It had been more than a week since I'd been to the Seneca Museum on the reservation.

It had been more than a week since I'd gotten a decent night's sleep. The nightmares which once had been an infrequent, nagging nuisance were now horrifying, debilitating terrorists hijacking my dreams.

What didn't change, however, was that I never saw how my dad died. My imagination continued to run wild with ideas. A knife to the throat was the most common invention, but I never saw that the man had a weapon. What else could it be?

In my nightmares, sometimes the wolf didn't arrive in time, and I died. Sometimes Mom was there too. Sometimes I took the place of the woman and held my dad down. Sometimes Edward Cullen rescued me.

I went to work every day and returned home to a well-lighted place. I didn't go to the café or the bar again. I didn't check my phone for texts from strange men.

I wanted space. I needed space. I had to decide what to do about Edward. There was something off about him, but was it fair to accuse him with no evidence? Hell, I met weirdoes every day but that didn't mean they were guilty of something. Did he have the touch of a killer? Was there an explanation for why his touch reminded me of the man who had killed my dad? I had allowed him to get closer, closer than I'd let anyone get for years, and it felt good. It felt like the bad kind of good. I remembered the feeling of his hands on my body, and I didn't feel the way I did in the boat that day twenty years ago. I felt like I wanted more.

And finally, I needed to let go of my dad's death. I would never solve the murder, and it was unfair of me to place the burden of that at the feet of my seven-year-old self. I needed to forgive that little girl. It wasn't my fault. I couldn't let go here, or in Michigan, or in California.

I knew what I needed to do, and before I could talk myself out of it, first thing Monday morning I called the chief to ask for a week off.

The chief thought it was a great idea and reminded me that I'd never taken any of my vacation time before. He thanked me for working so hard on the case, but he confessed that he was worried about me and said I could use a break.

A side of me felt really guilty. Guilty that I was leaving my co-workers to do my job, guilty that I'd worried the chief, and embarrassed that I needed time away. Newton and Crowley didn't need space.

Before I could over-think it, I bought a red-eye flight to Seattle for that night. This was good. I couldn't spend the day agonizing over leaving or thinking of Edward. I just started packing. I hadn't set foot in Forks since I was seven; not all my memories should be bad, right?

I hauled out the old suitcase I'd bought when I'd left California for Michigan. I could count on one thing for my trip—the weather in Forks. I'd yet to haul out the bulk of my cool-weather clothes here in New York, so I pulled out hoodies and sweaters from the back of my closet and tossed some old jeans with holes in the knees into the suitcase. I didn't want to be Detective Isabella Swan there; I wanted to be Bella.

Just Bella.

As I dragged a week's worth of unmentionables from my dresser and placed them in my suitcase, there was a knock at the door. I stopped in the midst of my task and scowled, wondering who on earth would stop by. I walked down the hall toward the door and stopped to look through the peephole before opening it.

Edward Cullen stood on the other side.

I gasped aloud and silently cursed myself for making so much noise. I clapped a hand over my mouth, cringing at the audible slap.

"Bella?"

I stood on the other side of the door from him with my hand still pressed to my mouth and panicked momentarily, flailing and shimmying around. I wasn't ready to talk to him; this was my No-Thinking-About-Edward-Cullen time. I hadn't prepared, hell, I didn't even know if I'd come to a decision about him yet or not.

I looked through the peephole again.

His arm was outstretched, casually propped up against the door jamb, and his other hand was shielding his eyes. He looked frustrated but beautiful, always so damn beautiful.

"Bella, I know you're there. I saw your car outside, and I can see the shadow of your feet under the door."

Shit!

My mouth was dry, my heart was hammering against my ribcage, and I found myself unhooking the chain from the door to let him in.

By the time I opened the door, he had almost risen to his full height, but his shoulders were slumped, and he looked worried.

I still had a pair of yellow underwear with watermelons on them in my hand. I hurriedly shoved them in the back pocket of my jeans.

"I'm sorry to just show up, but I was worried. I hadn't heard from you since—"

I felt like I was going to choke. My throat was tight, and it felt like my heart was going to pound right out of my chest. I held up a hand, placing it in the center of his chest, stopping him from entering. Before I could speak, I felt what I could only describe as an electrical current emanating from his chest. I swore I felt it when we'd touched other times too—the night at the bar. When I'd touched his hand, and when he helped me in and out of my car I swore I felt it. I also knew I drank a lot that night and had chalked it up to the obscene amount of liquor I consumed.

But now I could feel it again, and I hadn't been drinking. It felt like a soft current was being passed over his body and consuming my body and energy in the process.

"Edward, no."

It killed me to turn him away when I wanted to want to say yes.

I pushed against his chest, keeping him from crossing the threshold of my apartment. He was uninvited. His chest was cold, as though he'd been out in the dead of winter without a jacket, and his musculature was firm. No, hard. I imagined rock hard, washboard abs and tight pecs under the button-up Oxford he was wearing.

He genuinely looked hurt, but his expression quickly changed to one of resignation.

"I—"

What was I going to say? I'm going away to evaluate whether or not you're a serial killer.

"I need some space. My mind is really fucked up right now."

I don't know what I expected. Maybe I wanted him to put a bit of a fight, but he didn't. He simply sighed and ruffled up his hair. He stood stock still, looking directly in my eyes.

