Thank you to StoryPainter and irelandk for turning my lingo into something readable.

Love and kisses to my pre-reader Shazzio. Not only does she give me great suggestions, but she also plays a mean game of "Words with Friends," my new addiction.

I'd love to show you a picture of Renee's memorial garden, but I suck at stuff like that. I'll try, and if I manage it, I'll add it to the same photobucket account that I provided the link for last chapter.


Chapter 8-To Think the Unthinkable

After the truck from the garden supply store came, I threw myself into the work on Mom's memorial garden. As Carlisle mixed cement, Alice and I hauled the stones from where they had been dumped near the garage, lugging them closer to the work site. Esme and the boys carted yesterday's excavated dirt off, the boys fighting over who got to push the child-sized wheelbarrow behind Esme's. The wall-come-bench I wanted to build myself, having pored over the DIY book and researched it further on the net before bed last night. Once I was done, we would all work together to lay the paving stones and finish off the garden beds. The water feature would be installed after.

Working kept my mind focused, since sorting, selecting, and placing the stones in a balanced way took concentration. By midday, when I stopped for lunch, one bench was complete and the other more than half done. I enjoyed working with my hands so much that I began to think of other projects I could do at our house. Alice and I inherited Grandma Higginbotham's house when she died. It had been rented out for many years, but when we both finished college, we decided to move in together. The house was old, having been built in the late 1920s, and although small, it suited two young women just starting off. While it had been well maintained, the last renovations had been completed in the seventies. Maybe it was time to get rid of the mission brown trim and faux brick cladding?

Once I finished the second bench, Esme and I laid the pavers while Alice entertained the boys. Carlisle was about to start planting out the garden beds when the clinic called to say the the fill-in vet had just arrived. The substitute was going to work with Dr. Snow to ensure Hoof's and Woof's maintained business as usual, and Carlisle wanted to welcome and orient him in person. We waved him off and continued our work while the weather held. Rather than regular flag stones, I had chosen rough stone the same color as the benches, just with a flatter and more even surface than those used on the bench. Since we were only covering a small area, we finished the paving by mid-afternoon. When Alice and the boys came to appraise the result, she wandered around, looking at the effect from different angles.

"I don't know, Bella. I know it looked great when we checked out the display. I just keep thinking that if you put those stones down between the pavers, the boys will pick them up and throw or kick them all over the place." Back at the garden supply, we had decided on small quartz pebbles between the pavers to complete the finish. "Maybe we need to rethink that and pick something more practical."

"You can get a variety of miniature ornamental grass that would be perfect," suggested Esme. "It's hard wearing enough, and would soften the look of all the stone."

"Hmm, okay." I could see their point. "I'll go and pick some up so we can finish it off."

Alice and Esme promised to start planting out the seedlings and potted greenery while I was gone, so everything would be ready for the placement of the angel statue later today.

As I drove into town, I reflected that it was actually nice to be out on my own for a while. For the past four days, I had been almost continually surrounded by my family. Even though I needed their support at such a crazy time, I had missed the solitude of my own company more than I realized. I picked up a couple of trays of the resilient variety of grass suggested by the horticulturalist at the garden center and loaded them into my van. It was handy for all sorts of jobs like that, one of the reasons I was grateful I had stuck with my wish for the practical rather than the pretty. I had been ribbed about it plenty when I first bought it.

Afterward, I decided on a whim to stop in somewhere for coffee and a quick snack. I parked the van in the first convenient spot and walked to the nearest café. As I waited for my carryout order, I could hear whispering at one of the tables behind me.

"That's…daughter…heard she shot herself."

My body grew rigid with indignation, and I strained to hear what else was being said. Trying not to be too obvious about it, I looked up into the mirror behind the counter to see who it was. Two middle-aged women I didn't recognize were staring at my back. As one woman whispered lowly to the other, her friend's eyes got rounder, clearly horrified by what she was hearing.

"She looks too normal to be related to someone like that," the aghast woman muttered in a louder whisper.

My jaw locked with the effort not to snap at these ignorant people. What did they expect, some sort of brand to appear advertising the fact I was related to someone who was apparently mentally unstable?

"…so violent…," hissed gossiper number one. "…wonder what message…poor husband…such a lovely man…so devoted to his family."

