No copyright infringement is intended, Stephenie Meyer owns these characters. I own the story.
My head is pounding. I bury myself beneath two very thin hotel pillows, attempting to block out the light that's streaming through the window. It feels like the first time I've seen the sun since I got here, and of course, it has to show up today. I rub my eyes, trying to will away the pain in my head as I burrow deeper into the bed.
Rolling over with a yawn, I give up on sleep and stare at the ceiling. A crumple grabs my attention, and I reach beneath me to pull out the paper that's changed everything. I hold it out in front of me, staring at the words there, only to be reminded once again of the ones that aren't.
It just doesn't make sense; there's no reason why my father's name shouldn't be there. Nor is there any explanation that makes sense for the incorrect last name. The records office had to have screwed up – or the hospital. Obviously, someone has made a huge mistake here.
Now this man's claim – that I'm his daughter – is a very real possibility that I'm not willing to accept. It looms largely in the pit of my stomach, putting a bitter taste in my mouth.
Sitting up, I look around for my phone and then grab it from the table. Searching the history, I pull up the hostel's phone number again and hit send, hoping that this time, I'll be lucky.
Static, ringing, and then, I ask again for my parents. Sadly, I'm met with a new accent and gibberish all over again, "Ik ben droevig, mar wij hebben geen gasten met die naam."
I hang up without leaving a message.
Completely unfazed by any damage I may do, I let my phone fall from my hands to the floor. My body sags to the bed and I stare up at the ceiling once again, fighting the urge to cry in frustration. I hate it. I hate this. I shouldn't have come here; should never have opened this veritable Jack in The Box. Definitely shouldn't have turned the crank. Now he's popped up and I'm just... not ready to handle it.
And as much as I want to deny it, I know that no matter how hard I try, Jack's not going back into his little box.
But I won't cry. I have no reason to cry. No matter how much Jack stares and taunts and makes me crazy, I have to ignore it. I have no proof, and my father's name missing could be a fluke. A fluke that's only making me question things I shouldn't be questioning. Until I have proof, there's no reason for me to freak out like this. I don't freak out; everything in my life is orderly, structured – the way I like it. Just because I made the decision to come here so abruptly doesn't mean that anything has to – or is going to – change.
My stomach growls loudly, and I decide to pull myself from the bed for a shower. I know food will only make the knot in my belly worse, but I do need to try to eat something. After cleaning up, I stare into the drawers at my clothes. Technically, I should be packing right now. I should be going home today. But...
My eyes wander to the table and settle on the envelope that Jacob Black gave me yesterday.
And I know, I can't do it. I can't leave yet. Damn you, Jack.
Once I'm dressed, I sit at the table and draw the envelope toward me. Carefully opening it, I pull everything out, spreading it in front of me.
Inside are several documents: deeds, bank information, details on insurance policies and pensions from the department. I read little bits of each one, looking for a clue. For anything. When I stumble across the papers with dollar signs and numbers, my eyes widen. The money isn't substantial, but it's still enough to surprise me. For a twenty-three year old who works in her father's construction company as a receptionist, money like this is unheard of.
And that thought reminds me of how much I dislike my job. Like a good daughter, I caved to the request of my father and went to college for a degree in business. I remember his words to me:
"Someday, Bella, this will be yours. You have to know how to run it properly when I'm no longer able."
How could I have said no? While it wasn't what I truly wanted for my future, sometimes obligation rules over desire. I've always been daddy's girl; some say I'm spoiled – I prefer to tell them I'm well taken care of. He only wants the best for me, and I can't be upset about that.
Shaking off the negative emotions, I begin to read through everything more thoroughly. There are lots of clauses and words I don't quite understand in the documents. And, of course, nothing helpful.
Eventually, I stumble onto the address of the house that, according to Jacob, is now technically mine. I can't help but wonder what it looks like. Then I start to wonder if going there might help me; like maybe this guy has the secrets to this mystery hidden in his closets or something.
It's worth a shot, right?
Once again, I'm out the door without a second thought. I really should stop doing this. But even as I think that, I climb in my car.
After fifteen minutes of fighting with the British voice lady, Veronica finally tells me it's a pretty short drive from the inn. When I make a wrong turn, and she begins to recalculate for the third time, I consider tossing her out the window. The Pacific Ocean has to be nicer than a rental car, right? A GPS is supposed to keep you on track, keep you from getting lost; it's not supposed to frustrate the hell out of you. I don't want to be frustrated right now, I need to be calm and I need her to stop fucking with me.
A few turns and about ten minutes later, I finally pull up in front of a cream colored house with brown trim. It's not new – if I had to guess, I'd say mid to late twenties – but the landscape is nice, and it definitely looks well kept. I'm a little shocked at the size of the yard. In the Bay Area, you're lucky to have room for a grill in your backyard.
The driveway at the back of the house leads up to a garage with a set of stairs. It's just gravel and dirt, no pavement. Near the garage door, there's a silver truck parked in the drive, and I wonder if this was Mr. Swan's too. I don't remember seeing anything about it in the paperwork. I pull my car in and sit for several minutes, just staring at the house and biting my lip. Now would be the perfect time for my parents to call, to put an end to this.
