Four days later, some hour before it was time to lie through another IV drip session, when I went out to take a short walk on the corridor, I saw Dr. Cullen and Edward arguing violently about something; Edward stabbed the air with his hand in the direction of my room, growling something in fury into the doctor's face and swung on his heel to march away, but Dr. Cullen grabbed him by his upper arm and yanked him back, forcing him to turn around. Edward snarled something and yanked himself free, spitting something into his father's face again, and stormed off.
"Edward!" Dr. Cullen shouted after him, but Edward barked back something I couldn't understand and marched on, throwing his schoolbag over his shoulder. Dr. Cullen shook his head, breathing heavily, and smoothed his hair back in one frustrated motion. Then he saw me, forced himself to smile and went into one of the rooms.
I hesitated a little while. Then I went towards the atrium. I hoped I'd find Edward there.
The atrium was actually a large indoor garden with a fountain with goldfish and koi carps in its centre and with skylight; it was tranquil and beautiful and Nurse MacFayden told me patients love to meet with their families there, rather than in the rooms. And that Edward, especially, loves to go there if ever he is in the hospital and argues with his father.
I found him sitting on a bench by a small pool in a bubbling stream, eyes miles away, jaw clenched, clutching the edge of the bench with his hands so he nearly crushed its wood.
"Hello," I told him softly.
He didn't react.
"It's a lovely garden," I said and he looked around as if awoken from a series of ugly thoughts. Then he stood up and nodded.
"Oh – yeah. Mother designed it."
"Your mother designs gardens?"
"In the few moments she's lucid," he replied, grim, looking up to watch the koi play hide and seek. "It's one of the things that soothe her. Beautiful flowers. Nature. She detests city life." But then he snapped out of his angry gloom a little, straightening up and looking at me. "Your hair. It's still wet," he noted, studying the ends of strands.
I tucked it beyond my ear. "Yeah, I just got out of shower." I didn't know where to look.
"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "I see." He looked away and dug out of his schoolbag a garnet red thermo tumbler, unscrewed the lid and drank up. "Wanna sit down with me for a bit?"
I nodded and perched beside him. "How's your mum?"
He shrugged and ran his hand through his hair, shutting his eyes tight, shoulders sagged and worn out. "Up and down. Sorry, I... I don't really want to talk about it right now."
"Okay," I cleared my throat. "Sure."
After a moment, he glanced at me. "It's nice to see you walk on your own again."
"Better than carrying me around, huh?" I teased.
He smiled at me a little. "Sure. When you walk on your own, you can choose where you want to walk."
I blinked and looked away. He slowly put his hand near mine on the bench, but he stopped before touching me. His fingertips stayed an inch away from mine. I felt the awkwardness keenly, tying my hands and tongue – and his, likewise.
In the end, he murmured: "You know, when your whole life's messed up, it's tough to find the right words to say and the right things to do. And I don't want to mess this up."
My heart was beating hard and fast. "Yeah. Let's take it slow then," I muttered and he looked in my eyes.
"Yeah." His voice was a little strained.
"Saw you with your father. What was it about?"
"You." He shrugged, distant. "He's not too happy about the prospect we might start dating."
I leant against the crook between the backrest and armrest more comfortably. "Why?" I asked. "Because you're rich and I'm not?"
"No. He's more concerned about you, at least he says so."
"Why? Cause you've got a short fuse and tend to break windows with lab tables, or because you make shrinks go mad?"
He chuckled and leant back, bracing his arm on the backrest of the bench. "Who told you? Your father?"
I smirked and mirrored his pose, nodding. "The first day I met you."
"At least some part of his parenting job he does right."
I frowned. "He tries, Edward."
"You love him?"
That puzzled me a little and I shook my head, knitting my eyebrows. "Sure. Why?"
He shook his head and snorted, looking away. He massaged his forehead with his fingers, thinking and drinking up from his thermo mug.
I shivered and he instantly looked at me. "Cold?" he asked with concern.
"Yeah," I admitted, drawing my kimono dressing gown closer and feeling goose bumps spring up on my skin. "A bit."
He shut the mug, put it down, stood up, slid his jacket off and wrapped it around me. We stared at each other for a second. He traced the line of my cheek with the back of his fingers with a strange expression, as if he was sorry for something. "Yeah, I guess he tries," he murmured. "But – not enough."
And then he hugged me for a long while and held me, saying nothing, until his phone beeped.
"Mother," he said as he checked it, frowning, his eyes weary and sad. He looked at me. "Sorry. I got to go."
"Sure," I nodded and brushed away an invisible speck from his shoulder, clearing my throat. "Go."
"I'll see you to your room, okay?"
"Okay. Thanks."
We walked side by side, pinkies nearly touching – but neither of us made the final move to take the other's hand, until we were almost at my room's door; there I took his and squeezed it tight.