I had to look away.

"Just a little space, for a little while."

He nodded and backed away, eyes never deviating from mine, until I shut the door.

I tried to remind myself that we didn't know each other very well despite sharing some very personal details in our exchanges. I tried to tell myself that it shouldn't hurt to watch him walk away, but it did.

I packed the rest of my things and arranged for a cab to pick me up at 1:00 a.m. When it arrived, I dragged my suitcase down the stairs and loaded it in the trunk, giving my little apartment a parting glance.

"Airport, please," I told the driver.

It didn't take long to get there, and the terminal was all but dead. I checked in, registering my gun in as well, and made it through security with little delay. I boarded the flight with mainly business types, and I watched as they texted and typed until the very last minute. I decided to check my messages too.

I had one.

Fr: Edward Cullen

Please continue to be careful. For me.

I texted back a quick reply.

To: Edward Cullen

Always am.

I turned the phone off and stowed it away in my carry-on. This was a working vacation, and there would be time to think about Edward later.

I dozed on the flight, not sleeping soundly, but not able to either give myself over to restfulness or wakefulness either. I had a short layover in Minneapolis, and I fought the urge to check my messages again. So much for not thinking of… that strange man. Instead, I pulled out a book of crosswords I'd brought with me.

I landed in Seattle just before dawn on Tuesday morning. By the time I got my luggage and my rental car, it was nearly 8:00 a.m., and I had a three and a half hour drive to Forks. I was so tired. I chugged coffee, chewed gum, listened to the loudest, most angry music on the radio, and even had to stop once and get out of the car to stand in the rain in an effort to wake myself up. I'd forgotten how much it actually rained here. I didn't miss it. Rochester was often overcast, but it didn't rain all the time.

I managed to get through Tacoma after much of the rush hour traffic, and I watched as the scenery changed from grey sky to towering green trees. Butterflies began to flutter, just one at a time, in my stomach as I drove north passing Bremerton and Silverdale closer to home. By the time I got to Port Angeles, I was nauseous and my stomach was swarming with anxiety. I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. I stopped in Port Angeles for brunch before continuing on. The greasy diner food filled my stomach and actually helped settle it a little.

I drove slower than the speed limit between Port Angeles and Forks and turned off the radio. The only music I needed was the sound of the wiper blades squeaking and rain as it polka-dotted the windshield. I ignored the turn-off for La Push. I wasn't ready to confront that demon yet, and I wasn't totally sure I would make the trip to the boat launch or not. I hadn't been back to the area at all since I was a kid. So many things were similar, and some had drastically changed. I gawked as I drove, wondering if old haunts were still there. I was happy to see the same grocery store I visited as a girl with my mom, the same sporting goods store where my dad bought fishing supplies, and the same old Police Station—my dad's home away from home. I dabbed more than one tear as I cruised through town reliving old memories. It was definitely bittersweet being back.

I found the boarding house where I'd reserved a room. When I was growing up here, it was the biggest house in town and owned by an old widower who had let the house go. Now it was a beautiful inn with a cottage-like feel inside.

I got settled in my room just before noon. It was small and on the third floor of the house, but it had all I needed right now—a bed. I abandoned my luggage, shed my coat, and collapsed onto the mattress.

It was several hours before I awoke, the sound of the rain beating on the window under the gable eventually waking me up. As I lay huddled up and warm, I began to take in the details of my quarters. I knew the space was a dormer room, formerly the loft, which the inn had converted into a small room. It was cozy and neat. There was a wingback chair under the angled ceiling and a small desk and chair. I had my own bathroom, and I even had a flat screen TV. Too bad I didn't watch much TV.

In addition to the driving rain bringing me out from my slumber, the amazing smell of baked chicken wafted through the house, and it was mouth-watering.

I climbed out of bed, knotted my hair up in a loose bun and pulled a fresh shirt from my suitcase. I made myself look a little more presentable before making my way downstairs.

The old stairs creaked as I descended to the lowest landing, and I began to see some of the other guests of the bed-and-breakfast. Some sat in the large living room, watching TV or doing puzzles and playing games; a few others were helping to clear the table from dinner.

"Oh! There she is!" cried the friendly voice of Betsy, the owner of the house whom I'd met at check in.

I blushed, folding my arms across my chest. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd sleep so long." Truth be told, I was devastated dinner was finished and was being put away.

"No worries. I saved you a bowl of chicken pot pie. It's wrapped up in the microwave, honey."

Jackpot. I couldn't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.

As I sat at the large oval-shaped table, devouring my chicken pot pie like it was about to be outlawed, I watched the hustle and bustle around me. Some of the other tenants introduced themselves. One couple was on their honeymoon but most of the others were retired couples. There were nine people, including me, staying at the house. The men were there fishing, and their wives had tagged along to go whale watching. I learned that Betsy's husband had died several years ago, and her daughter, Peggy, ran the business end of the bed-and-breakfast.

As I ate, we had so far avoided the question I was most afraid of while I was here. I scraped the last bit of gravy from the stoneware crock when Betsy hollered from the kitchen, "What brings you to Forks, Bella?"

"Ah—I—" I wasn't really sure what I wanted to share. I didn't want pity; I just wanted freedom and escape. "I, um, lived here almost twenty years ago."