As aggravated as I am with them, I still want them to tell me that this is all crazy, and that I should go home. I stare at my purse, willing my phone to ring inside it. But, of course, it doesn't happen.
With a sigh, I force myself to get out of the car and walk to the back steps slowly, taking in my surroundings. There's a tire swing on the neighbors tree and a pair of muddy boots at the bottom of the steps leading up to the house. A dog barks in the distance and I jump, nearly missing the first step as I begin to climb.
I have no reason to be nervous, but for some reason my hands won't stop shaking. It takes me several tries to get the key in the lock at the top of the stairs. I flex my fingers, finally getting the door unlocked and push it open. Right inside appears to be a work room: fishing gear, tackle boxes and various other things are stacked against the wall, each in what I imagine are their own little spaces. It's not messy or disorderly. It reminds me a little of my own garage, and the way I have things organized so I know how to find them.
In the corner are what look like handmade wooden cabinets. I walk closer, and on the surface are brightly colored lures lined up next to each other. Grabbing one of them, I hold its weight in my hand and smile a little. I haven't been fishing since I was a teenager. My dad used to take me with him to Cull Canyon on Saturday mornings. He always got a kick out of the fact that I didn't mind touching the worms or baiting my own hooks.
I set the lure back down, careful to keep it in the same place, even though I'm not sure why. This was obviously something Mr. Swan enjoyed doing, and even if he's not here anymore, I'm sure these things were important to him. Just like in my house, where everything has its place, it would bug me if someone moved my stuff around.
With a sigh, I turn to my right and walk into the kitchen. This, too, makes me smile. I like to cook, even if I'm not very good at it. The countertops are dark and the cabinets look really fancy, like they've been painted or replaced recently. It's not the largest kitchen I've ever seen, but it's very open and feels comfortable.
I drag my fingers across the sink and stare out the window in front of me, looking at the mountains and the sea, wondering to myself what it would be like to cook here.
Not wanting to get too far inside my own head, I turn from the sink and walk through another doorway into the dining room. In one corner there are boxes of what look like shotgun shells, and gathered on the floor next to it is a variety of rags, dirty with what I imagine is gunpowder.
From here, I can see the living room. There's a large recliner in a soft brown that blends in with the worn wood floors. Against the wall opposite is a cozy looking fireplace and a couch covered in what looks like comfortable flannel pajamas.
Everything looks comfy, but the emptiness and quiet of the room is glaring. For some reason, this house cries out for people to be in it, laughing smiling and having fun.
I walk further into the room, my footsteps creaking against the floor as I trail my hand across every surface I can reach. In the hallway, the first door I see is a bathroom. It's a nice size, but very plain – no colors or anything – no sign of a woman's touch here. After taking a brief look, I close the door behind me and turn to look up at the walls. There are no pictures like those in my own house, and the place could definitely use a fresh coat of paint.
Still, there's a sense of comfort floating in the air.
A noise snaps my attention to the next doorway. My steps slow and I stop before leaning forward and peering around the frame. A squeal falls from my lips and I nearly jump out of my skin, attempting to move away with a scramble but tripping over my own feet. My heart beats out a fast paced rhythm in my chest and before I can even blink, the man I've found rounds on me.
His hand shifts to his hip briefly before shooting out in front of him. I hear the click of the safety release as my eyes settle on the barrel of a gun pointed at my head.
Instinctively, my hands rise in front of me and I scream. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Taking another step back, my body crashes into the door behind me and my palms drop, fingernails digging into the wood as I frantically search for an escape. Concentration is written across the hollow in his cheeks, and still he doesn't lower the weapon. I'm trapped.
After several seconds of no sound but our combined heavy breathing, his hand finally lowers and I hear the safety click as he moves it back into place.
With measured movements, he tucks the weapon safely into the back of his pants with one hand, while reaching up with the other to tug the earbuds from his ears.
I look at him – at his hands – and that's when it hits me. It's him. The man with the boots – from Jacob Black's office. Warm, warm, warm. He's not in his uniform today; he's dressed all casual in holey jeans and a grey hoodie. And his hair looks different, still perfect in its craziness, but lighter in the sun that streams through the window at his back.
What's he doing here?
It's like he's moving in slow motion again, and this time I'm sure this feels like one of those moments you'd see in a movie. Only this is the scene just before someone gets accidentally killed. Thank god for small favors – he apparently doesn't have an itchy trigger finger.
My chest is rising and falling in a pace that seems to match his as he walks forward and stares at me, his eyebrows furrowed. Now that he's closer, there's a redness I can see in his eyes, from sadness or anger, I don't know.
"You do not sneak up on a cop," he spits, his nostrils flaring as his upper body lurches forward and his face is only inches away from my own. "Do you have a death wish?"
His eyes are amazingly hard. I feel like any second now, they'll turn into fire with the level of heat at which they're burning into me.
I take a deep breath, placing one hand on my chest as I try to calm the pounding of my heart. "I didn't know anyone else was here!" I screech, clearly still upset.
