any apparent cause. Until, after a year or two, they no longer functioned — and the patient died.

“We’ve never met in person, but I remember some of my colleagues being impressed with you. I even had a look at your work myself. It was exceptional.” A faint, approving smile touched his lips as he leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers loosely interlaced. “It surprises me to see you back here. Forks isn’t exactly a hub of medical research.”

He let those smooth, velvet words hang in the air. Almost as though he wanted to leave it open to me whether I wanted to offer more.

I shook my head and glanced down at my hands. A feeling gathered in me, somewhere between a faint flicker of flattery and that deep, hollow ache in my chest that always surfaced when this subject came up. I tried hard not to let the latter show as I answered slowly:

“I think too much work ethic has been credited to me when it comes to that project. I’m actually a physicist, not much to do with medicine. My motivation to see the idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis research finished quickly and as successfully as possible was… more personal.”

Dr. Cullen gave me a brief, puzzled look.

“But the project was never completed.”

“I know.”

He seemed to think about that briefly before reaching a conclusion. He leaned forward a little, his voice softening, warmer now, as he pressed gently:

“That personal motivation — was that what took you away from Forks for a year?”

Of course. Dr. Cullen wasn’t a fool. He’d connected the dots quickly. Now he looked at me with a gaze that was gentle but firm, as if he were trying to look straight my core.

“If it’s too personal, you don’t have to answer,” he added, almost casually. “But I try to understand my patients as a whole. Body and soul are rarely separate.”

I didn’t entirely buy it. Nobody ever did or said anything purely out of selflessness. Maybe he was simply curious. Maybe he wanted to assess me more carefully.

Either way, lying or concealing wouldn’t help me. He could learn whatever he wanted from nurses or his colleagues anyway. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a secret. So why bother?

I raised my gaze again — and only then noticed that he, too, had those strange golden eyes. The third person today. For a second, the thought unsettled me. All three with this rare genetic trait, in the same family? Wait—his children were adopted. Did Dr. Sexy deliberately pick children who looked like him? Was that already bordering on abnormal behavior? Something to be concerned about?

I didn’t have time to chase that thought. I was in the middle of a conversation. So I made a mental note to revisit the observation later—alone, in my car or tonight in my room.

Before answering him, I subtly straightened my posture, pushing my shoulders back just slightly. Hopefully without making it too obvious.

“Yes and no,” I said. “Honestly, I’m surprised Bella apparently never told you. My motivation was my… a young man who meant a lot to me. He had idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. I did everything I could to find a cure. Or at least something that would slow the disease down. That’s why I joined the project, even with my background in physics, and threw myself into it so completely.”

I took a deep breath in and out before continuing calmly:

“What can I say? Time was the enemy we couldn’t beat. His lungs scarred faster than I could keep up with the research. After that, I left the project and, as you guessed, left Forks for a while.”

Dr. Cullen had held my gaze the entire time—not intrusively, but with quiet, steady attention. When I finished, a faint shadow flickered over his angelic features. Barely perceptible. Even for me.

“Bella never mentioned it,” he said gently, voice calm and even. “She respects your privacy. It wasn’t her story to tell.”

He picked up a pen, twirling it idly between his fingers.

“I know what it’s like to race against time. Sometimes that opponent can’t be defeated.” For the briefest moment, something like bitterness crept into his tone. It faded almost instantly, replaced by that soothing, trustworthy warmth again.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Miss Swan.”

I managed a faint smile and nodded.

“No one escapes time. But that makes every moment in life all the more precious, doesn’t it?”

He was acting as though I’d just confided some great secret. It wasn’t. I was certain almost anyone here at the hospital would have told him the story if he’d asked. Maybe he already knew, and just wanted to hear it from me. Out of courtesy—or because he wanted to win my trust. 

Who knew. For now, I’d better not trust the father of a supposed mind reader too much. It suited me if he thought I found him trustworthy—that worked in my favor.

Dr. Sexy leaned forward again—giving me a perfect view of the chest muscles outlined under his fitted gray sweater. Yes, I know. The man was married. But I was still allowed to look, wasn’t I? There weren’t many handsome men in Forks. You had to take what you could get.

“As for your complaints…”

He meant to continue, but I was quicker, picking the thread up in an even, clinical tone:

“Right. Since my attacks occur mostly at night and escalate quickly, I’d personally lean toward a form of migraine or cluster headache. I know both can still develop at my age. Still, the symptom profile also matches neurological causes — idiopathic intracranial hypertension, arteriovenous malformations. Or rarer, more serious conditions, like certain CNS tumors.”

I paused briefly, giving the doctor a chance to interject. When he didn’t, I continued without waiting for his reaction:

“To be safe, I’d like to rule out neurological causes or tumors. So an MRI of the head would be appropriate. Additionally, an EEG, to detect epileptic activity or nocturnal seizure events. Bloodwork—a full panel, electrolytes, thyroid levels, and vitamin B12 and D levels—to check for metabolic or hormonal factors… really just to rule out the more serious possibilities. That way I can rest assured it isn’t something worse. If nothing shows up—and that’s what I expect—we can move toward migraine or pain therapy.”

