A/N: See, I told you I'd be back! Those of you who put me on author alert after reading my pack fic, "Season of the She Wolf" may be a bit surprised to see me writing a B/E fic. Even if you HATE Bella and want to smack the crap out of Edward, give them a chance in this fic for my sake, please. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.

Also, let me say, in advance, that I'm aware there's another fanfic out there that incorporates the concept of "face blindness." It's written by an awesomely talented writer and it's probably worth a read, but I intentionally have avoided reading it. Hopefully, what I've done here is different enough from her story to show that there's room in the fandom for more than one fic based on this idea. The idea for my fic came from a movie that I thought fell tragically short of its potential given this cool plot element of face blindness.

The two most amazing betas in the world, Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah, are with me again on this story. I love them more than a pumpkin-spice latte with whipped cream on top!

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown,

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down,

Creep home and take your place there,

The spent and maimed among.

God grant you find one face there,

You loved when all was young.

Charles Kingsley

"You and your partner are welcome to come by, Detective Masen."

Of course it's a lie—a white lie, the kind that everyone tells just to be polite. The kind that isn't really supposed to count against you. At least, I hope they don't count, because I've had to tell plenty of them—my fair share and then some—in the past eight years.

This one is a whopper. I hate anyone invading my home.

Only Alice and Carlisle move freely through the front door of my sanctuary. Not even Carlisle's wife, Esme, whom I've known all my life, has ever visited in the five years that I've lived here. Although I've already met Masen and his partner once in their offices at the police station, my stomach roils at the prospect of having these brawny, intimidating, strange men standing in my living room. Examining and touching and moving my things. Asking endless questions in subtly accusing tones. Commenting on the lack of portraits and mirrors on the walls.

I detest the thought of them here, but I do want to help them. So I lie like the expert I am, and use the word "welcome" when what I really mean is "Not just no, but hell no."

Masen seems to realize that I'm less than sincere. Although I can't remember his face—of course I can't—I do recall the uncanny perceptiveness he exhibited when Carlisle and I met with him and his partner. It's almost as if the man can read minds.

"Just give me a call before you ring the bell," I say, automatically.

"Is that really necessary? You can look at our IDs through the window before you open the door."

I grit my teeth and bite back a frustrated retort. I'm no good with faces, and I've told him this already. I mean, seriously no good. It's not that I'm stupid or inconsiderate or inattentive. My intelligence is above average. My social skills once were, as well. And I probably pay attention more than most.

For all the good that it does me.

I'm a lot better with voices, and this one … this one jangles every nerve ending in my body, including some that haven't shown signs of life in years.

Even sieved through the dehumanizing filter of the phone, his voice is smoke and whiskey. Slow jazz oozing through the thick, sultry air of a New Orleans night. The sensual stroke of velvet across sweat-slicked skin. Pure sex in liquid sound. My body remembers this voice, and it reacts with a surge of aching want that is completely alien to my reality. I almost laugh aloud at the absurd inappropriateness of my physical response.

Still, I can't afford to change my defensive habits just because a man's voice makes me think of things that a woman with my disability has no business thinking about. Just as I can't recognize a face, I can't match a photo ID with the face of the person holding it. I identify people through voices and visual cues unrelated to their facial features.

"I can't open the door unless I know it's you."

"Can't, Miss Swan?" He's clearly annoyed now, and no longer making an effort to conceal it. "Or won't?"

Even a casual listener would register the undertone of offence in his velvety voice. Devoted student of vocal nuance that I am, his pique is as apparent to me as if he's shouted obscenities.

"Won't," I concede. "As I explained when we met at the station last week, I'm not able to recall faces. For safety's sake, I don't open the door unless I can confirm a visitor's identity with a phone call."

"Is that so?"

He's not just irked, he's insulted. Disproportionately so, given the circumstances and in light of the details I've already shared with him about my condition. There's more to his reaction than simple aversion to the inconvenience of my little identity test. He's taking this personally, and I'm not sure why.

I don't want the man in my home, but I don't want to offend him either. I want to give him whatever help I can, even though I know it ultimately will be useless at best and a time-suck at worst.

Tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, I grab my palm-sized notebook off the coffee table. Quickly, I flip to the pages where I recorded my observations from my meeting with Detective Edward A. Masen and his partner, Jasper Whitlock.

Although the surly, defensive Detective Masen is on the phone today, it was the courtly and courteous Whitlock who called last week to introduce himself as one of the cold case investigators newly assigned to my father's file. He'd asked me to go to the station and meet with him and his partner. I took Carlisle with me. I needed his emotional support—not to mention his professional help—in dealing with the trip downtown and the trauma of seeing so many faces all at once.

I haven't bothered to review my notes since then. Now I scan them rapidly, hoping for a clue as to why Masen's annoyance seems so out of proportion to the situation.

Whitlock's page is full of densely scribbled notes. I've underlined the features that I think will be most helpful in recognizing him in the future: tall, curly blond hair, blue eyes, sexy southern drawl, very gentlemanly. At one point I jotted: Should try to introduce him to Alice. Just her type!

This page is typical of what I do upon meeting someone for the first time. I make detailed notes about things like hair color and style, distinctive habits, accents and vocal patterns, what they do, how they stood, sat or moved. It's not unusual for me to fill several pages for a single person. Carlisle calls it coping. I call it something else: self-defense. The more I can record about people, the more likely I'll be able to identify them through non-facial clues the next time we meet.

In stark contrast to Whitlock's page, the uncharacteristic lack of detail on Masen's sheet is nothing short of shocking.

Det. Edward A. Masen. Early 30s? Green eyes. Reddish hair.

Fuck. HOT. Too bad I won't remember this one.

The "fuck hot" is underlined three times for emphasis, and I can't help but wonder what I was thinking when I wrote it. It's not as if I have any basis of comparison by which to make that assessment of Detective Masen's looks. It's not as if I can remember what fuck hot is supposed to look like. But those underlined words do offer a clue as to what Detective Masen's problem may be right now.

If he's good-looking enough to convince me of it, he's probably also the kind of man who isn't used to being forgotten by members of the opposite sex. My assertion that I don't recall his handsome face has likely bruised his male ego.

Well, it can't be helped, and it's certainly nothing personal. I am face blind.

I've already told Masen and Whitlock this, even though I'm sure they read it in the files before we ever spoke. I urged them to Google it. Look it up on Wikipedia. I have—repeatedly, although the information never changes. It's a real problem. A real bitch of a problem. Simply put, my brain is no longer capable of creating the neural connections that would allow me to remember a face.

In the beginning, I would spend excruciating amounts of time—as much as I could steal—cataloging every feature, each mole and hair, eyelash and wrinkle, dip and divot and dent of every new face. It didn't take long before I realized this was exhausting, impractical and, ultimately, useless—because every single face was new, every time I saw it, no matter how many times I saw it. Regardless of how much effort I invest in trying to memorize a face, I am doomed to forget it as soon as the owner walks out of my sight.

Not long after I gave up focusing on trying to remember faces, I began to keep my clue journal. That notebook of visual cues is why my doctor, Carlisle Cullen, my late father's best friend, wears outlandishly outdated bow ties, even on the weekends and hottest dog days of summer. It's why my best friend, Carlisle's daughter, Alice, hasn't changed her distinctively short, spiky hairstyle in nearly a decade, even though the woman lives and dies by the latest fashion trends.

The neurologist who diagnosed my disorder said there was always a slim chance the problem would resolve itself given time. Or that I'd one day see a face—just one out of the thousands a person encounters in a normal lifetime—that would stick, and I'd know the next time I saw it again.

After eight years, I've given up hoping for that one face.

I've come to accept that I will never again feel the warmth and security that comes with seeing a familiar face. I'll never again recall facial features. Not even the face of my small-town police chief father, whom I'd loved more than anyone, nor the faces of the men who'd gunned him down in front of me eight years ago.

After pumping five bullets into my father's chest, those same men clubbed me in the head repeatedly with a steel pipe and left me for dead. Only I didn't die—well, not completely.