xxx

What Angela had said combined with the dreams didn't let me sleep easily. Of a type. What if it didn't start with Bree? What if Bree was not the first victim?

Edward has not showed up since that last time, though he continued to send fresh flowers nearly every day; he wrote me his mother was so unwell he couldn't leave her side for a minute. And so I used that abundant spare time, when Angela was not with me, to search on for the others.

I've started browsing various databases of missing persons, from the FBI one to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, narrowing it down to girls missing in Washington within the current and last decade. I've found four that fit the bill.
Tammy Benjamin, 13, Olympia. Ran away from home in the middle of the night. Kerry Taylor, 15, Tacoma. Ran away from home. Samantha Donnelly, 16, Seattle. Ran away. Katie Jameson, 14, SeaTac. Ran away after an argument. All of them missing, listed as runaways. All of them had dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and pale skin. Tammy vanished in 1996, years before the Cullens moved to Forks from Alaska, but both Kerry and Samantha went missing the same year Edward and his siblings started to attend school here. Kerry, Samantha, Katie and Bree. Gone within a year. All of them unusually pretty, slender, not very tall, Caucasian, pale, from broken families, loners with few friends, introverted. Both Samantha and Kerry were bullied at school and this was the presumed reason of their escape. Katie had Asperger Syndrome. Tammy was wearing a ballet tutu on her photo.

The day of discharge came and I still searched, tried to figure out what dozens of people trained for it haven't, because I couldn't somehow bring myself to believe the soldier was guilty, either, despite his record was less than pristine and he had confessed. I think I did it also because it was helping me somehow to forget the gaping void in me left after mum.