Dr. Cullen had listened to my entire list with remarkable attentiveness. Now his calm eyes regarded me with a flicker of surprise, one that told me he’d analyzed every word. Good. That meant I’d successfully shifted the subject.

He folded his hands over my file. A barely perceptible smile touched his lips. When he spoke, his tone was warm, but I thought I heard a hint of fascination there:

“I’ve spoken with many patients who have a scientific background. But your reasoning is among the most precise I’ve ever heard. And that’s no empty compliment.”

Well of course it was. I didnt do halfhearted things.

He flipped slowly through my chart, jotting down a few brief notes, then looked up again. Back at me.I tried to keep my demeanor professional. I’d probably laid it on too thick with the know-it-all routine…

“An MRI, EEG, and the blood tests you mentioned are absolutely reasonable. I agree with your assessment that they would reliably rule out structural and metabolic causes.” His tone was perfectly professional, but there was still that subtle undertone I couldn’t quite pin down. “You seem very well-read in this subject. Have you continued with medical studies after the project?”

Great. Cue the shame of having just told a doctor how to do his job.

The worst part? He didn’t seem the slightest bit offended. If anything, the opposite. Which somehow made it worse.

No. Screw it. I’d just pull a Tony Stark. Cover the embarrassment with confidence—and a dash of arrogance.

“Forgive me. No,” I said honestly. “I only picked it up last night. A bit of research during a sleeplessness. By the way, I found your work on spontaneous viral mutations brilliant. The comparisons you drew between the progression of the Spanish flu and modern viruses were incredible. One might almost think you’d lived through the last pandemic yourself.”

I added a little flattery at the end of the sentence, to soften my presumptuousness.

“You’ve read that paper?” Genuine surprise crossed his features. Then, for a moment, his gaze dropped. Almost humble. Almost embarrassed. But my gut told me he was slipping briefly into memory instead.

He gave a quiet laugh before adding, “Yes, I searched through quite a few historical records to reconstruct the precise progression of the illness.”

“You don’t need to apologize. It’s always a pleasure to converse with intelligent minds—whether about their condition or my work. We learn through exchange.” A professional smile curved his lips as he straightened and pulled a fresh pair of blue gloves from a cardboard box.

Then he gestured toward the examination bed at the far end of the room.

“If you like, I’ll take some blood now. A few simple neurological tests, and we can schedule the MRI and EEG this week. With a little luck, we’ll have results by the end of the week.”

I stood and walked to the bed, sitting down as I rolled up my sleeve.

“You flatter me. But I’m not the least bit intelligent. What I know is only a drop. What I don’t know is an ocean.”

He was in the middle of setting up the equipment with practiced motions when he paused at my words. A real smile—small, but genuine—crossed his face as he disinfected my arm and replied in a calm tone:

“Wise words. And very aptly chosen. You like Newton?”

It didn’t surprise me that he recognized the quote. Dr. Cullen’s reputation for erudition had always preceded him. His question wasn’t asked out of politeness. He sounded genuinely interested — as though he wanted to take our conversation deeper than just medical facts or professional notes.

I gave a short, amused snort and countered:

“What physicist doesn’t like Newton?”

He was fastening the tourniquet, mouth already opening for a reply, when a knock came at the door.

Without waiting for an answer, it opened:

“Carlisle, I need to talk to you about—”

Edward stepped in. 

Rude, if you ask me.

His eyes fell on me—and he froze. Mid-step. Mid-sentence. For a fleeting instant, pure surprise washed across his features before he smoothed it back into his usual calm.

Perfect. Exactly what I didn’t want—Bella finding out about my doctor’s visit and worrying unnecessarily.

“I didn’t know you had a patient,” he said to Dr. Cullen, his tone held just a little too neutral.

Then he turned his gaze toward me, offering a faint, almost shy smile.

“I apologize for the interruption.”

I shook my head.

“No problem.”

Dr. Cullen shot his son a brief but meaningful look—one I couldn’t decipher. Almost like before, with Edward and Alice. As if they were carrying on a silent conversation.

Edward stepped closer. His words were directed at his father, but his eyes kept slipping back to me, quietly, assessing, like earlier in the living room. As if trying to memorize the impression I made in this space.

“I wanted to speak with you about something important.”

“If it’s important, I don’t mind waiting a little while so you can speak with your son, Dr. Cullen,” I said.

I hadn’t been prepared to run into the mind reader here. I had nothing on me to shield my thoughts, no plan ready to distract him. And on top of it, my head was already showing the first signs of pain again. Five minutes would do me good—to improvise an Edweird plan.

Dr. Cullen gave me a searching look, then nodded and returned his focus to the procedure.

“Give me two minutes,” he told Edward without lifting his hand from my arm, continuing the blood draw with calm, practiced movements. Tourniquet, alcohol swab, palpating the vein.

Then the needle pierced my skin. A tiny sting. I barely felt it.

What I did feel was the faint ripple of tension that passed over Dr. Cullen’s face in that exact moment. He tried to mask it, but it was too controlled. Too calm. Too carefully arranged to be entirely genuine.