The server indicated my order was ready, and I snatched up my purchases, leaving quickly. As much as I itched to react, there was no way I was going to add fuel to the fire by having a very public screaming match with hags like those. Realistically, I knew this wasn't going to be the last time I would face such a situation; it just made an already overwhelming experience that much more trying. With a pang, I realized how much I missed my mom. Had she been with me, she would have had a funny quip to take my mind off it or a tart observation about the women that would have made me laugh.

Once again in the privacy of my van, I sipped my coffee and picked at my slice of applesauce cake, my appetite all but gone. I was just about to start the engine when my phone chimed with a text.

Pls call at yr earliest convenience re yr mother~JJenks

I looked at the message, puzzled. The name was familiar enough to tickle unrelentingly at the edges of my memory. I sat for a moment, deliberating whether I was ready to have another stilted "I'm terribly sorry" conversation with yet another person I barely knew. In the end, I decided to call, my curiosity piqued.

"Jenks and Scott law firm. May I help you?"

"Oh, ah…this is Bella Swan. I got a message from this number to call a J. Jenks?" I stuttered into the phone.

In no time, I was speaking to Mr. Jenks himself. He explained that my mother had been consulting with him recently, and he had only heard the news of her passing this morning. His voice cautious, he informed me that she had left a letter for me. With a surge of excitement, I cut him off, stating that I would be there in a few minutes. During the short trip to his office, my mind was in overdrive. What if she had left a proper note with Jenks? It made sense; it was a secure means to ensure it would get to me directly and in a timely manner. Would it have the answers I was desperate for, some sort of rationale for the completely irrational? Anything would be better than the limbo I felt I was in now. I parked again and jogged over to the converted shopfront housing the lawyer's office.

His secretary looked fresh out of school, her conservative satin blouse and pleated skirt raided from her mother's closet. Mr. Jenks was short and round, his shiny, outdated suit straining at the seams. The graying hair around his ears did not quite match the lush brown of the synthetic hair in the cheap toupee he wore. I took a seat in front of his desk, the laminate surface peeling at the corners. Everything looked worn and slightly down-at-heel, something which inspired little confidence. I wondered why my mother had chosen Jenks rather than my uncles' lawyer.

"Thank you for coming by so quickly, Miss Swan. I'm afraid I can't tell you much due to client-attorney privilege. What I do have permission to say is that Mrs. Dwyer first came to see me in August to seek advice about some personal matters. She left me very specific instructions about an item I have been holding for you on her behalf."

I sat, staring at him, my confusion plain. "My aunt said my mother only started seeing a lawyer last month."

"Oh no! Mrs. Dwyer had been my client for longer than that." He gave me a wry smile. "Often, due to the very nature of the issue that clients' seek counsel about, many prefer to keep their contact with an attorney to themselves."

"It seems my mother was keeping many things to herself recently," I muttered, more to myself than Mr. Jenks. "You mentioned something you were keeping?"

"Ah. Yes, I do have something Mrs. Dwyer left for you. I must say, I was only humoring her initially when I agreed to hold the letters for her." Steepling his fingers and leaning on the desk, he peered at me under his wiry and overgrown eyebrows. "She only started with them about a month ago. She wrote three of them altogether, asking for the previous one back before shredding them in my office. She would then give me a new one to replace it."

I felt a sense of hope bubbling up in my chest, lightening some of the tension and ache there.

"My instructions were to ensure you received it if something…untimely…should happen to her," Jenks added.

He opened a drawer in his desk, and then pushed a plain white envelope across the desk toward me. "I must say, I am consumed by curiosity. My work has little in the way of mystery, and this seems very cloak and dagger."

I stared at the envelope greedily for a few seconds before tentatively picking it up. Standing, I turned to head to the door.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Jenks asked plaintively.

"Mr. Jenks, I will come back at some time to talk to you some more, but right now, I really want to be by myself when I open this." Backing towards the door, I shrugged apologetically. "She didn't leave a note when she…" I remembered that Jenks hadn't said how he heard the news, so I had no idea if he knew how she died. "This could be the 'why' that I need to know."

Not caring if I appeared rude, I left, my eyes flicking to the letter every few minutes as I drove back to Esme's. My heart was pounding in anticipation when I finally tore the envelope open. I felt a twinge of disappointment when the single piece of paper, little bigger than a postcard, was at last revealed.