xxx

I remembered from childhood dad likes sweets. He would tend to hover around the kitchen when mum was making apple pie, inhaling the scent – he could eat one whole pie in one sitting by himself and mum always laughed that eat he will, but help peel the apples he won't. Walking towards the station with a freshly baked pie, I wasn't sure what I'm trying to achieve. Remind him of what was good in the old times? Bridge the gap between us? Simply give him a cause to smile?
But as I was sitting there on the edge of a bench on the corridor, I questioned myself whether it was such a good idea.
Dad was busy. And the reason why he was busy was currently getting on the nerves of the Deputy Chief by lighting up a cigarette, several yards from me, in a corridor separated from the one where I waited by a glass door.
"You can't smoke here, son," the Deputy Chief reprimanded him and Edward just smirked a cold, lopsided smirk, and threw the cigarette on the floor and snubbed it with his foot, staring the Deputy Chief down. The older man soon looked away and shook his head, muttering: "Spoilt brat." Then he came in and smiled at me. "Don't you worry, love, he'll be here soon. He'll just finish that questioning. Want some coffee, hun?"
I shook my head, giving him an apologetic smile. "I can't," I tapped on the medical bracelet. "But thanks a lot, Mr. Cheney."
"It's Walter for you, love – I used to play Santa for you every year, did you know?"
I laughed. "So it was you? I never knew," I shook my head again. "I really thought you are Santa and that it's great mum and dad got you to visit."
We laughed at that together. "Oh my, you were a sweet kid, love! Nice to see you stayed that way, it's kinda rare these days."
I smiled up at him and glanced down, tucking my hair behind my ear. Then I peered to the left and saw Edward watching us. As soon as he caught my gaze, he turned his head away. "What's he here for?" I nodded to him with my chin and the Deputy frowned and sighed.
"Oh, him. He was just what was missing to complete a day of bliss, love. He brawled with his teacher in the library and the teacher wants him jailed for assault. But his daddy will bail him out anyway," he drank up from his coffee, "so Mr. Banner's just wasting our time." He let out another sigh.
"What was that brawl all about?"
The Deputy shrugged. "Search me. Mr. Banner went to pick a book from a shelf next to the one the lad was picking his from, and when Mr. Banner turned to go away, minding his own business, that nutcase grabbed him by his neck, lifted him up high and pinned him against the bookshelf so hard it fell and knocked down several other bookshelves like a domino. It was pure luck there were no people in that section, otherwise we'd have a lot more injured on our hands than just Mr. Banner. Nasty piece of work, this young man. Your dad told you about the lab table, right?"
I nodded.
"If you ask me, I think he's crazy, bipolar or something. Should be on lithium. He's been nothing but trouble since his folk came down here from Alaska." He glared at him and shook his head and then beamed at me. "But how about some tea, honey?"
I gave him another apologetic smile, though the bipolar bit stung a little, as if he pricked my heart with a needle. "Sorry. Nothing with coffein."
"Milk?" he tried with a bit of mischief in his eyes.
I bit down bubbling laughter and shook my head again. "No dairy."
"Okay. Water?"
I chuckled and nodded. "Water sounds good, thank you."
He leant down to me and patted my shoulder. "I'll be right back, honey." He straightened up and turned to Edward, pointing at him: "You behave yourself there, young man, okay?"
Edward scoffed and as soon as the Deputy went away, he pulled his right foot up on the bench he was sitting on, braced his elbow on the bent knee and lit up another cigarette, stretching the other leg out and staring off as he smoked. He had not a single bruise or scuff on him and he looked lost in thoughts, indifferent; the only scratch on him was a slight tear on his black leather jacket and the fact his hair was one wild mess this time, rather than purposefully tousled the way it usually was.
I attempted a smile and waved at him, but he didn't react; I had a feeling he doesn't see me. Or perhaps he did and for some reason chose to ignore me. It was difficult to tell. But it hurt.
"Here, honey," Mr. Cheney came back with the water, hesitated and then said: "Look, I heard some people talking... honey, you're setting yourself up for trouble." He glanced back at Edward. "He's a bad lot, seriously. I get the bad boy appeal and all that, but..." he exhaled and shook his head, giving me a smile. "Well, you're a big girl, right? You'll decide for yourself. Still, take this from me as from a Deputy Chief – that boy's destined for the Death Row one day. Don't want you to cry your pretty eyes out."
"Thanks for your concern," I murmured, avoiding looking at Edward. "I'll manage."
"Uh... sure," he drank up and swallowed, contemplating something. "But well...It's kind of weird."
"What's weird?"
He shrugged one shoulder, sipping on his coffee. "How a seventeen-years-old boy grabs a grown up guy and knocks down with him shelves full of books. Mind you, Mr. Banner's got some 220 pounds," he shook his head.
I shrugged and took the glass of water from him with a nod of thanks, clearing my throat. In all honesty the image chilled me. I knew a thing or two about Edward's strength. But how much more did I know about him, really? "Is he here often?"
"Depends on your definition of often. But if I never see his pretty face here again it will be too soon." He shook his head again, glancing at him, and then looked at me, drinking up. "If he was my son I'd send him to the army. That would straighten him out."
"Will he go to prison for the attack?" I tried to sound casual, though I was anything but, puzzling over him, trying to make sense of this. Why did he do it? Why on Earth?
"Honestly? Here comes his dad," he nodded to an elegant, beautiful blonde man in a long, expensive-looking beige coat that has rushed in, worried, and went to shake hands with dad, speaking with him in sotto voce; then dad took him in his office, whilst Edward kept staring off into the distance and smoking, as if all this hustle and bustle did not concern him at all, strangely motionless and indifferent amidst a commotion. He seemed miles and miles away, somewhere where it couldn't reach him. "And if you wanna know what I think, then I'll bet my month's salary that Dr. Cullen will simply pay Mr. Banner to drop the charges and the boy will get out of it smelling of roses like usually. No probation, no official fine, no jail, no scratch on his record, zilch. You'll see, he'll be outta here before you can blink."
I stood up, finishing the glass of water, and offered it to him alongside the box with the apple pie. "Could you give it to dad, please? I got some homework left to do. I guess I'll go home."
He grinned and nodded. "Sure, honey."