Edward had gone nearly still beside the door. He must’ve thought I didn’t notice. He took one, two slow steps closer, his expression strange. Almost funny, really—because for a fleeting second, he looked like a cat catching the scent of catnip.

The moment the doctor withdrew the needle free and sealed the blood vial with swift, practiced precision, both men seemed to relax visibly. Edward drifted back toward the door, as though impatience had been the only thing holding him there.

Dr. Cullen set the needle and cannula aside with clinical precision and slid the filled tube into its case. His motions were so fluid I wondered if the blood had burned him.

“Thank you for your understanding,” Dr. Cullen said, pressing a cotton pad against the puncture site and asking me to hold it firmly. “Just a moment, please.”

Then, as though they were in a hurry to have this conversation, both men slipped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut softly behind them.

Perfect. Enough time to get my thoughts in order.

I toyed with the chain I always wore around my neck as I considered. How could I shield my true thoughts from Edward? What could I credibly put up front, let circle in my mind, so he wouldn’t get suspicious?

The answer was simple. The headaches. Any normal person at the hospital would be worrying about their health. So would I. And maybe, while I was at it, I could slip another little test for Edward into the act…

It wasn’t even five minutes before a knock sounded and Dr. Cullen stepped back in.

“Thank you for your patience, Miss Swan.”

He seemed more grounded now. His tone calm, his movements deliberate as he came toward me, checked the puncture site, secured the bandage, and nodded.

“All good.”

Dr. Sexy pulled up his stool—graceful enough in the movement that I wondered if he moonlighted as a dancer—and sat a little closer. His posture was open and professional.

“I’ll arrange the quick tests, MRI and EEG, as discussed. Have you ever noticed auras or vision disturbances? Flickering lights, zigzag lines, heightened smell or sound sensitivity — especially before the pain peaks?”

I shook my head.

“Never any other symptoms. Just pure headaches. Right now, actually—it started up again but is already fading.”

“Pure headaches, no neurological accompaniments,” he murmured more to himself, jotting a few notes into my chart. Then he set the pen down with a nod, as though that was enough for now.

When he looked back up, there was a thoughtful glint in his eyes. Not just the look of a doctor. More like something had occurred to him.

“Miss Swan,” he said, smiling faintly. His eyes carried that warm, earnest light that made most people instinctively trust him.

Not in me. I’d only ever seen that smile, that honeyed tone, in people who wanted something. Manipulators. Temptors. And I was certain Dr. Carlisle Cullen was about to want something from me. Too bad for him I’d been trained by a narcissist at early childhood.

I kept my mistrust from showing in my posture as he went on:

“I know medicine isn’t your field. But I’ve seen your work, and I’ve heard from many how valuable your contribution was to the team. Your ability to analyze with such precision and thoroughness is rare.”

Ah. So that was where the wind was blowing.

He leaned forward just slightly, giving his next words more weight:

“We’re currently collaborating with the university in Seattle on a new series of studies. Not direct clinical work—more analytical research. But someone with your mind and your discipline would be an incredible asset.”

He did it well, I had to admit. Smooth. He really made it sound like a spontaneous idea instead of a carefully crafted invitation.

I said nothing at first, giving him the look of someone genuinely flattered and surprised. Then I let the silence stretch. Gave myself a moment to “think it over.” If he truly wanted me on board, he’d add another layer to persuade me. If not, he’d wait. People trying to sell you something often grew unconsciously restless when you kept them waiting.

“Of course only if you feel up to it, health-wise,” he added smoothly, as expected. “But Bella mentioned you were looking for work again — planning to stay in Forks this time.” And there it was—the extra push. Followed immediately by subtle flattery, delivered with a brief, friendly sidelong glance:

“And it would be nice to exchange ideas from time to time. You see things from a perspective many others don’t.”

There it was — served to me on a silver platter.

All I had to do now was play along convincingly and buy myself time.

I raised both eyebrows in surprise and tilted my head, answering as if I still had doubts:

“Are you sure? I don’t know how much I could actively contribute to the project, given that my field is completely different. Back then, I had a very different motivation for getting involved in the research. I practically lived here.”

The truth was, no force on earth could drag me into medicine for longer than absolutely necessary. There was a simple reason I’d become a physicist and instead of a doctor. Why I preferred burying myself alone in a lab instead of tending to the wounded.

I hated people. I was the kind of asshole who laughed when a kid tripped and fell. Humanity was stupid, naïve, and deliberately destroying every other living thing—along with the planet we lived on. Why should I try to save them?

Of course there were exceptions. People who were good and genuine, who deserved help. If I hadn’t believed that, I never would have joined the project in the first place. But unless I knew them personally, their tragedy didn’t move me much.

I was human too. Selfish.

Other people’s suffering didn’t really interest me. Do you cry every time someone from China dies? No. That’s our nature.

Dr. Sexy held my gaze calmly, showing not the slightest hint of disappointment, and tried a different angle. His tone warm, yet factual:

“I understand. I would never want to pressure you into something you don’t truly want.”

He picked up the file again, flipping through it almost casually as he continued:

“Still, many medical and scientific breakthroughs come from an outside perspective. Physics is one of the foundations much of our medical research rests on. Sometimes the best ideas don’t come from doctors at all.”