The other customers in the room looked on with mild interest, but Betsy stopped washing the table and stared at me. "Isabella Swan, Isabella Swan, Isa—Bella! You're little Bella Swan, Charlie's—"

I nodded, putting my spoon in the bowl as I rose from the table. "Yeah," I said by way of answer. I put my dishes in the dishwasher and looked around at the faces looking back at me.

"Thank you for the help, ladies. You spoil me. Please, go enjoy your evening," Betsy said sweetly, shooing the women from the kitchen and dining room.

They left the kitchen sparing curious glances behind them. Betsy waited until they had dispersed before approaching me.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

I shook my head and stopped her with a gesture of my hand. "It's okay, you didn't know. I just came to find some peace."

Betsy smiled and reached for my hand, taking it in her warm, soft, wrinkled one. "That's awfully brave of you."

I ducked my head and gave her hand a squeeze. "Thanks. I'm going to head back up to my room. I'm still tired."

"Okay, dear. It's cinnamon rolls for breakfast. If you sleep in, I'll save you one."

I climbed back up the three floors and avoided looking at the other residents as I passed the den. I entered my room and locked the door behind me. I changed into some pajamas, stowed my gun in the closet, and grabbed my laptop, flopping down on the comfy bed. I booted up and logged onto a website for Rochester news. I braced myself as I prepared for the worst, but I was pleased to see reports from the recent football game in Buffalo and an announcement for the local trick or treating hours in various neighborhoods of Rochester. Nothing about the serial killer. I could feel my body relax.

I turned off the laptop and turned on the television while I settled under the heavy quilted comforter. I looked at the clock with a yawn and realized it was going on 11:00 in Rochester. Nap notwithstanding, it was no wonder I was getting tired. I flipped through the channels not really paying attention to anything I was watching: a sports commentary show, some home shopping stuff, entertainment news with two really annoying hosts with too-wide smiles and cutting laughs, a sitcom… I found myself wondering how Edward spent his evenings. When I became consciously aware that I was thinking of him, I distracted myself by watching a biography of Beethoven and I eventually fell asleep watching it.

Wednesday morning I blinked awake, vaguely aware I was not in my room at home. I let my eyes wander around the unfamiliar room until they found the glowing alarm clock with red numbers. 5:17 a.m. That meant it was quarter after 8:00 in New York. I stretched out under the covers and decided I should go for a run.

I bundled up in my sweats, tied my hair up, and grabbed my key. When I opened the door, two cats stood outside on the short landing: one white, one orange and white striped. "Hello," I whispered, stooping down to scratch their ears. I tiptoed down the stairs, and they raced ahead of me and out to the kitchen.

I quietly slipped out the back door and began to run. I loved running. Though I wasn't fast, my pace was consistent. Running gave me a freedom I didn't often feel in my life. I liked the idea of relying upon myself to go anywhere I wanted, and the ability to let my mind wander as it liked. Usually I wore my mp3 player, but today my thoughts were my only accompaniment.

As my shoes pounded the pavement, I began to plan my little getaway. The trip had been so hasty that I didn't know how I would spend my week. I knew above all that I would visit the cemetery where my parents were buried on the Swan family plot next to my grandparents. I was determined to visit the river where my dad was murdered too. I'd have to charter a boat out. I couldn't remember how to drive one, and I didn't have a license. I had yet to decide if I would visit the Blacks in La Push. I had not kept in contact, and for all I knew the family no longer lived there.

And I just wanted some peace and rest too.

At noon I stood under a borrowed umbrella on the spongy grass at Forks Cemetery. In front of me were the graves of my parents. I'd never seen either of the headstones before. My mother and I left Forks a week after his death and never looked back, so I had never seen my dad's marker. When my mom died, I was in California with my grandmother, and she wasn't healthy enough to make the trip up to Washington.

I wasn't sure what I believed in regard to the afterlife, but as I stood there with my humble offering of flowers and gazed around at the serene beauty of nature, I had every confidence my parents could hear me.

"I miss you both," I offered as I knelt down to place the bouquet on the flat marble stone. "Daddy, you'll never believe it, but I'm a cop too. Mom, we never really got the chance to talk about guys and stuff, but I could really use your advice now. There's… someone, and I don't know if he thinks of me, but I can't stop thinking about him. I wish you were here to tell me what to do, how to act, what to say. I never really understood guys. Daddy, I wish you were here to give him a hard time and tell me what you thought of his character. I don't know what to do, but I hope I do the right thing. I hope you'd be proud of me no matter what." I wondered for the millionth time what I would be like if they were still here.

I kissed my fingers and pressed them to the cold stone. I was oddly reminded of Edward Cullen and his firm abs the night I pushed him out of my apartment. How strange.

I spent the rest of the afternoon hitting up the local shops and doing touristy things. It felt good to blend in, to be myself. At the restaurant my family had frequented, I remembered there was always a brochure rack with local leaflets and advertisements for local events and places to visit. As I waited for my lunch, I found exactly what I was looking for—charter boat tours.

That evening I helped Betsy with dinner. Since my skills were minimal, I was given the task of making a chef salad. While I irregularly cubed the ham, I dropped little pieces for the cats. After dinner I played gin with the other ladies. Thankfully, none of them asked any questions about me growing up here.

Before I went to bed, I checked the Rochester news again and emailed Angela to ask if any of the forensics were back from the latest vic.