But when I got home, I was restless. I forced myself to lie down for some half an hour, because I was exhausted, but it was like lying on pins and needles. I picked up the homework, but put it away in few minutes; I picked up a book, then another, but I couldn't focus. I paced around, opened the windows and then closed them again. Perhaps it was not knowing, perhaps it was because of Edward. I texted him early on and glanced at the phone every once in a while, but got no reply. Or maybe it was because I have always hated that house, even as a child. I hated being alone there. Somehow, it scared me. The walls tended to close in on me and the teeth sticking out from the opened mouths of fish trophies mounted on them everywhere gave me the shivers. I often called for mum in the night, because I was not able to fall asleep, too frightened in the deadly stillness of the dark.
So I fled it, packing a sketchbook and picking some cornflowers to put them on great-grandma Swan's grave. It's one of the few memories of her I have, cornflowers – I remember her picking them in the garden whilst she was teaching me to tell basic kinds of butterflies from one another, as they fluttered around us on a rare sunny day when I was three; mum later told me of her she had wanted to be a biology professor and spend her life researching butterflies and insects, but the pressure to marry and have children was too great and she had caved in, never turning her passion into a career. And then, when I was still three, she died.
I planted a kiss on my index finger and then put it on her lips on the oval photo on the tombstone. I remembered her soft skin, which she cleaned with lemon – though wrinkled, it was as supple as velvet. And warm, like the Sun was ever-kissing it.
"Hi, great-grandma," I whispered to her serious, sad, kindly face and laid the flowers on the grave. "Good to see you again."
I crossed myself and prayed for a moment, searching for her in hazy, nearly static images from childhood in my head. But the church and the garden and the butterflies and the cornflowers were all I could find.

I sat down close by on a moss-covered boulder, taking out the sketchbook and charcoal from my backpack. It was overcast again, the Sun showing through the clouds pale and bloodless as if it was still winter. I started to draw the tombstones, set against the backdrop of the clouds. In a sense, it felt like being in England still, though where I was from, the cemetery was much older, much less orderly, much more crowded; some of the tombstones were broken, the inscriptions on them nearly erased by weather, the graves fallen into ruins because the families have long since died out or their descendants moved and lost interest.
Soon after though, just as the clouds on the paper were beginning to take shape, I glanced up from my sketching and saw Edward at the opposite end of the cemetery, slowly walking towards the end of the first row. I saw him slowly kneel down to a grave and lay down a large bouquet of lilies on it. He stayed there like that, kneeling, his head hung, lost in thoughts, for a very long time. Wind kept crashing into him, but he didn't hike up his collar, or bother to button it up, as if he didn't notice it. He didn't notice me, either. I wavered whether to go to him and try to offer some comfort, leave quietly or stay very still, so as not to disturb him. In the end, I picked the last option, averting my eyes with all my might, focusing on the sketch to give him privacy. When I was about halfway through with it, I glanced at him and saw him caress the outline of the tombstone with his fingertips as if in strained longing mingling with grief and fury; then he rose to his feet and walked away, looking neither left nor right, very upright.

I felt like an intruder in something very personal.
Was there the answer, besides his porphyria and his mother's illness, in the loss he's experienced? Was this why he was so violent, angry, sad and hell-bent on self-destruction?
I went to the grave marked with snowy lilies. It seemed old; perhaps one of the eldest there. There was no name, no date, only a simple, perhaps freshly gilded inscription: Resurgam.
I took out my rosary and prayed for a couple of minutes.

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AN: Finally a new chapter! Thanks to everybody who has stuck with this fic despite the long silence - I appreciate it very much. Thanks in particular to everybody who's reviewed (Silversimon, Kochabilka, NicNick et al, thanks a lot you guys!) and subscribed, it makes me very happy - and more importantly, the feedback tells me what works and what doesn't, so, I'm really grateful for it. I think the next chapter is near to finish - fingers crossed, I might post it next week, unless RL gets in the way again. Anyway, updates on that will be on my profile:-)