Bella,

Strange things have been happening to me for the last few weeks and I'm sure that someone is trying very hard to get rid of me. Sadly, there are more suspects than I initially thought and I can't trust anyone right now. I don't want to put you or Esme in danger by telling you what I fear.

If something happens to me, I want you to promise not to believe everything that you might hear about me.

I'm sorry for being cryptic but there is too much at stake.

I love you,

Mom xxxx

I read it over and over, confused and alarmed, but also elated. Although it wasn't quite the explanation I was hoping for, it was something. She had thought to reach out to me in some way. Clutching the letter firmly, I flung open the unlocked front door and raced inside.

"Hey, everyone! Mom left me something!"

The living room was empty so I headed for the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks when I took in the scene around the kitchen table.

Chief Cudmore was sitting at the head of the table, his hands rolling the edge of his hat. Esme was sobbing into Carlisle's chest. Alice was wiping her eyes, a resigned look on her face. After my rapid entry, they all looked up me in askance.

"What's going on?" I demanded, hating to hear the waver in my voice.

Felix stood and indicated I should take a chair.

"I've come from the medical examiner's office to let you folks know of his findings as a courtesy. We've already informed Mr. Dwyer, but I knew you'd all want to know as soon as possible."

I sat with a thud, my legs suddenly weak. With all the recent activity over the last few days, I had firmly pushed thoughts of the autopsy aside.

"As I've been telling the Cullens, the findings were all consistent with suicide, which is what the medical examiner has recorded as cause of death." His face was mournful as he spoke.

"But she left me this," I announced, holding up the letter and relating how it came to me. I passed it to Felix as I continued. "Maybe she didn't really kill herself. What if someone killed her and made it look that way?"

"Bella, I know this is a very distressing situation for you. I know it must be hard to believe she would do that, but we found no evidence to suggest anyone else was involved," he advised, his expression sympathetic but resolute. "Your Mom's fingerprints were found on the wine glass and pill bottle, confirming she willingly took the drugs and alcohol that were detected in her system. A lot of people do that before−" He cleared his throat. "It gives them the courage to go through with it."

"But the letter…" I sputtered, looking for points to argue with.

Felix handed the letter to Carlisle, who looked it over intently.

"I don't mean to be cruel, but I'm afraid this just sounds like the talk of an unwell and paranoid person." I could tell Felix had tried to soften his words for my benefit. "It just makes me more certain that she wasn't in her right mind."

"I have to agree with the chief, Bella," Carlisle added softly. "I know it's hard to accept, but the professionals all agree."

"But she can't…she wouldn't…" Suddenly, it was all too much, the tide of thought and emotion threatening to engulf me completely. I stood so abruptly my chair keeled over backwards, hitting the floor with a loud crack. Everyone was talking at once and the cacophony of sound made my head feel like it was going to explode. My pulse was racing, and I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. I needed to get out now, before the walls completely closed in on me, the claustrophobic sensations building to a crescendo. I took off, leaving the front door wide open before running to my van and pulling out of the driveway in a shower of gravel.

The inside of my head was a screaming mess and I didn't know what to do with myself next. A panicky restlessness engulfed me. I needed to find someone who would help me make sense of it all. I was driving on autopilot, and before I had made a lucid decision, I was in front of the police station. Like any bad habit, when I was pushed to my limit, it seemed I craved the comfort of familiar things or people, no matter how damaging the result. Bracing myself, I decided that since my subconscious led me here, I might as well make use of the opportunity. I marched inside and asked if I could talk to Officer Uley.

"Bella?" Sam looked perplexed when he came out and around the high counter top to meet me. "I thought Felix would have been to visit you by now."

"He did. I need to see the reports or something," I pleaded, sounding desperate and slightly deranged, even to my own ears. "I need to see it for myself in black and white. You can do that for me, can't you, Sam?" Reaching out, I clutched at his arm.

"I, um, don't think that's such a good idea right now. Besides, it would be too traumatic, too graphic for you to see," he said in a gentle voice. He laid a tentative hand on my elbow, attempting to lead me outside. "How about I drive you home?"