Thursday, I woke up late. I showered, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and braided my hair before going downstairs. There were three slices of bacon, a fruit cup, and a small bowl of yogurt waiting for me. I shared my breakfast with the cats.

Betsy asked where I was off to today. She said nothing when I said I was visiting an old family friend in La Push. I used the phone in the kitchen to make an appointment with the charter boat company I'd taken the brochure for, and I tucked it into my back pocket.

I was nervous when I set off toward the reservation. I probably should have kept in better contact with the Blacks over the years; that's how my dad would have wanted it.

The drive itself wasn't long, but it was long enough to make me wonder if I should have called first. I didn't even know where my phone was. I should have checked my messages. It was amazingly easy to forget how far away from home I was and the responsibilities always waiting for me back there. But one thing that never was far from my mind was Edward. I found myself wondering the most abstract things—had he ever been to the Pacific Northwest or if he ever thought about me…

I clutched the address on a scrap of paper in my left hand. Though I hadn't been on the road in twenty years, I remembered everything along the way: the houses with their totem out front, the signs marking tribal territory, the party store we used to stop at where Dad always let me buy a candy bar.

I turned down a dirt road and a house broke through the trees. It had changed considerably since I'd last seen it. The paint was peeling, the lawn looked like a jungle, and there was an old red Chevy up on blocks next to the driveway. The house I remembered was always neat and maintained. Sure, there was always a collection of bikes and toys in the yard, but everyone's yards looked like that here. Maybe the Blacks didn't live here anymore.

I pulled in the drive and parked. I looked on the house for an address and didn't find one. There were hand-painted numbers and a wolf on the mailbox out front. I looked down at my note again; it was the right address.

I climbed out and hesitantly walked up the drive that was pockmarked with shallow puddles from last night's rain. The sound of my shoes crunching on the gravel and a crow cawing in the distance were the only sounds.

I thought maybe someone would hear the car and come to the door or look out a window, but the house was still. When I got to the stoop, I could finally hear the TV; someone was home. I pounded on the door and could hear a little commotion inside. I heard someone grumble "Damn it all," while I waited.

The door opened abruptly, and I saw an old man standing there leaning heavily against the frame, and a crutch tucked under his arm.

"Billy?"

It couldn't be. This hardly resembled the strong man who rescued me from the boat the day my dad died. His hair was still long but thinning and had more grey than black now. His face was creased with thin lines.

"Yeah?" he answered guardedly.

He didn't recognize me. I went into cop-mode for a moment, approaching a near-stranger at the door. "I'm Detect—Isa—it's Bella. Bella Swan."

"Bella? Oh, geez, is this a surprise." He made to reach out and presumably hug me, but needed to grab on to the door frame again. "Look at you, you're all grown up. Gosh, where are my manners, come in, come in."

Billy walked slowly through the house, his legs lagging. He used the crutch on one side and kept contact with the wall on the other side. There was little around the house, but I noticed a coat rack and a clean laundry basket of towels tipped over.

I stooped quietly to right the coat rack, but Billy noticed. "Just leave it, Bella. I ought to get rid of it. I trip over it every day. Damn legs."

I didn't ask what was wrong, but I took a seat on the sofa when he gestured.

"It's got to be nigh on twenty years, girl. What brings you back? Where've you been since… you lost your dad and your mom? I was sorry about that, by the way." He settled into the large, aging La-Z-Boy chair, leaned the crutch against the wall with its brother, and propped the ottoman up.

I couldn't tell him the truth, not right away. I gave a simple explanation. "I thought I ought to get in touch with my roots. That's you and Sarah too. Where is she?"

Billy's wife was an amazing cook, a great mom, and taught classes at the Quileute Cultural Center.

Billy's excitement at my arrival faded. He sighed and looked down. "Gone, Bella. She's been gone eight years now. Caught up in a riptide." I could still hear the sorrow in his voice. I could hear the echoes of the warnings of all the parents down at First Beach. The undertow could be dangerously strong, especially after storms.

"God, I'm so sorry. Rebecca, Rachel, Jacob? How are they?"

His face did lighten a bit at this. "Good, good. Rebecca is in Hawaii with her husband. He's a surfer. She's pregnant with my first grandchild. Rachel lives in Seattle with Jake's best friend and is getting her Master's Degree. Jacob is across the border in Vancouver. He lives with a girl from the Ditidaht tribe from Vancouver Island. They run a bike shop and garage there."

I smiled. "That's nice. Do the kids visit much?" I couldn't help but let my eyes wander a bit. It was a bit evident that they didn't and that their father could use a little help.

"Sure, sure, when they can. It's a hike for Rebecca, and Rachel and Jake—well, young love and all. So, enough about me. What's your story?"

I told him about losing my mom and gran, living in foster care, and becoming a cop. He teared up a bit at that. After my story, I asked if I could buy him a beer and a burger from the one restaurant in town. He took me up on the offer.

I could smell the saltwater as we drove down near the beach, and I was pleased to see that the restaurant wasn't too busy at this time of day. I walked in next to Billy, careful not to hover, but to stand close if he needed the extra support.

The inside of the restaurant was decked out in traditional Quileute imagery, whales among other sea creatures, and we grabbed a booth near the windows. Outside, otters floated with abalone on their tummies in the choppy waves.