My body survived the beating, but my brain was damaged. I was just eighteen and strong and determined to live. Maybe that's why the murderers of Chief Charles Swan only managed to kill the part of my brain that creates memories.

The irony is that they couldn't have done a better job of silencing me if they had killed me.

If I'd died, maybe there would have been forensic evidence to help investigators identify Charlie's killers. But as I am—a witness without the ability to remember the killers' faces—I'm worse than useless. Over the years, countless police officers and detectives have wasted a multitude of man hours trying to get me to remember, trying to make something out of the worthless bits and pieces I did recall about that night.

Detectives Masen and Whitlock are just the latest in a long, beleaguered line of investigators. I wonder how many times we'll meet before they realize I'm useless. Before they give up.

Desperation and despondency percolate in my mind. Abruptly, I'm overwhelmed by the certainty that Masen and his partner are my last chance to find my father's murderers. If … when … they walk away, Charlie's case will ice over once again. Finally and forever.

"Miss Swan?"

Even rife with annoyance, his voice still makes my nerve endings tingle.

"I'm sorry, Detective Masen. My doctor and I did explain my condition to you. I'm sure you can understand my caution."

His exasperation crackles over the phone line. "Yes, I remember what Dr. Cullen said."

But I can tell he doesn't really believe it.

He isn't the first cop to suspect that I am intentionally obstructing the investigation into my father's murder. Over the years, my cooperation has convinced some of the reality of my condition, but far more have walked away sure that I am either delusional, too spoiled to care, or just plain lying.

Masen's skepticism is nothing new. Still, for some reason I can't explain, it gets under my skin. Suddenly, I experience a rare flare of anger.

"Detective, I'm not making this up," I say, petulant as a child who's been wrongly accused of stealing the last cookie from the jar. "I want to find my father's killers as much as you do. More. Believe me."

His momentary silence communicates his surprise at my minor outburst. Finally, he clears his throat.

"Yes, well, I'm sure we all want to see justice done. There have been some new developments since we met, and Detective Whitlock and I would like to go over them with you. We'll be at your house in thirty minutes, if that's okay."

It isn't really a question. He's done with me, at least for the next half hour, when he and his smooth-talking partner will show up on my doorstep and upend my tranquility.

Resigned, I agree. "That's fine, detective. I'll see you then."

He disconnects before I have a chance to remind him again to call when he reaches my door.

When the dial tone sounds in my ear, I hit the speed dial for Carlisle. If he can get here before Masen and Whitlock, he could relieve one layer of tension between us. He'll recognize both men. He'll be able to open the door without requiring them to go through my aggravating little ID test. And, if I'm honest with myself, I could use the comfort of his fatherly, familiar presence.

Guilt and self-loathing niggle at my awareness as I listen to the phone ring. I hate being dependent on others.

Financially, I don't need anyone. Charlie had a ridiculous amount of life insurance for a small-town police chief—enough to cause the first investigators to thoroughly examine the possibility that I'd been involved in his murder for the insurance payout. Between that money and what I make as a freelance copywriter, I'm able to live mortgage-free in my modest little bungalow in the Seattle suburbs. But my work-at-home career and financial independence also serve to further insulate me—Carlisle would say "isolate"—from the outside world.

Even though it's his day off from the hospital, he answers on the second ring.

"Hello, Bella. How are you?"

His voice is melting marshmallows swimming in rich hot chocolate. Your dad's favorite old sweater tucked around your shoulders on a chilly, rainy Sunday afternoon in autumn. He'd spent his entire career as a small-town doctor in podunk Forks, Washington, where Charlie was chief of police. But when my father died, Carlisle moved to Seattle with Esme and Alice, and made it his mission to take care of me.

"I'm okay." My shaky voice tells him clearly that I'm not, but he doesn't call me on my fib. He simply waits for me to continue. "Those detectives we met last week … the ones that are working on Charlie's case? They're going to stop by in a half hour. Is there any chance—"

I don't even have to finish my question.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says immediately, without a trace of resentment that I've probably interrupted his day. He adds, automatically: "Brown jacket, white shirt, blue tie with yellow polka dots."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Carlisle. I'll see you in a little while."