He wasn’t wrong. At the end of the day, all science—physics, chemistry, biology—was built on the same groundwork. The methods and instruments overlapped constantly. Chemists could work in biology labs. Physicists in chemistry labs. Or me, in medicine.

Of course, it would’ve been too easy if Dr. Cullen had dropped it at my first excuse. No, for a man with his knowledge, I had to try harder. And he was right—sooner or later, I’d need a job again. I couldn’t live off my savings forever. He knew that as well as I did.

A quick, almost offhand glance brushed over me as he reached for the blood pressure cuff.

“I only mention it because the project is moving into a phase where analytic strength and interdisciplinary thinking matter more than clinical experience. And you already know the workplace and the colleagues. Your track record speaks for itself.”

His tone was utterly noncommittal, but his eyes made his interest clear.

He fixed the cuff and started the measurement. As the device hummed and inflated, I weighed my options. Should I just say no? But Dr. Cullen clearly had a purpose behind his offer — especially since he made it right after his private talk with Edweird. Did he want to keep an eye on me? Would refusing make me more suspicious? How could I get out of this gracefully? Should I even try? Maybe it would be smarter to play the clueless girl, accept, and lull them into a false sense of security while I gathered information.

The device beeped, signaling the end of the measurement. All values were normal.

On impulse, I decided to play for time — think it through properly at home, no rash decisions.

“You said the position was in collaboration with the University in Seattle? I’ll think about it and let you know. With my checkups, we’ll be seeing each other fairly often anyway.”

Dr. Cullen smiled lightly as he jotted down my blood pressure results. When his eyes lifted to mine again, there was professional warmth there—but also a quiet, almost self-satisfied glimmer.

“That sounds like a very reasonable plan.”

He calmly released the cuff and slipped fully back into medical mode:

“I’ll schedule your tests as discussed and let you know the times. The blood panel should be ready in a day or two. Once we have all the results, we’ll sit down and discuss them thoroughly.”

He closed the file and rose.

“If your headaches worsen or change in the meantime, please contact us immediately. Even at night. But I’m sure you already know that.” His tone was serious, though not alarming.

I rose as well, extending my hand once more.

“Of course, Dr. Cullen. Thank you again.”

He escorted me to the door, holding it open.

“Take care of yourself, Miss Swan.”

His words were kind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they carried a second meaning.

And as I walked down the hospital corridor, I could still feel his gaze on my back. Not hostile. But watchful.

At the end of the hall stood Edward. I guessed he was waiting for his father to be free.

I smiled as I strolled toward him with an easy step, carefully sorting my thoughts. Time to roll out my improvised hospital plan.

When I reached him, I said:

“The doc should be free now, if you still need to talk to him. It seemed important to you.”

Meanwhile, I laced my carefully constructed worry over the headaches with a planted guilty conscience—an inner voice whispering I hadn’t told Dr. Cullen the whole truth about my symptoms. I wove in images and fears of more serious illnesses I’d supposedly withheld out of dread. I laid it on thick. Auras, dizziness, even hallucinations. The full program. I even layered in fear over how Charlie and Bella would react.

Of course it was absolute nonsense. I wasn’t truly worried, nor had I lied to the doctor.

Was the tactic nasty, underhanded, even manipulative? Absolutely. But thoughts were free. Hate me if you want. No one but me would ever hear them… except, of course, a mind reader.

Edward had declared war the moment he read my thoughts without permission. And in war and love, everything was allowed.

Edward returned my smile politely, though with the faintest trace of restraint. Maybe I imagined it, but I could have sworn his brows flickered with something like concern.

“Thank you.” He made a brief gesture toward the exam room. “I was only hasty earlier. It isn’t really that important. I just wanted to ask if Carlisle still had spots open for a volunteer program at the hospital. They always fill up quickly, so I wanted to get the registration out of the way.”

I tilted my head with feigned interest, genuinely pleased to have this as a distraction from my fabricated worries.

“You’re interested in medicine? Forgive me, but it seems almost a bit of a cliché that children of doctors follow in their parents’ footsteps.”

For a moment, he paused — almost surprised. Then he clarified:

“Oh no. I’m not asking for myself. An old acquaintance of mine is considering medical school. He asked if I could sign him up for this program so he can get a closer look at the profession.”

A slight shrug, as if it were nothing more than a passing errand.

I worked hard to look outwardly and inwardly as if I bought the flimsy excuse. Did he really think I was that stupid?

Apparently my act succeeded, because his faint, measured smile returned. Neither entirely warm nor cold. He clasped his hands loosely in front of him and added,

“I do find the medical field fascinating. Just not enough to pursue it myself. Carlisle has a calling. I don’t.”

A fleeting glint of humor crossed his face as he added:

“And sometimes fascination is enough to have good conversations, without needing to stand in an operating room yourself.”

“But you seem to have more medical knowledge than I do, if the staff here can be believed.” His head tilted slightly as he studied me curiously. “Would you be tempted to work in the field, if you weren’t already so firmly anchored in science?”