While we sipped our beers and waited for a late lunch, we talked about me moving to Rochester, and I shared that I was working on a serial killer case. I confessed that it was giving me fits because I had no suspects, and I wondered if my dad would have been able to solve it yet. Before I could dwell on the haunting feeling of my dad's police presence over my shoulder, I realized what I said. I had no suspects. I had no pretenses to keep up here, I could tell the truth, and yet, something inside me didn't really believe it anymore.

We ate fish dinners, and Billy told me more about the kids I'd grown up with. I felt a pang of guilt and thought perhaps I should use some dumb social networking site to find them and keep in touch. They were important people in my life for years.

"You know, Bella," Billy began hesitantly, setting his fork down on the table and catching my gaze, "Sarah and I would have taken you in had we known where you were when your mom died. I knew your grandmother lived in California, but I couldn't remember your mom's maiden name. You were family."

I smiled genuinely, feeling the warmth of his statement. "Thanks."

As we finished up the meal and waited for the check, I pulled the flier about boat charters from my back pocket and tossed it down on the table. "Know Seth Clearwater? He runs boat tours I guess."

Billy picked up the brochure and nodded. "Sure. Good kid. What are you chartering a boat for?"

I didn't immediately answer. I pushed my dinner away and sat staring at Billy for several long moments. What to say? "I—there was always something strange about my dad's death, Billy. You and I both know that. I know what I saw that day," I said leaning in close over the table. "I saw some giant dog, a wolf or something, but that didn't maul my dad. A man did. I don't know what he was or how he did it, but I know the outcome. I want to go back out there. I need to. I know it's been twenty years and there won't be a drop of evidence left, but I've got to do it. I owe my dad that much. Maybe it'll jog my memory—"

"Bella, stop." He didn't yell, but his voice was stern. His eyes were intense and focused. "Don't go looking for trouble. You'll find nothing out there but heartache."

I narrowed my eyes at him and sat back, folding my arms across my chest. "Do you know more than you've let on all these years?" My voice was accusing, but I always thought Billy knew something more than he let on. I remember talking to the detective at the pier the night my dad died about the big animal, but no one ever mentioned the two people who jumped onto our boat from… the trees?

Billy sat back too, and the tone of his voice changed. He was sympathetic, calm. "Bella, I wish we could have solved your dad's murder, but there was no evidence. None. I wasn't there. I don't know what happened."

I felt a subtext hanging between us, but you were there.

"Do your best to move on. Honor your dad. That's the best thing you can do for him."

I was angry. Who was he to tell me how to honor my dad? I did that every day on the job.

"What harm will a ride out there do? Maybe it will jog a memory about the man or woman on the boat that day. It's not hurting anyone." I grabbed the brochure off the table and re-pocketed it.

"It's hurting you, Bella. Your dad is gone. Nothing will bring him back."

I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, and my lips trembled with anger and frustration. I smacked my palm down on the table. "Don't you think I know that? I live the pain of that every day. I'm doing my best to move on, and this is the best way I know how!"

The bartender stopped mixing a drink and looked over at us. I realized how loud we'd been.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, folding my arms over my chest again.

Billy sighed. "Bella, I'm trying to help. I can't stop you, but I don't see what good it will do. Even if you do remember something, where would you start? How could you re-open an investigation that was closed? As far as Clallam County is concerned, your dad died in an animal attack."

I said nothing, noting instead that Billy hadn't actually answered my question whether or not he knew anything more about my father's passing. It wasn't worth fighting over. If I wanted to pursue it, it was none of his business. He was my dad's friend, almost family, and I didn't want to argue. I didn't come here for that.

It was very tense after that, and Billy eventually suggested he should get home and finish his laundry. I was thankful he thought up an excuse.

We returned to the small house, and I parked in the driveway and turned off the car. I looked over at him expectedly, waiting for him to say something. He seemed nervous and looked down at his hands.

"Bella, I'm sorry. I was so glad to see you today, to know for myself that you're okay. Sarah and I worried about you all these years. Keep in touch, Bells. Let's not let twenty years go by again."

I felt the unshed tears stinging my eyes again, but I laughed too. "No one has called me that in twenty years."

I dabbed my eye and leaned over and rested my head on Billy's shoulder. "Thanks for everything, ya know, back then. You were my hero."

He reached over and patted my head, hugging me a little closer. "Be good. Don't dwell on the past. And thanks for coming to visit this old man."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and climbed out of my rental car. He walked slowly back to the door, and I thought I saw him wipe a tear along the way. I backed out of the driveway and waved goodbye. I wasn't sure if I'd ever see him again, but I wished I could repay him for what he had done for me.

Friday morning I got up and dressed in a hoodie, jeans, my boots, and a new raincoat and other supplies courtesy of Forks Outfitters. I bought it after I left Billy's the night before. I drove back into La Push to meet Seth Clearwater at the same boat launch my dad and I had departed from the day he died. I chugged coffee the whole way there and felt the anxiety churning and bubbling in my stomach.

I thought I might have to pull over for worry of passing out. Fear itched and clawed at me from the inside out. I felt nauseous, my limbs shook, and my skin felt clammy.

I arrived at the boat launch and saw several groups putting their boats in the water. I assumed one was Seth, but I couldn't make myself get out to check. I sat in the car with my head resting on the steering wheel, giving myself a pep talk.