I feel tears well up in my eyes and he steps forward again, closer. I lower my gaze, not wanting him to see me upset. I don't know why I thought coming here was a good idea.
"Obviously," he says and I see as his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"I'm sorry, I didn't, I don't," I stammer and then let out a huge gust of air through my lips. "Shit."
He scoffs, but doesn't say anything. Turning back around, he starts slamming books into a box, like he's releasing his frustrations on their withered pages. I lift my head and look around behind him. There are boxes on the bed; books and trophies scattered across the room and floor.
"Are you just going to fucking stand there and stare at me?" he asks after a moment of silence. "I'm almost finished. Don't worry; I won't take anything you might be able to sell."
My mouth falls open and he smirks as he returns to his work.
He sets a few more books inside one of the boxes and looks back up at me. Noticing what must be a confused expression on my face, he asks, "What? I'm sure you're eager to sell this place."
My head tilts in confusion at his still hard eyes and the anger in his voice. I don't know what I did to piss him off, or how he even knows who I am, but his comment shakes me.
I don't understand what he's talking about.
"Sell this place? Why would you think—" I start, stopping when the question returns to my mind about what he's doing here. Did he live here? Is Mr. Swan's will pushing him out of his home? Is that what all the raised voices were about in Jacob's office yesterday?
"I'm sure you just want to get what you can out of Pops' house so you can go back to your glamorous little life," he says, dropping another stack of books into the box without looking at me.
I jump a little from the noise and shake my head. "I have no idea what you mean. I... this house doesn't belong to me," I say, but cut myself off. I shouldn't have to explain myself to him.
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "It shouldn't belong to you, but you're wrong – it does. So just let me finish getting my things, and I'll be gone."
It bothers me that he's so angry, and I want to tell him he's wrong. Some piece of me that's been so aggravated and confused for the last few days wants to shout that I never wanted this, but my stubborn side kicks in. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes as I cross my arms over my chest. Arguing with him will get me nowhere, and it's clear he's got some kind of problem with me that isn't going to be solved any time soon. So, I shrug and turn away from him, walking back down the hall. I still don't understand what he's doing here, or who 'Pops' is, but I don't want to ask him now. Apparently, he finds it completely necessary to be a total jerk to me.
He is right about one thing: none of this should be mine.
I shouldn't even be here.
Walking back into the living room with the intention of escaping as quickly as possible, I take a quick look around at everything, hoping something will jump out at me. With one last glance around the room, I turn to go before I have to face him again.
Instead, my eyes are drawn to the fireplace. Without thinking, I walk over to it. There are several picture frames on top of the mantle. I look over my shoulder and sigh, not wanting to be caught by Officer Masen, and then move my face in close to inspect them.
The first frame I see could use a serious dusting, and behind the glass is a picture of a man who I assume must be Mr. Swan. He has scruffy brown hair that curls around his ears and a friendly looking mustache. He's wearing his uniform and a huge smile. At his side, there's a blond man, with clear skin and bright blue-green eyes. Their arms are slung around each other, and they look so young and carefree.
I peek behind me once more, because it's quiet and I don't need another surprise today. Turning back around, I move my eyes, and the next frame makes my breath catch in my throat.
It's me.
It's me on my graduation day from UC. How did he even...
My eyes are transfixed as I grab the frame and stare at my own face. I'm all smiles and sunshine as I accept my diploma from the Dean. I frown. I was so sad on that day, but looking at my own smile reflected back at me, I know how good I am at putting on a brave face. That day was the final step in leading me to a life I didn't really care to have, but felt powerless to escape.
"Where did this..." I whisper to myself.
"He was there," I hear from behind me and I jump. Turning slowly, I look up at Officer Masen and I hope he can read the utter confusion on my face. He has one of the boxes in his hands and still looks angry. I'm tempted to ask him if his mother ever taught him that whole thing about your face sticking that way if you kept at it for too long, but he obviously knows things I don't. Things I need to know...
"Why?" I question, looking back down at the photograph. My chest feels tight and my fingers tremble.
I see him shrug from the corner of my eyes and after a minute, he speaks, "Maybe you should have come here sooner if you really wanted to know that."
My mouth falls open and I grip the picture tighter in my fingers; I want to throw it at him. I don't say anything to his shitty comment. I look up at him slowly, off put when his angry eyes stare into me. Through me.
"You have his eyes you know." My mouth opens in shock, wondering why he would say something like that. There's a look in his eyes that feels teasing and mean.
I don't say anything, just shake my head in denial. He has no idea what he's talking about. I don't know why these people seem to think they know things I don't. I don't know why even Officer Masen seems to believe I'm this man's daughter.
It's not true. It can't be true.
I don't have Charles Swan's eyes.
I have my father's eyes.
Phil Dwyer.
My father.
Tears stream down my cheeks and the glass in the frame shatters to pieces as I throw it to the floor in anger. Pain. Hurt. Confusion. Breathing heavily, I stare at the broken glass and my smiling face, and then look back up at Officer Masen. His eyes are on the floor, on the broken glass, lips pursed and confusion written across his brow.
I take a few steps, and his eyes rise to mine. With one last look at his shocked expression, I run from the house. I have to get away.
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