"I don't want to go home!" I twisted my arm out of his reluctant hold. "I want to know why everyone thinks that my mother would shoot herself in the head like that. Why would she do that, Sam?" I made a futile attempt to calm my voice. "You can show me the report, can't you? You said you liked Renee−please, won't you help me understand?" I beseeched him with my eyes, trying to sum up some of the emotion I had felt for him before a greater loss overshadowed everything.

He stared back at me before glancing over to his colleague, who was still lurking behind the desk, gawking at the soap opera scene I was making.

"Come on, Bella. You shouldn't be trying to do stuff like that in the state you're in."

"I am not in a state, Sam! My mother is dead!" I think I might have stomped my foot a little. "I want someone to tell me why, and you treat me like some irrational and embarrassing pain in the ass! I should have known better than to ask you for help," I spat, the vitriol rolling off my tongue. "You left me and then so did she! Nothing makes sense anymore!"

Realizing that I was indeed starting to sound irrational, I fled to my van again. My hands were shaking so badly as I drove off that I began to worry I was a danger to myself and other motorists. Parking a little way down the road, I took off on foot, walking with my head down. I paid no attention to my surroundings, lost entirely in the maelstrom of thoughts in my head.

The sense of disquiet and misgiving that had been nagging away at me since I discovered my mother's body crashed over me like a tidal wave; thoughts that had only been whispered in my subconscious were now front and center.

Above all else, my mom was a kind, caring, and devoted mother. She had never let my brothers or me down, had never neglected or forsaken us. While I was an independent adult, my brothers were completely reliant on her, a responsibility she wholeheartedly embraced. It was gut-wrenchingly painful to think that in depths of her depression, she felt so detached from them−and me−that she thought we would be better off without her. Instead, I regarded her suicide as the ultimate act of selfishness, and I could not−would not−believe that of my mother. Even thinking she had done it made me feel abandoned and betrayed. It was just too inconceivable.

No, I couldn't believe that she left us willingly, which led to the only possible conclusion in my mind.

She didn't kill herself.

Which meant…the unthinkable.

Someone murdered her.

Every doubt and suspicion I'd ever had coalesced in that single moment, firming up my absolute conviction that I was right.

The difficulty was that everyone else believed the officially endorsed verdict. I had talked to everyone that mattered to me, and they had all accepted it as the truth. I had no one to confess my belief to, no one to help me pick the facts apart and examine everything in light of this new knowledge. What I needed was someone outside of the situation, someone truly objective. I needed someone with a keen eye to help me investigate and analyze, someone who could help me put all the pieces together into something irrefutable.

But who?

I supposed I could hire a private investigator; they could certainly help me with research. I doubt that any gumshoe would allow me an operational role in the investigation, however, and that's what I wanted−no, needed. As my mother's daughter, I felt honor bound to actively pursue this myself, if only in some small way. I owed it to her.

I, Isabella Marie Swan, was going to prove that someone fired a bullet into my mother's head to purposefully end her life, an action that I would bet my bottom dollar was no spur of the moment thing. No, it was premeditated; I felt it deep in my bones.

So, unless I could come up with a better solution, I would have to settle for a private investigator. How the hell did one actually go about finding one?

As my thoughts swirled with possibilities, I began to feel stronger, more coherent and back in control. I noticed my preoccupied trudging had led me to toward the center of town. Businesses had given way to retail stores, and as I passed Port Book and News store, I saw a picture of my mother and a brief headline on a flyer in the window advertising the Examiner. I felt a swell of gratitude toward Edward for his thoughtful forewarning this morning. Although it was still somewhat of a jolt to see her face, it wasn't half the shock it could have been.

Edward…Edward was a journalist. Reporters would have to do research as background for their stories, right? They had to examine the facts...had resources at their disposal to do so…He hadn't known my mother and had no personal involvement with her case, other than compiling the brief biography necessary to write his article. Maybe he could be the completely impartial but experienced investigator that I so needed?

He had been kind to me when we met in the park, coming to the aid of a complete stranger with his quiet talk and soothing calm. He had been friendly and forgiving, even after I had attacked him in my misplaced rage. Perhaps I could appeal to his generous nature a third time. I would never know if I never asked−nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that.

The more I thought about it, the more resolute I became.

I would find Edward and ask for his help.