That sly little fox! He was quietly probing me, measuring every reaction. Proof that Dr. Cullen’s offer hadn’t been coincidence. Why else would Edward raise the very same subject? No way it was random.

I kept my expression neutral, my surface thoughts fixed on my “headache worries,” while beneath them I weighed his question.

Finally, I gave a small amused snort, tilting my head:

“Well, I’m not very… social. I think I’m too bad with people for the medical field. But clearly, you know what I mean. Compassion isn’t exactly your strength either.”

I laced the last sentence with so much humor it hardly sounded like the subtle jab it actually was.

“You’re right. I’m no natural people-person.” Edward didn’t seem the least bit offended—which I’d expected. In fact, he even let slip the faintest laugh. He hesitated briefly, as though debating whether to leave it at that. Then, apparently unable to let me have the last word, he added with casual arrogance:

“But I do think it’s important to contribute. In any way that suits you. I, for example, donate regularly, support a few organizations. Quietly. Some people prefer helping from the background.”

What do you donate? I asked myself inwardly. Your old clothes, so underprivileged kids can look crab while getting beaten up?

I couldn’t have stopped the sarcastic thought if I’d wanted to. It had just bubbled up, triggered by the lofty look on his face.

Gods forgive me. I’m not perfect either.

“Yes. There are many ways to do good,” I said aloud, keeping my response short and modest. I was too busy wrestling with myself to keep my thoughts in line.

Edweird smiled, this time with the faintest sparkle in his eyes. Almost like he was entertained.

“That’s true,” he said softly. Then, after a deliberate pause, he added, “Sometimes even in a way that suits people better than they ever expected of themselves.”

He let the words drop as casually as if they were just a general life observation. Charming on the surface—but I heard the perfectly dosed, elegant riposte underneath.

Without waiting for me to respond, his gaze drifted toward the exam room door.

“I shouldn’t keep Carlisle waiting any longer. Excuse me.”

And with that, he left me standing there, slightly stunned.

Really?

“In a way that suits people better than they ever expected of themselves.”

What was that supposed to be?

Had he just betrayed himself in a slip of arrogance?

No. The statement was too vague, too slippery to confirm my theory. But it wasn’t empty enough for me not to take it as a pointed reference to my thoughts.

If I hadn’t had him on my radar before, that line alone would’ve put him there.

As I walked out of the hospital, I decided to treat this conversation as my first piece of evidence that — once again — I’d been right all along.

Of course, I’d keep testing him. One positive result could still be coincidence, statistically speaking.

But as I slid into my car, I couldn’t suppress a small laugh. Because even if I still had Edweird under scrunity, I was now certain enough that I could start playing with him. Experimenting.

And honestly? I was looking forward to it.

On the way home I glanced at the clock. I was starting to get hungry. Charlie would probably be taking a break soon, and I wasn’t far from the police station. So I decided to stop by, check in on him and the guys, and maybe drag my father out for a meal.

When I turned off the main road and pulled into the station lot, his cruiser was nowhere in sight. I parked in the same spot I’d always used—the one all the way to the right, beside the little hazelnut tree.

Just like a year ago, the station door gave its trademark horror-movie squeak as I pushed it open. A wave of heated air rushed at me, warming me from the rain shower I’d caught in the few seconds it took to cross from my car to the entrance.

I strolled casually through the lobby toward the offices. Even before I saw anyone, I called out brightly, “Hello!”

“Well, look who it is!” a voice boomed less than five seconds later from the direction of the break room. Deep, amused—that was Baker, of course. The man took more coffee breaks than dooing actual work. He appeared in the doorway a second later, looking so much like a Muppet I almost burst out laughing.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Swan the First.”

Wonderful. So they’d already given me a dumb nickname.

His wrinkled face split into a wide grin as he wiped his hands on a paper towel and strode over, clapping his bear paw of a hand onto my shoulder.

“Haven’t seen you here in forever. Thought you’d gotten lost in Asia or something. Charlie never told us you were back. The old fox.”

Baker looked more energetic and cheerful than he had a year ago. Judging from the dog hair clinging to his pants leg, I guessed the reason—he’d finally gotten that dog he always wanted. Seemed like his wife had finally caved. From the snow-white hair clinging no higher than mid-shin, I pegged it as a Maltese or a toy poodle. Small breed. The strands were long but sparse, which meant it was a dog that didn’t shed much.

I raised a brow as we stepped into the cozy office together. “Lost in Asia? Really?”

From the desk closest to the door, Deputy Cavallini looked up. One of the youngest on the force, only a few years older than me — I’d known him since my teens. He smiled warmly and teased:

“Or maybe you joined the FBI. We already had a bet going on whether you’d ever come back to Forks.”

The room erupted in laughter. God, I’d missed the easy warmth of this place.

Interesting. Cavallini must’ve broken up with his long-term girlfriend. Her photo was gone from his desk. But the little gold Millennium Falcon model she’d given him was still there. If she’d dumped him, he’d have cleared it out in heartbreak. And the sweet way he just smiled at me? Way too much for a taken man.

I decided to test my theory. Casually leaning across his desk, I snatched one of the cookies neatly stacked on a plate beside his paperwork. He still liked the dark-chocolate ones best.

