Disclaimer: Meyer owns Bella and Edward's characters. I own the rest.
"A beautiful spring has arrived
Next to the cemetery." Santōka Taneda 322 translated by John Stevens
Chapter 11
She wasn't my type.
At least, to the extent that I had a type, it wasn't Isabella Spencer.
She wasn't textbook pretty. She wasn't sweet. She wasn't sassy.
She was furtive. She was combative and strange. She was arrogant. She lived too much in her head.
She loved her brother.
She didn't like cops. She didn't like me.
She sometimes saw things that maybe weren't there and lost track of time and hung out with dead bodies. She was either stupid or a criminal, and she wasn't stupid, so what did that leave?
She certainly wasn't some damsel in distress, not with that attitude.
She was a goddamned riddle. She couldn't give me a straight answer about anything. She seemed to like playing games. She went out of her way to avoid being honest with me.
She was fucking up my case.
I had no choice but to tell Nichols everything. I told him about Spencer's apartment and her mother. I told him about questioning her adviser and her coworkers. I told him about Mehta and Marin, about the island.
I didn't mention the diaries, though. I figured they were none of his business.
He told me that I should've been up front with him from the beginning.
"Did it even occur to you to check into her parents?" he asked.
No. It didn't.
Turned out that the trailer park where they lived was being sold. This little dilemma had sparked the argument that got them arrested. They owned the trailer, but not the park, and they were having trouble finding a company willing to move the trailer, because they'd made so many upgrades that the thing was too heavy to transport. They were going to lose everything.
But if there were any connections between them and the murders, we couldn't find it. None of Murota or Milton's business associates were connected to the trailer park deal or to anyone who lived there. And Spencer's parents had ironclad alibis for both murders.
"Looks like your girl's clear," Nichols said. "By the skin of your fucking teeth."
"She's not my girl," I said, again, wishing that the conversation would just end once and for all.
"She's weird," he reminded me.
"Never said she wasn't."
In fact, Spencer's strangeness was probably half the reason that I was so—
So intrigued. I wanted to figure her out.
Or so I kept telling myself.
"She doesn't hold a candle to Lisa," Nichols observed.
That was a low blow. Lisa was pretty on the outside, maybe. But that was it. There was a reason we broke it off.
He shook his head. "If you're really that desperate, I can get my ex- to hook you up."
"Not interested." And I wasn't. This wasn't about that.
"You can't do this shit."
"I know." How dumb did he think that I was?
"Really? Cuz from where I'm sitting, you nearly blew your career for nothing."
"My career?" I looked at him. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"The higher-ups are really looking at this one. If you're going to fuck it up, get yourself taken off of it. Now."
"Spencer's just a witness."
Nichols snorted at that, but a minute later, he sighed. "Isn't Jimmy's wife a family attorney?"
"Yeah," I said, wondering where he was going with this.
"Well, you could give Spencer her number."
I didn't answer.
"Just give her the fucking number, Eddie."
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"She's a friend of mine," I said, handing Spencer the card. "Well, the wife of a friend, really, but she's a good lawyer. I already told her that you might be calling."
"I can pay," she said, clearly worried about giving off the wrong impression. "I'm going to start looking for a part-time job—"
"She won't charge you an arm and a leg," I cut her off. She didn't have to explain herself to me. I knew what it was like.
I remembered some legal aid bitch laughing in my face when I told her that my mother couldn't afford a lawyer. I was ten years old.
"Just the leg," Spencer tried to joke, chuckling nervously.
And I could tell that she didn't quite know what she was doing. There I was, standing in her apartment on a Saturday morning. Her brother was outside on his skateboard. I had only come by to give her the card for the lawyer. I wasn't here in any sort of legal capacity. I felt strangely underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt, and I'd noticed the way that Spencer had eyed them, as if she wasn't sure what to do with this version of me. I knew how she felt—because I wasn't sure what to do with this version of her. This awkward, modest, unguarded—half-smiling, even—almost nice version of her.
I thought about all the different Spencers I'd met, and I wondered which one was real. If any of them were real.