"You can do this, Bella," I whispered, closing my eyes tight. "Do this for dad."

A knock on my window startled me, causing me to jump. A friendly-looking face peered back at me.

"You Bella?"

I nodded dumbly, yanking the keys from the ignition and shoving them in my pocket.

"Cool! I'm Seth, let's go!" He smiled a gorgeous smile and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

I sighed. This was it; it was now or never.

I climbed out of the car and grabbed a large plastic bag from Forks Outfitters. I didn't know if I'd need the supplies I bought, but I figured I could always return them. I walked over to where Seth and another guy were getting ready to put the boat in.

"C'mon, Swans belong in the water. Don't'cha know that?" He grinned and offered me a hand up into the boat.

I sat down and hugged the bag to my chest as the guys finished putting the boat in. I looked around the lot. When I was a kid, there was a small picnic area with a couple of tables and charcoal grills. That's where my dad and I were supposed to meet my mom. Only one of us made it back.

Once the boat was in the water, Seth told the other boy, Collin, he could head back. The boy who couldn't be more than sixteen climbed into the large SUV with a turquoise logo on the side that read Clearwater Tours.

Seth looked at me expectantly. "Well, where to, pretty lady?"

I fought back a smile and tucked the bag under my seat. "Head west please."

"Right-o."

We went downriver, careful to avoid where others were fishing. Seth asked only once if I was fishing or meeting someone to fish. I answered with a simple "no," and he didn't ask any more questions.

I did, however.

"How old was the boy with you today? Does he work for you?"

Seth steered around a rocky outcropping. "That's Collin. He's sixteen. I try to help him out during summers and days off school. He likes the money, and he's a good kid."

I nodded. "Think he'd be amenable to some more work? I'm an old friend of Billy Black's, and I'm looking to pay someone a generous wage to keep up with the outdoor work there at the Black's. You know, painting, mowing, and keeping the place tidy."

"I'm sure he'd be into it. I'll put you in contact."

I nodded. I felt good, like I was repaying Billy for all he'd done for me.

We continued downstream until the Bogachiel River was about to meet the Sol Duc. The water ran fast today, and the spray coated my face. It was grey and overcast, nothing like the day I fished with my dad. Eventually, the river narrowed a little, and the trees loomed over the water. This was familiar.

"Slow down."

Seth looked over at me, eased up on the throttle, but continued to move downriver.

I knew what was coming next. The river would widen back out around the bend and open back up. There would be…

A tree.

"Stop."

Seth looked at me again, and let the engine idle.

"No, I need to stop." There was an edge of panic to my voice as I looked around the gentle bend of the river, my mind jumping between the past and the present. I could recount amazing details from that day that were burned into my mind—what I was wearing, how I was sitting, watching Dad arc the reel and draw in the fish—but the way my current companion was looking at me had me concerned. He threw the anchor in front of the tree, letting the boat drift.

The once-proud cottonwood was dying now. Most of the limbs were dry and barren. Only one branch reaching straight up to the sky still bore foliage. There was no question that this was the place. It was a lone tree at the water's edge, a rocky meadow overgrown with moss rising behind it.

I reached under the seat and grabbed the bag from Forks Outfitters and pulled out a pair of too-large, camouflage hip waders.

"Hey, what'cha doin there, girl?" Seth asked, a furrow forming over his brow.

"I'm getting out." I began to pull the waders on, stretching my toes into the bottom of the legs as Seth looked at me aghast. I eventually stood up and shimmied my way into the rubberized pants, fastened the belt around my waist, and pulled the suspender straps upon my shoulders.

Seth shook his head, trying to be fair and judicious, but stern. "Bella, I don't feel comfortable with this. The water is fast, the current is too strong."

I nodded. I wasn't going to let this derail me. I knew his heart was in the right place—it was a dangerous , stupid idea, but something I had to do. For a fleeting moment, the idea of Sarah Black being caught up in an undertow flashed through my mind, but I had to push it away. It was a horrible fate, but if this place could be the key to me unlocking my own memories, I had to do it. Danger be damned.

I looked over at Seth. "Got a rope?"

"Ye—" he stopped himself, his eyes darting to the bright yellow rope neatly curled up on the floor of the boat.

"Okay, tie it around my waist. I'm just going out to that tree over there. Please. I can't really explain this, and I don't want to. I'm not trying to be stupid or careless, just please understand me when I say that I need this. I came 2,300 miles to do this. Please?" I was pleading, my voice steady as I met his eyes and tried to convey the meaning of my words in a glance.

He sighed audibly, shoulders rising and falling. "Alright. Against my better judgment. Lemme tie this knot."

My body slumped with relief. I stepped closer, letting him tie a figure-eight knot around my waist and fastenthe other end of the rope to the fittings on the portside.

"H-how deep is the water?" I asked, peering over the edge of the boat.

Seth grimaced. "Not sure. I'll get as close to the shore as I can, but I'd guess it's three or four feet for sure."

I took deep breaths as Seth maneuvered the boat closer, carefully monitoring the depth of the motor in the water. The boat was several yards closer to the tree at the edge of the river, but it was still going to be a daunting walk.

"Are you sure I can't talk you out of this?" Seth asked as he re-anchored the boat.

I looked out at the tree and back to him, shaking my head. "No."