“Hey!” he laughed, trying to snatch it back, leaning in a little too close. But I was quicker, dodging out of reach with the cookie secure in my hand. Smirking, I took a triumphant bite before answering:

“If I’d joined the FBI, there wouldn’t be any cases left for the other agents. Admit it, Cavallini. Without me, you guys were just bored!”

The men laughed. I realized how much I’d missed the easy warmth of the station.

“Yeah, we were,” he blurted, then looked almost embarrassed at how quickly it came out. He covered with a wide grin and a faint flush on his cheeks.

“You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same big mouth. Comforting, actually.”

Yup. Definitely single again.

Before I could answer, Baker — now seated at his desk with a steaming mug of coffee — looked me over curiously and asked, friendly as ever:

“So? What brings you in today? Visiting your dad, or are you here to try on a uniform yourself?”

“Forget it,” I shot back with amused venom. “If I signed on here, you’d get to retire early. And I’m not giving you that satisfaction. No thanks—I’ll stick to science. Forks doesn’t have nearly enough murders. Where’s the puzzle-solving fun in that?”

And that was mostly true. The reason I’d never joined the police was because Forks simply didn’t have interesting cases. Drunks in holding cells? That was Charlie’s business. I’d have wanted murders, disappearances, mafia cases — something I could really sink my brain into. Forks was just too small, too quiet. Which was a good thing, really. But still — I’d rather crack the riddles of physics than deal with bar fights. Better a Nobel Prize than a sheriff’s star.

Baker barked a laugh, slapped the desk in his usual eccentric way and called out:

“You hear that, folks? She’s sticking with science! Forks can breathe easy!”

“Puzzle-solving, huh? Dont say that too loud or I’ll have to dig out the old bar-fight file from when you were sixteen. Remember how she told us in five minutes who threw the first punch—while we were still collecting witness statements?”

That came from the back of the office, and Deputy Jensen’s dark brown mop of hair popped up from behind his monitor like a submarine surfacing.

The room erupted in laughter again. I flipped Jensen the finger.

That bar fight was the one and only time Charlie had taken me along on something even remotely interesting when I was a teen — the only “real” case Forks had ever had. Maybe I’d been a little too cocky with my deductions, because Charlie regretted it so much he never took me on a case again. Always left me sitting in the station. 

Not that it was my fault! How was I supposed to help it if everyone else here had the brainpower of a potato?

I mean, you could easily tell the size of the brawlers from the angle and scatter pattern of the glass shards. And the swelling stages of the injuries showed who’d been hit first.

To change the subject, I answered Baker:

“I actually came to visit my old man.”

Of course, I hadn’t forgotten that Charlie’s cruiser hadn’t been parked outside yet. But I knew his schedule—and I also knew his desk was never locked.

“Charlie’s still out. Patrol. Should be back soon. He’s the one on donut duty today, so it might take a bit longer,” Baker said, stretching and propping his boots up on the desk.

I saluted him. “Perfect. Thanks for the insider tip. That means I’ve still got time to swing by his office and raid the candy stash in his desk drawer.”

Baker chuckled and shook his head.

“If he catches you, I’ll get the chewing-out for letting you do it!”

I stuck my tongue out at him, just as Jensen’s mop of hair popped up again from behind his monitor. He chimed in with a smirk:

“Oh, please. Charlie’s soft as butter when it comes to his daughters. If we swipe his sweets, he gives us a lecture. If she does it, he just pretends he didn’t see.”

I strutted out of the room to the sound of laughter and a few murmured agreements. For a moment, I had to smile. It felt almost like I’d never left.

Just before I slipped fully out of sight, Cavallini called after me, “Forget the candy. It’s probably ancient. Better grab more of my cookies!”

So I snatched another cookie, flashed him a mischievous wink that made his cheeks pink again, and disappeared.

Charlie’s office smelled the same as always—like coffee, and like my dad. His workspace was well-used but never messy. A few open case files sat on the desk, a pen, a box of paperclips, and the dried-out potted plant I’d given him last year as office décor. He’d obviously forgotten to water it.

I flopped lazily into his chair, legs stretched out, and reached for the middle drawer of his desk. I knew that’s where he kept his candy, shoved all the way in the back.

I tugged the handle. A dull clunk. The drawer didn’t open.

What? Charlie never locked his desk.

I tried again, just in case. Nothing.

Well now… that was interesting. What was the old man hiding that suddenly needed a lock?

Was what I did next morally questionable? Absolutely.

A violation of a loved one’s privacy? Without a doubt.

Did it prove I was kind of an asshole? Definitely.

Did I care? Not in the slightest. Because I was curious.

What can I say? I’ve never been one of those saintly people who respect boundaries no matter what. For me, boundaries are… negotiable. Especially when curiosity I had a good enough reason to push them.

If Charlie had locked it, then it meant he didn’t want anyone seeing what was inside. Fair enough. No one wanted to be completely transparent.

But keeping it here at work? That meant it was either case-related — though why would he lock up a routine case file? — or it was something he didn’t want Bella or me to see.

So, the old man had secrets from me. Again, valid. But what kind of secrets couldn’t he trust me with? Best case, he’d met a woman and was keeping it quiet in his prudish way. Worst case…?