"I wasn't lying about the garage," she said then, without any trace of the anger I usually detected. "I really thought that I saw someone. But I could have been wrong."
"I didn't come about that," I said, not wanting to talk about the case. I couldn't talk about the case, not like that, not in my street clothes, not standing there in her apartment.
I was going to have to take myself off of the case. Despite everything I'd said to Nichols, I couldn't stay on it.
I needed to get out of her apartment. At the same time, I couldn't help wishing she'd ask me to sit down. Ask me if I wanted something to drink.
Glancing around, I saw the changes she'd already made for her brother, putting up some screens on one end of the living room.
It occurred to me that everything with her job, with the Institute, those diaries, her stupid decision to walk down that alley, and her contradictory story about what happened that night—they were all grounds for denying her custody of her brother. She was a mess.
At the same time, I could see it in her eyes. The realization that she had to get her shit together—for him, if for nothing else.
It reminded me of my mother. All of those times, she'd promised me that she was going to get her shit together, for me.
Only for her to break down again.
"So you're ok?" I asked, because I needed to be sure. I had vouched for her. That social worker had agreed to let Spencer take her brother because I said it was alright.
"Yeah, my brother's great. He's outside, playing."
"No, I mean you. Are you ok?"
She blinked, catching my meaning at last. "I'm fine."
"That's good." And it is good.
Spencer wasn't anything like my mother. She had a good job and a college degree—hell, she was in graduate school. She had problems, but she wasn't a drunk. That much was clear. And she certainly wasn't throwing herself at one man after another, like my mother had, dragging her kid along as an afterthought.
As far I could tell, there was no man in Spencer's life, aside from her brother.
"Do you want some tea or something?" she asked.
"Sure." I accepted, even though I knew that I should probably just leave.
But I was intrigued by this new Spencer, the one glancing back at me almost shyly.
I had seen her angry. I had seen her afraid. I had seen her arrogant and indifferent.
I had never seen her like this.
Then, following her into the kitchen, an unsavory notion crossed my mind. It occurred to me that if her guard was really down, I could finally get the truth about her involvement in the case.
I knew it was wrong. It was a violation of protocol if nothing else.
And I didn't want to do that to her. I didn't want to take advantage of her trust.
I had probably gone too far as it was.
I was going to drink just one cup of tea and then go—I would leave Spencer for Nichols to handle—when Spencer turned around suddenly.
I wasn't expecting her to stop so quickly. I was right on her heels.
An apology was already on my lips, but before I could say anything, she was kissing me.
Which was all kinds of fucked up. It wasn't right. She was a witness in a case. It was—
I kissed her back.
It had been a while since I'd kissed anyone. Lisa had been so circumspect. She didn't actually enjoy kissing—at least not the way that I did it.
Spencer was just so eager, though. The way her fingers tugged at my hair. Like she genuinely wanted me.
It was a fucking compliment.
She felt unexpectedly good, there in my arms. It had been a long time, but I didn't think that was why it felt so—
So right.
Like she belonged there.
Like everything between us—all of the friction—it wasn't because of the case. It was because we were fighting this.
She wasn't my type. She and I didn't make any sense together. She didn't make sense, period.
But she was pulling me towards her bedroom, and I was letting her.
She had to push some books off of her bed—and I started to laugh, because of course her bed would be covered in books, but then she was kissing me again and tugging at my jeans.
I started to panic when she stopped—thinking she was going to call this off, even though I knew damn well that I had no business being there with her—but then she said that she didn't have any condoms.
"I've got one," I said, my voice husky and my hands shaking a little when I reached for my wallet to take out the condom that Nichols had given me—that asshole—the last time we went out drinking together, and he left me at the bar to go home with the waitress.
And by the time that I'd pulled out the condom, Spencer was stripped down to her underwear. I stood there, looking down at her like I'd never seen a naked woman before. I could see it again, that bit of uncertainty in her eye. She was always so nervous around me, and I could never tell if it was because I was a cop or because she was just that way—if she was just afraid of everyone—which wouldn't have surprised me, not after her parents, after Mehta and Marin.
