Shattered Day
The "Unofficial" Sequel to Breaking Dawn

Cynthia Cullen always knew her life was different. Sheltered by her family and always on the move, she never realized how different she was until she had a chance to really see other families. Curious as to the past of her family, she discovers a link to Forks, Washington. After her mother, who has been ill all of Cynthia's life, attacks her, Cynthia is sent to Forks to learn the truth of who she really is and why her parents cannot ever return to Forks. Who is Cynthia Cullen, and what is the connection between Bella and Edward, and a twenty-year-old murder mystery?

Prologue

"God, Bella, what have you done?"

Daddy's words rang through the night. It was a cry I heard often as a child, either directed at Mom or mumbled softly when he thought no one was around. I cringed, curling up under the covers of my makeshift bed. It was another night in a motel room, another night on the road. Daddy thought I was asleep, but I could never sleep when he and Mom fought.

"I couldn't help myself Edward. Look, she's so tiny. Renesmee was that tiny once. Can't I keep her?"

"No! Bella, you can't keep doing this. I told you that the last time." I heard Daddy's footsteps coming over to the bed and I held my breath. Please, I silently begged, please think I'm asleep. He stood over me for a moment, and I could picture him, slouching at the shoulders as if he carried a great weight and the sadness in his brown eyes. What was it that made Daddy so sad?

Finally, he walked back across the motel room. "Give it to me, Bella. We need to bury it."

"No! She's my baby! You can't!"

"Bella! It's already dead. Look at it." There was a brief struggle and I could hear Mom crying. Daddy said, "Stay with Cynthia. When I get back, we'll have to pack up and go."

Mom sobbed the whole time Daddy was away. I peaked out from the covers, and saw a nightmare. Mom was covered in blood. It drenched her pale skin and made her dark hair sticky. She kept crying for her baby, for her little 'Nessie'.

When Daddy returned, he shook me and got me up. "Come on, Cynthia, we're leaving." I knew how to pack my clothes by then. Only five and I could pack as quickly as Daddy. Mom was no help, moving from crying to slowly rocking back and forth, humming a lullaby.

"Daddy, will Mommy be okay?"

"Of course, baby. Mommy is just a little sick right now. We're going to move and she'll get better."

Daddy always made that promise. Each time we moved, it was to make Mom better. It never did. It didn't always end the same, but something would compel Daddy to move us. I had to be homeschooled, working off computers in libraries to hand in my assignments, since we might move three or more times a year. Nothing got Daddy to move us faster than when Mom started talking about wanting a baby.

We finally stopped moving when I was sixteen. Our newest home was a rather modest apartment in New York City with fading wallpaper and cracks in the ceiling. I got to graduate from an actual high school. Daddy watched me get my diploma, Mom was too sick.

Standing there, watching the people I graduated with though never connected to, I realized how different I was. My mother was slender and graceful with pale skin, long dark hair, dark circles under her eyes and a vacant expression on her face. My father was muscular with pale skin, dark blonde hair, sad brown eyes, and always slouched like he bore the weight of the world on his back. I should have looked like them, but it was not obvious to me that I didn't. I had naturally tan skin and long silver-blonde hair, green eyes and full lips. Nothing about me looked like my parents. Not to mention, I realized my parents looked like they were my age. My father could easily pass as my brother or friend.

It was at that point in my life I decided to find out the truth.