My eyes flicked around the office until they landed on the little cup of paperclips. With a flicker of guiltless glee, I grabbed two.

I was surprised how easily the motions came back as I bent the first clip completely straight, then folded it in half. 

The second I stretched out as well, except for the last kink. I bent the end into a tiny hook.

This would be my pick.

Paperclips were soft metal, only useful on cheap locks. Luckily for me, the mayor was stingy and hadn’t replaced the station’s desks since the ’80s.

I slid the folded clip in first, pushing it all the way back to hold tension on the barrel. Then the pick followed. One quick rake forward and out—click. The lock turned. The drawer slid open.

Lucky for me, some skills never rust.

On top was the usual stuff. A dented tin of peppermints, two chocolate bars — I swiped one and took a bite as I rummaged — and a half-empty pack of gum. Nothing lock-worthy.

But underneath were several sand-colored case folders, neatly stacked. When I lifted the candy tin, I caught the writing on the top file.

PA-96

Underneath, in Charlie’s cramped handwriting, was scribbled in pencil:

Port Angeles – Exsanguination??

No official case number on the cover. The word “Exsanguination” double underlined.

Well, that was unexpected. And interesting.

Why did you have old case files here, Charlie? And why lock them up?

I opened the folder.

The first thing to slide out was a yellowed newspaper clipping from Seattle, dated 1996. Back when Charlie was still green on the force.

“Three Bodies Found at Harbor – Police Do Not Rule Out Ritual Killing,” I read aloud from the headline.

In the margin, Charlie had scrawled notes:

No blood at crime scene. No drag marks (not primary scene??) No footprints (rain).

Old man, what the hell had you stumbled into?

I set the article aside for now and turned back to the file.

The first page was a black-and-white photocopy of an old Polaroid, apparently showing the victims of that murder case. The quality was terrible, grainy and dark, but what I could make out was enough. Three bodies, twisted at unnatural angles, throats mutilated so badly that one of them had practically been decapitated.

I arched a brow. Not exactly appetizing.

Then I took another bite of my chocolate bar.

Next to it, in Charlie’s handwriting:

Animal attack? Bite marks? NO! Cult murder??

The “NO” was circled three times.

Cult murders? Was Charlie really chasing a lead on some kind of sect? But why? The three corpses didn’t look like cult victims to me. No markings, no glyphs carved into the skin. They still had their clothes on. No sign of cleansing rituals, no weird figurines left behind. No symbolic staging of the bodies. The crime scene wasn’t special either—though, as Charlie had noted above, maybe it wasn’t the true scene.

At first glance, I’d have said serial killer, not cult. But hey, I wasn’t a detective.

I frowned and flipped to the next page. A handwritten memo, yellow with age:

Are you out of your mind, Swan?? Telling the press it might be ritual killings? – Formal complaint pending!

Below that, in Charlie’s hand again:

Don’t chase shadows! Don’t get carried away!

Crossed out, replaced with:

Find the pattern!

So young Charlie had actually been the one to float the “cult murder” idea. No wonder the press had latched onto it.

The rest of the folder was a clean photocopy of the official case file on the triple homicide. The final page read simply:

Investigation closed. Lack of evidence.

Not surprising. Unique, one-off cases like that often didn’t leave enough leads. And small-town cops overwhelmed by multiple homicides? Mistakes leading to dead ends were practically a given. That killed cases before they could ever go to trial.

I set the folder aside, popping the last bit of chocolate into my mouth.

The next, newer file I pulled from the drawer had no label at all. Not an official case folder—something Charlie had put together himself.

I opened it, expectant.

The papers were much newer.

The first thing I saw was a large folded sheet. When I spread it open, a huge printed map of the Forks/Port Angeles region unfolded across the desk.

In red marker, small crosses dotted the forest line, the coastline, and even spots within town. Next to some of the forest crosses, photos were clipped—dead animals, throats ripped out, just like in the old case.

Okay… correction. I’d never heard of a serial killer going back to animals. Sure, lots started with them, but once they escalated to humans, they didn’t usually circle back. This… this was weird.

Still, I guess there’s a first time for everything. True crime podcasts would have had a field day with this.

In red, Charlie had scribbled:

Animal attacks? NO! (No predator sightings; no matching bite patterns). Car accidents — normal.

Yeah, I didn’t buy the “animal attack” line either.

But then my eyes caught on a photo paperclipped near one of the red crosses on the coast. My brow furrowed. It showed a man in his forties or fifties, dead.

No way. That couldn’t be—

But Charlie’s handwriting confirmed it:

Waylon Forge. NOT an animal attack! Ritual murder??

Waylon Forge. Good old Waylon. I knew Charlie’s old buddy had died while I was gone, but I’d never asked how. Pity. I’d liked him. He used to play Santa for us at Christmas.

At the center of the map, a large red circle.

Oh, Look at that! I knew that place.

Next to it:

Hospital / Cullen

A quick scan of the rest of the map confirmed Charlie had done his homework. The deaths and animal maulings were scattered in a rough ring around the hospital.

