Consequences Follow You Home

Nothing of any importance can be taught. It can only be learned, and with blood and sweat.

-Robert Anton Wilson

Disclaimer: Plot is mine. Everything Twilight is not.

Another disclaimer: With regard to themes and content, this will include mature themes and, at times, explicit and graphic scenarios. The story is based on the world of crime, therefore there will be a great deal of illegal activity - such as drug use, murder, violence and assault in its various formats. If you're comfortable with those themes, I hope you enjoy my story but if you find yourself triggered by those themes in a fictional context, then this story might not be for you. Otherwise, happy reading! :)

BPOV

Things change in weird ways. But then, other things don't change at all and that's even weirder.

I wake in my childhood bedroom. It's the same as it always has been. Renee picked me up from the airport last night, insistent that she couldn't wait a moment longer to see me. She lectured me all the way home. I watched the city of Chicago blur on the other side of the window. It's so much prettier when I'm not looking too close.

"This is your home, Bella," she said. "You don't leave home like that."

I roll over to the other side of the bed and stand to change back into my clothes from last night – black leggings and a baggy grey sweatshirt.

It's a nice room, really. White walls, dark oak furniture, soft grey blanket. Simple and minimalist and trendy. I miss it in some ways. But in most ways, I don't. I hated it here.

I empty the clutter of my handbag onto a stupidly expensive cream rug. Between the wrappers and old receipts and currencies of every kind, there's nothing much of worth. Only my purse, a half-finished bottle of vodka and my favourite red lipstick.

I repack my handbag, stowing the trash and spare cash in the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet, knowing that nobody'll come in here. The room is tucked away on the fifth floor, hidden out of the way, a whole wing to itself.

I grab the handbag and sling my duffel over my shoulder. I pick up my phone and then head for the door, navigating my way to the kitchen. On my way, I note the new art pieces, the new pictures, the new decorations dotted around the place. Renee must have been bored, but I suppose that's not a new development. She's always been bored.

She's waiting there in the middle of her enormous kitchen, three stacks of fresh pancakes steaming on the kitchen island, in a peach summer dress with white flowers on it and a plain white apron. Her hair falls in those natural bouncy curls, but the colour is artificial now, ever since the greys started creeping in, alongside the crinkles around her eyes. She really fits the role of a perfect housewife; she always has.

"You're awake," she says, the tiniest of smiles on her face, her voice just a tad squeaky. "Your father is on his way home."

"Where is he?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.

"On his way home," she repeats, avoiding the real question, dousing one pancake stack in maple syrup, her eyes flitting away from mine.

"From what?"

"Something went wrong at work. A bad shipment or something." She shrugs and her feet shuffle uncomfortably. She doesn't say it, but it translates easily. He's been out killing. I'm not surprised or shaken. It's been this way since birth.

I nod my head and we start eating our individual stack of pancakes in silence. I notice that she's had her lips filled recently. I can tell because they look ridiculous.

"Jane and Alec can't wait to see you." It's an obvious lie. My siblings hate me. They always have. Esme said it was a twin thing, but I'm not so sure.

"I'll visit them soon." We both know I won't.

She skirts around mentioning the obvious for a while.

She tells me about how my niece, Mariana, and my nephew, Santiago, are so excited to see me. That Mariana's christening went smoothly. It's a dig, coated in sugar, because she's pissed that I wasn't here to attend.

She tells me that everyone misses me and that Esme and Carlisle ask about me all the time.

She tells me that my cousin, Jessica's, wedding was lovely and elaborate and that she's still honeymooning in the Caribbean with her new husband, Riley Cullen. I used to be friends with Riley Cullen. I used to be friends with a lot of people, though.

She tells me all about Rosalie and Emmett's engagement party. She rambles about the lovely evening and the miniscule, irrelevant details for as long as she can, because she knows it hurts me.

I want to believe that my mother loves me, but she makes it hard when she gets like this - all catty and passive aggressive. I kind of can't stand her.

Eventually, she says, "We found you a temporary place to stay until you find a house you want. Esme picked it out." Her head shakes and she sighs, "I hope you like it there, it's a lovely apartment building, and we couldn't get you the penthouse, but we got you the next best thing. I think you'll love it." She sounds almost sincere, and it makes me a little bit less sad.

I don't let my mind drift to the reasons I can't go back to my real house, my own house, the one I spent two years in. I can't think of that anymore; it's burning my brain away.

I've finished my pancakes so I chew on my lip and then my knuckles. I blink fast because I'm not going to cry. I promised myself that I was not going to cry anymore.

Instead, I lose myself in the meaningless details that Renee swears I have to know. The colour of the marble, the pattern of the tiles on the bathroom floor, the kitchen layout, the couch colours, the bed sizes, the mahogany tables.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"North side," she says, in the way that implies I'm stupid for asking.

I pause, my mind winding. "I thought we were going to chose a more remote location."

Her eyes roll, she smacks her silicon lips. "Darling, you're Isabella Swan, it doesn't matter where you go, that's always the truth. I thought you learnt that from what happened last time."