I climbed up on the stern and sat on the wall, dangling my feet over the edge. The toes of the rubber waders touched the water.

"How long are you going to be?"

I shook my head. "Not long? I don't know. I just need some time to think."

He frowned. "And it has to be there?" he asked incredulously.

I nodded again. "Yes."

Seth sighed. "Okay then, let's do this."

He came up behind me at the stern and took my hands, gently lowering me down into the water. It was cold, shockingly so, making my breath race. The water rose to my waist when my feet finally touched the pebbled bottom. Seth held my hands until I had my bearings and then I slowly began to walk, shuffling along, careful not to slip. I could see and feel the water getting shallower as I got closer to the tree. When I was finally beneath the cottonwood, I looked up. Here. This was the view my dad had when he died.

The tears started as I waded up on the shore and climbed the steep bank to be near the tree. I sat down with my back against the trunk on the far side away from Seth.

I sobbed in earnest and closed my eyes tight, attempting to remember the day. I strained at first, trying to force the memories. I could remember what I wore, where I sat in the boat, the sun high in the sky. I squinted my eyes tight, pushing my brain to endeavor to recall the specifics, but they wouldn't come.

Frustrated, I slumped over on the ground and lay back with my eyes closed. Maybe I was just stupid to come all the way here. It had been too long. I sighed; it was time to let it go. "I'm sorry, Daddy," I whispered, blinking away the tears.

Looking up at the tree, something caught my eye.

There was a Mylar balloon caught in one of the tree's branches.

Though there wasn't much sunlight, the metallic surface caught the light and reflected it.

A shimmering hand reached toward me as a face leaned in closer, closer, red staining his lips.

I sat up abruptly, gasping for air. I could feel my heart pound in my chest in a syncopated rhythm. Was this a dream or a memory?

I was trying to make sense of the confusion in my mind. Why was the man sparkling? Why was there blood on his mouth and face?

My mind supplied a word.

A preposterous word.

Vampire.

But vampires weren't real. Sure, there were the kind that played role playing games, psychic vampires that claimed to feed from the life force of others, but they didn't consume real blood, did they?

Shouldn't that be cannibalism?

This was crazy, CRAZY! There was no such thing as vampires. Furthermore, there was no way a human could issue the kind of damage my dad suffered. His throat was ripped out from ear to ear, similar to my Rochester vics; except they were…drained of blood.

Oh fuck, this was too weird, too coincidental. Vampires weren't real!

I was suddenly desperate to say it out loud to hear how crazy it was. Surely I'd be institutionalized, but I was sure it was a memory now. I could remember the man leaning in; I could smell the metallic, minerally scent as he leaned over me.

My heart was racing again, and I was dizzy. The blood was rushing through my ears, and I felt sick. I took a deep breath and bent forward to put my head between my knees.

I didn't know how long I sat there, but eventually Seth's voice broke through the screaming in my own mind.

"Bella!"

I scrambled up to my knees and looked out at the river.

"Just got a text. Storm's coming in. We should bail, girl."

I looked out to the west and saw the dark, angry-looking clouds billowing. I stood up and made sure the knot was still secure around my waist before making my way back to the boat.

Seth hoisted me up, and I struggled to peel off the waders as he pulled up the anchor. I slumped down into the chair again, and he looked at me with concern.

"You okay? Did you, um, get done what you needed to?" He arched an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

My eyes darted back to the tree, up to the Mylar balloon, and I shuddered. "Sorta," I mumbled, wrapping my arms around my stomach.

Seth was quiet all the way back to the launch, texting someone and keeping an eye on the weather. When we arrived, I gave him one of my business cards and asked him to have Collin give me a call.

I didn't want to go back to the inn yet, so I drove around Forks for a while. I stopped for a coffee, bought a hoodie that read FORKS from the general store, stopped at the winery for a bottle, and ended with a drive past my childhood home. I remembered my little room at the top of the stairs, the little fort I had in the backyard, and the shelf that hung behind the door where my dad always hung his gun. My mom took what fit in the car when we left, and I refused to leave without that shelf. It hung in my apartment now. I eventually got takeout from the diner and retreated to my room at the inn.

I popped the cork from the bottle of wine and began to eat while I waited for my laptop to boot up. I checked the Rochester news, happy to find rumors of a political scandal as the headline. I eventually typed the word 'vampire' into a search engine and clicked on the first result for an internet encyclopedia site. I drank straight from the bottle and giggled as I read the page. I read about the folk beliefs regarding vampires, how to identify a vampire, and the attributes of a vampire. Each part of the feature was more ridiculous than the last. It amazed me that people actually believed these old wives tales. They were absurd and just silly. In some cultures they believed a corpse would become a vampire if an animal jumped over the grave, some people cut the Achilles tendon of the dead to ensure they couldn't rise up from the earth, and still other cultures believed you could identify a vampire's grave by leading a virgin boy on a virgin horse through the cemetery. If the horse spooked over a grave, well, there's your vampire. Each story and example was more ridiculous than the last, but that might have been the wine too.

One part of the article did give me pause, the part on apotropaic magic, rituals to turn away evil: garlic, crucifixes, holy water, mustard seeds, vampires' inability to walk on consecrated ground or cross running water. I couldn't very well walk around with garlic or stakes, but there were other folk remedies I could use to protect myself, right? I could wear a crucifix or check for a vampire's shadow or reflection.