Although… looking closer, I noticed the animal deaths clustered closer to the Cullen house than the hospital itself.

So what did we have here — some crazy hermits in the woods?

So much for “nothing interesting ever happens in Forks.” I was very entertained now.

The next paper was a printout from the county register:

Cullen, Dr. Carlisle — Medical License

I skimmed the data, twirling my necklace absentmindedly between my fingers.

Degree: University of Alaska Anchorage — date listed more than ten years ago.

His four previous workplaces were scattered across different states, separated by multiple relocations.

Age: 35

Bullshit. There was no way Dr. Cullen was 35.

Apparently Charlie thought the same, because next to it he’d written:

Age? Looks too young.

And beneath that:

Adopted 5 children; no relatives found; no records of high school/early education in database; no birth certificate in database.

I nodded to myself as I read through Charlie’s notes. The old man had done his homework properly. These documents only confirmed what I’d already suspected: something about the Cullens didn’t add up. Why was Carlisle’s past untraceable? Witness protection? Possible. Or maybe he’d buried it deliberately. Hard to pull off nowadays—but not impossible.

The question was: why?

I was hooked. I wanted more.

The next page stopped me cold, though. Because in my arrogance, I hadn’t given Charlie enough credit.

A blood analysis. Title:

Sample — Bella’s Staircase Fall Incident

Next to it, another analysis for comparison:

Sample — Bella Hospital

My father had been clever. He hadn’t just requested the standard blood panel. No, he’d gone all in — DNA analysis included.

I didn’t even want to imagine how many colleagues he’d had to bribe or sweet-talk into running those tests off the record.

The result? Exactly what I’d already figured out. Same blood type as Bella’s—but the DNA didn’t match. It wasn’t her blood.

Charlie knew the “accident” had been staged. And what impressed me even more was that he’d kept it completely secret. Even from me. Even from mind-reader Edweird. How the hell had he managed that?

Now it made sense why he’d stumbled over his words yesterday, why he tripped mid-sentence when we’d talked. Why his suspicion of Edward ran so deep.

A yellow sticky note was tacked to the bottom of the page:

CULT? Recruitment patterns? Isolated teens, sudden change in friend groups, rule-breaking + cover stories. (Animal + human sacrifices???)

Below that, in smaller writing:

Bella → watch her, but don’t suffocate.

My own name was scribbled there too — then crossed out:

Tell her the truth? NO!

Well, you hid that one nicely, Charlie. Points for the effort — and for the three whole days it took me to find these files.

And honestly? Thinking about it now… he wasn’t entirely wrong. Bella’s “recruitment” really did fit the pattern of a cult.

The next page held three DMV lookups, with grainy black-and-white photos of cars. The license plates had been carefully blacked out.

Volvo (silver) — E. Cullen

Jeep (red) — E. Cullen

Mercedes (black) — C. Cullen

In the margin, Charlie had scrawled:

Often out at night. Where to? The woods? Why?

Good question. Maybe out slaughtering a few baby-bunnies and bambis?

The following page revealed a full-on questionnaire, scribbled on graph paper in Charlie’s unmistakable handwriting:

• Why always together?
• Why no friends outside the group?
• Why empty medical records for Cullens?
• Why Bella? → timing, intensity, change from old habits
• Port Angeles ‘96 — same signature? Symbolism?
• Pale appearance → basement group? Special diet? Cult rules?

I was just about to flip to the next page when the squelch of wet boots in the hallway made me freeze. I knew that stride pattern. Damn it. I’d been so caught up in the files I hadn’t even heard the familiar rumble of the cruiser pulling in.

An instant later, Charlie’s voice, warm and unmistakable, came from just outside the door:

“Grab me a coffee too, Cavallini?”

——————-

The sterile glow of the lab lights gleamed off the chrome surfaces, sharp and cold, as Carlisle lifted the vial from its protective case. He held it delicately between two fingers, his expression one of reverent caution—as though the scarlet liquid within were equal parts poison and riddle.

Edward sat silent on one of the tall stools nearby, arms folded across his chest, his posture taut, his expression unreadable.

Rosalie was there too. They had coaxed her down into the small basement lab, though she had come reluctantly. Now the three Cullens who carried medical degrees were gathered in one place, their presence alone giving the room an unusual weight.

“This isn’t right!” Rosalie hissed, her golden eyes sparking with anger. “She trusts you as a doctor, and you abuse that trust!”

Edward’s gaze flicked toward his adoptive sister, sharp with irritation.

Carlisle’s head lifted at her words, his voice calm yet resolute. “I am only analyzing her blood. She gave it to me willingly—though for another purpose.”

With that, he broke the seal and pulled the cap free.

The moment the scent escaped, Rosalie froze mid-retort. Her head snapped toward the vial as though jerked by invisible strings. Her pupils constricted; the molten-gold shimmer in her irises flickered to a deeper shade.

“Damn it,” she breathed, low and vicious.

Edward inhaled reflexively—and stilled at once. His jaw locked; his lips pressed together with force.

A sharp, mirthless sound escaped him, half-laugh, half-snarl. His eyes stayed fixed on the vial as he muttered under his breath:

“Catnip.”