I blink at her, stunned. My fingers clutch my sweatshirt and I freeze in my seat. I don't think if I've ever hated her as much as I do in this moment.

"You'll love it there, honey, and we can start looking for a proper house whenever you're ready. Your old one was always much too small," she snips, turning her nose up and tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah," I say. My voice is faint and I don't feel myself saying the words. "I'll get going to start unpacking once Ch-Dad gets back."

She nods her head and takes another dainty bite from her pancakes. I wonder if she feels guilty. I wonder if she pities me.

I don't think she does. My mother turned to stone a long time ago.

When she realises I'm not going to say anything more, she asks, "How was the retreat? Switzerland is so beautiful. It's so calm there. I remember when your father and I went skiing. Beautiful place, it was. Do you feel better?"

I don't feel like talking, so I lie, "Yeah, it was nice. I feel great." I wonder if she actually believes all of that bullshit, or if she doesn't want to talk about anything real because it might hit home.

Not long later, Charlie arrives as we're cleaning our dishes. His pancakes are cold but he says he's not hungry anyway. He doesn't hug me, which hurts more than I thought it would. He doesn't even say hello.

He just says, "I didn't realise you were back."

"I arrived at midnight." I keep my voice steady and my face impassive.

"And you came here?"

"I wanted to see you first."

"Of course," he says.

I want him to hug me. To tell me everything's okay because he's going to handle it and nobody's ever going to hurt me again. He doesn't, though. Instead, he takes the coffee Renee hands him, sits on a tall stool and stares at me.

"How was that retreat?"

"It was relaxing."

Renee excuses herself to water the plants, but we know she's going out for a cigarette, kissing Charlie on the cheek as she goes and hugging me goodbye.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she sighs, and my head spins.

Charlie waits until she's gone before he speaks. "You should go and start unpacking, Bella. I'll need you for work soon, so you better get yourself set up quick." He's dismissing me. I hate him for it.

"Okay," I say, hating the tremor in my voice and the tremble in my hands.

"I'll have Jake sort you out with your new apartment," he says, not even glancing in my direction.

I grab my bags and I nod my head at him before making my way to the front door. Jake is standing outside of my father's Bentley, waiting for me. He grins and I crack my first proper smile of the day.

"Long time, no see, pollito," he says, opening the passenger door for me. I slip inside. He takes my bag and puts it in the trunk before sliding into the drivers seat.

Jake worked with me, once upon a time, but then he injured his leg and couldn't run anymore, so he's one of my father's drivers now. He's loyal, funny, kind and handsome – tidy black hair, tan olive skin and twinkly, blue eyes. He was my first crush, not that I'd ever admit it. He's what I'd consider an old friend.

Once we're out through the gates, he leans over and pecks my cheek and I blush embarrassingly.

He grins, chuckles, "Oh, pollito, I've missed you."

I shake my head and roll my eyes, snuggling up in my seat. "How are your kids?" I ask conversationally.

He grins. "My baby girl is so big now and we've got a baby boy on the way."

I smile back at him. "How far along are you?"

"Well," he chuckles, "I'm not pregnant, but my wife is twelve weeks along. We're so excited!"

I smile and I wonder if I'll ever live a life like that; if I'll live long enough to reach a life like that. Kids and husbands and exciting new things.

"But enough about me, pollito, I talk too much with you. Tell me where you've been." His eyes glint and I know that I can't tell him the truth, not because I don't trust him, I just don't want to hurt him, so I play along with my lies about an impromptu de-stress at a fabulous resort in Switzerland. I dust it with silly details to make it convincing and he laps it up.

"I'm glad," he says, nodding his head, "you always work too much."

"There is too much work to be done." I shrug.

"And plenty people, too," he reminds me. "You're not the only one that can do it."

"I know."

"You're just the best," he jokes, reaching over to poke my stomach so I giggle, like I know he wants me to.

We pull into an underground garage in the North side of the city before I can really get a glimpse of the apartment building, but from what I did see, it's very, very tall and modern looking.

He locks up the car in a visitor spot. He leads me around to a more exclusive car lot, locked by a code, where my car is sitting up in the corner – a matte black Audi R8 that I've had for years and refuse to get rid of, no matter how much my mother complains it's an embarrassment.

"Here is your baby," he grins, tucking the keys into the pocket of my bag, which is on his shoulder. "I've written the codes for all of the entrances in a notebook for you," he tells me, striding over to an elevator. "This is the more private entrance."

"Who uses it?" I ask.

"You?" He shrugs. "I don't really know who else."

We zip up to the fifty-ninth floor; he says it's only the penthouse on the sixtieth. He shows me around my apartment, puts my bags on the coffee table, offers to help me unpack, but I tell him to go home to his wife and baby girl.

I tell myself they need him more than I do, but I'm not sure I believe it because as soon as he's gone, I pour myself a shot of vodka from the bottle in my bag.

I do unpack a lot of things that day. And the whole time, there is water dribbling down my cheeks that I refuse to call tears because I do not cry. Not anymore. Not about this.

Not about them.

A/N: I've made some adjustments and have reviewed and adapted the story so that it flows better in the direction I want it to go. Let me know what your thoughts are.

- Laylz