"Are you sure?" I asked, because I wasn't going to be one of those assholes who took advantage of her.
She gave a little nod and I kissed her again.
Then, because I remembered that little speech of hers in the bookshop, I showed her that the Romans were all wrong about their aversion to pleasuring women with their mouths.
Spencer obviously enjoyed my demonstration, too, throwing herself on me when I'm done, biting my neck.
I try to make it last, but again, it had been so long.
It was over quicker than I would've liked, but then, just when I was about to go down on her again to make up for it, my cell rang.
"You probably have to get that," Spencer said.
"You didn't—"
"I'm fine," she assured me, handing my phone.
And even though I wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, I took the call, watching Spencer dress out of the corner of my eyes.
"Where are you?" Nichols asked.
"Uh—"
"They're raiding Freeling's office."
Freeling was one of Murota and Milton's associates.
"Right now?" I asked.
"They're already there."
I knew Nichols was expecting me to ask about back-up, but I had no business continuing on the case.
"Are you coming?" Nichols asked.
I knew that I was going to have to handle this sooner or later.
"Yeah, I'll be there in forty minutes," I said.
"Make it thirty," Nichols said, then disconnected.
"Gotta go?" Spencer asked, glancing my way.
I was already pulling on my pants. "Sorry, I've got something with another case," I lied.
She nodded and left me to finish dressing. By the time I came out, she had something wrapped in foil for me.
"Thanks," I said, feeling like an asshole, taking the pie from her—or maybe it was cake—but I didn't know what to say.
I paused by the door. "Take care of yourself," I told her. Because that at least I
"Sure."
"And your brother."
"Definitely."
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"The Feds are gonna take over," Nichols said.
I nodded.
"You don't look too upset about it," he observed.
I shrugged.
"You got something to tell me?" he asked, crossing his arms.
I shrugged again.
At which point he started cursing.
I waited until he was done, and then I told him that I was going to Butler about being taken off of the case.
"This Spencer woman really worth it?" Nichols asked.
I thought about his question.
I thought about what it meant.
His implication that I'd weighed the costs of being with Spencer against the potential of a relationship with her working out.
And I realized that it didn't matter. Unconsciously, I'd already made the decision.
I was never that guy. There were no spring breaks in Mexico. No wild weekends in Vegas with yoga instructors. No crazy benders.
I followed the rules. I always did what I was supposed to—every damn time. I had never even smoked a joint.
I was a cop because the rules mattered to me.
It wasn't just Spencer's refusal to stay within her lane, her inability to accept the world as-is, that had me breaking the rules now.
It was me wanting to throw caution to the wind, just this one time, to get something that I wanted. Even if—especially if—it wasn't right.
Fortunately, Butler owed me one. To hear him tell it, I'd saved his life. Usually, I played it off as me just doing my job. But now that I was in need of a favor, I wasn't above reminding him of a certain drug-bust that almost put him in the morgue.
"You serious about this?" he asked me.
"If the Feds are taking over, then I don't really need to stay on the case, do I?"
"I don't see Nichols complaining about his caseload."
"It's not just that," I said.
"What then?"
I'd been hoping to avoid it, but there was just no way around it. "The witness—the one who found the bodies."
"What about her?"
"I maybe screwed up."
"You maybe screwed up or you definitely screwed up?"
"Definitely."
He started cursing. Apparently, my love life was a source of great consternation for those around me.
"You're lucky that I owe you one," he said.
"I wouldn't want to put you in a bad position."
He told me to go fuck myself.
But he also said that he'd take care of it.
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It was obvious that Spencer was surprised to see me, even though she was waiting with the door open. She had seen my beat-up old Ford from the window.
I know that it was pretty presumptuous of me to just show up on her doorstep like this. But I had a whole Saturday to myself and I wanted to see her.
"Hey," I said, smiling.
"Hey," she said, a little slowly like she was trying to figure me out, but she stepped back to let me inside her apartment.