I groaned and flopped back on the pillows. VAMPIRES WEREN'T REAL! I had to let go of this absurd idea. I'd heard the story Keith told at the Seneca Museum and seen the Halloween references on the Rochester news website only a couple nights before. All this was just my runaway thoughts and nothing more. There had to be a rational explanation for what I saw as a girl, or maybe I'd just filled in the blanks in my mind with things that made sense to me at the time.

It was illogical, and that's all there was to it. I didn't want to think about it anymore, so I drank until I passed out.

Saturday was my last day in Forks. I was catching the red-eye from Seattle that night. I said goodbye to Betsy and checked out of the inn, packing everything back in the rental car. I stopped at the diner for breakfast and popped into a nearby gift shop/antique store. I browsed the aisles and jewelry cases for a few minutes before I found something that intrigued me.

"Could I see this, please?" I asked, tapping the glass case and looking at an older gentleman sitting near the cash register.

He walked over slowly, turning through the keys on a key ring until he found a small, brass one. He unlocked the case and set a small, velvet, jewelry box in front of me.

"What's that stone?" I asked, fingering the small pendant.

"It's not actually a stone, well, kinda. It's petrified wood from right here in Washington."

The silver crucifix stood out nicely against the striated, brown stone. "I'll take it," I said, digging in my pocket for the money. "And I'll wear it out, please."

Sure, maybe it was crazy, maybe I was crazy, but a little extra protection never hurt, right? And it was a link to my hometown.

I paid for the necklace and quickly secured it around my neck, pleased with how it looked and felt. I thanked the man and set out for my three-and-a-half hour drive back to Seattle.

After turning in my rental and checking in my luggage and gun, I found a quiet restaurant and ordered a quick dinner. While I waited, I rifled through my carry-on and found my forgotten cell phone.

I removed the phone from my bag and turned it on, listening to the familiar boot up jingle. As soon as the phone found a signal, it instantly began alerting me to all the missed calls and texts I'd received in the last week.

Crap, I was probably fired or something and didn't know it.

I scrolled through the 'Missed Calls' log and found 28 texts in my absence. One was from my landlord telling me she'd received my rent payment, one from the bank letting me know my direct deposit had arrived in my account, two from Angela telling me she'd heard I was on vacation and that she hoped I was having fun, and the other twenty-four were from Edward Cullen.

The texts were spaced out, just a few every day, but from the few I scanned, it was obvious he was concerned and expected an answer from me.

Bella? Have you left town?

Bella, I'm sorry if I upset you by showing up at your apartment that night.

Is everything alright?

I'm worried about you.

I know you asked for space, but Bella, I'm going crazy.

I'm sorry if you're angry. Please text me so I know that you're okay.

I was shocked, speechless, and touched. How could I have thought him a raging psychopath? I thought for a moment, debating whether or not I should reply immediately. Knowing I didn't have long before my flight, I put the phone down and waited for my dinner.

While I flew home, I was unable to think of little else but Edward. Other than the first two instances we met, he'd been nothing but nice to me. We had been making attempts to get to know one another, and I'd shared more with him than anyone I could remember in years, but what were we? Friends? Acquaintances? Was our relationship strictly professional? Did I want it to be more?

The answer was easy. Yes. I wanted more.

Even though I no longer truly suspected he was a local serial killer, my instinct told me something was wrong with Edward Cullen. I didn't know if he was violent, bipolar, crazy, or what. But before I got further involved with him, I needed to know more about him. I was now basing my distance from him on the temperature of his skin of all things. Was I looking for reasons to push him away? Had my subconscious mind let my imagination run away with itself? Did my mind make a leap between Edward's cool touch and that of the man who killed my dad? Did it automatically link them because they bore one thing in common?

But Edward's touch didn't feel the same at all. Though his skin was cold, the touch itself was warm, stimulating.

I desperately wanted, no, needed something real and mature, seriously unlike the other "relationships" I had in the past. I wanted to know Edward and his flaws, and I wanted him to know mine. I wanted to be honest with him, and I hoped that he could understand and respect the person I was. If he didn't want that, I needed to know before I made an ass out of myself.

But I had made a lot of mistakes, and I didn't really understand how to be with men, and I didn't know how to say that without sounding like a total addict who wanted to meet a guy, get married, and have his baby all in the same week. I just… needed to know he was serious, I guess.

I fell asleep after midnight, re-reading Edward's texts, and I was startled when the flight attendant woke me up in New York.

I took a cab home and dragged my suitcase and carry-on up the stairs to my apartment. I left everything on the living room floor and flopped onto the couch. Before I dozed off again, I sent a quick text.

To: Edward Cullen

Yes, I've been out of town. Am fine. Home now. Thanks for worrying.

Author's Note: Epic thanks to DuskWatcher2153 and Solareclipses for beta-ing this chapter. Thank you for your hard work, ladies. Thinking of you, Kisbydog08.

I have a song rec for this chapter too: Plumb's "Damaged." Just a warning, it could be a trigger for some. I don't mean make light of the original meaning behind the song, I'm re-interpretting it to have a different meaning. I hope no one is offended, that's not my wish at all.

And EPIC thank you Badjujube for rec'ing me recently. It is appreciated!