"You're going to the movies?" I asked, noticing a laptop open on her coffee table with show times listed.
"With my brother," she confirmed, nodding.
"What are you seeing?" I asked. The last time I'd been to the theater, it was to take Lisa to some horribly unfunny rom-com that was being touted as a great date movie. It wasn't.
She shrugged. "Some comic book movie."
"Let me take you," I said, trying not to sound too desperate.
Spencer was obviously a little taken aback. "What?"
"Come on, it'll be my treat." I wasn't stupid. She and her brother were a package-deal. It would be a hell of a lot easier if had her brother's buy-in.
Fortunately, her brother seemed down with the idea. He came barreling into the room, announcing that he was cool with the idea.
Spencer's eyes went from me to her brother and back again. I just smiled.
And apparently, that was good enough for her.
We took my Ford.
I told her brother to call me "Edward," and proceeded to answer all of his questions about the life of a detective. Spencer sat listening in the passenger seat, giving me and her brother the side-eye and shaking her head every once in a while as if she wasn't quite sure what was happening.
I understood her misgivings, especially when her brother started asking me about whether or not I'd ever had to shoot someone. I bent the truth a little, answering him, but I figured that it was the right decision, saying that I hoped it would never come to that. Spencer started to relax and actually pitch in a comment here and there.
She refused to let me pay for their tickets or popcorn, and she had very decided opinions about the optimal seats from which to enjoy the movie. I noticed that she didn't laugh very often during the film—a tough critic, I suppose—but she seemed to enjoy it.
Afterwards, I convinced them to have lunch at Dave & Buster's. It wasn't really that hard of a sell, actually. In fact, I was a little surprised at the way Spencer's eyes lit up at the suggestion.
Turned out she had a fondness for Pac-Man and Gattaca. Who knew?
Back at her apartment, she invited me inside and offered me a soda.
It was perhaps the lowest maintenance date I'd been on since high school. And on the one hand, that made me feel a little guilty, because I wasn't really giving it my best. I mean, really, Dave & Buster's? On the other hand, it was going well. It was easy.
It occurred to me that maybe it didn't have to be hard. That maybe it wasn't supposed to feel like work.
Spencer informed that she preferred the name Bella, not Izzy or Isabella.
I knew that we still had a lot of baggage. I still hadn't told her about talking to her advisor, or to Mehta and Marin. It was probably a mistake—but I was pretty sure that it would piss her off if she knew that I had talked to them.
Besides, I wanted to know what had really happened on that island. But I wanted her to volunteer the information. I wanted her to trust me enough to tell me of her own accord.
I did, however, tell her about being taken off of her case.
"Does that mean the police have given up?" she asked, clearly concerned. "That it's a cold case now?"
"No, but I can't be on the investigation if I'm involved with you."
She blinked at that. "Oh."
Spencer—Bella—was looking uncertain again, and I realized that I should have told her right away that I was taken off of the case. I wasn't being very clear about my intentions.
Suddenly, I was nervous. It didn't help that Bella was looking anywhere but at me.
I cleared my throat. "So I was wondering if you were free for dinner tomorrow." We'd spent almost the entire day together. But I wanted to take her on a real date.
"I've got my brother," she said. "I need to spend time with him right now."
I was more disappointed by her answer than I had any right to be. Until I realized how stupid that was. "Bring him with," I said, shrugging.
Bella was right. She needed to spend time with her brother. His whole life was just ripped apart. He deserved her attention.
She still had that look of uncertainty on her face. But something must have told her to give me a try.
"Sure," she said, glancing at me quickly and away again, so that a curtain of hair blocking her eyes from me.
It wasn't coyness on her part, I decided. Not intentional coyness. But that way she had of avoiding my eyes certainly made me look forward to the few occasions when she'd meet my gaze.
And something about it reminded me of someone—or something. I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But whatever it was, it must've been a good memory, because I was like an idiot.
AN: The legal aid bitch was real. The situation was different, but wherever you are, legal aid bitch, fuck you.
Thanks for reading.