DISCLAIMER: First and foremost, I would like to EMPHASIZE that I DO NOT own Twilight- Stephenie Meyer does. Secondly, this fan fiction was written purely for the purpose of entertainment and will not be used for monetary profit. Lastly, I am all for constructive criticism. However, if you're just here to comment on how much you HATE Twilight or that I'm an awful person for replacing Bella, please don't bother.

A/N: I'd like to send a great big THANKS to my Beta (Angel of the Night Watchers) for taking this on. I couldn't do it without you!

Summary: Emotionally crushed by a betrayal she didn't see coming, Lillie must come to grips with what has transpired before she can decide where to go from here.

NOTE: Those who review this chapter will receive a preview of the next chapter a week before it's posted on FFn. (Please ensure that your Private Messaging Capability is turned on in your Account Options, else I cannot send you the preview).

Special Author's Note: I wanted to say thanks to Paul Fritz for posting a review on my last chapter. Unfortunately, you don't have your Private Messaging Capability turned on, so I couldn't reply or send you your preview. Even so, I'm glad you're enjoying the story thus far.

Chapter 25:

My eyes had long since run dry, unable to produce any more of the tears that usually accompanied the relentless trembling which wracked my balled-up form with a force reminiscent of an earthquake. So, too, had the raucous gasps died down to be replaced by the quiet panting of exhaustion. I didn't know how long I'd been here, crammed into the claustrophobic space between the door and the toilet; legs pulled in tightly to my chest and secured in place by the rigid banding of my quavering arms. I hadn't noticed the nasally tolling of the stupid bell over the turmoil of my breakdown. But that didn't mean it hadn't rung. Just that I'd missed it.

Like so many other things ….

The thought, like so many of its predecessors, resounded in my head like the crack of a whip; its barbed ends sticking into the flesh of my psyche and shredding it to ribbons. And I had no right to complain, to bemoan the hand that dealt the lashes. Because that hand was my own.

Lines had been crossed, ones which could never be un-crossed. One by one, I'd stepped over them; each time consciously choosing to ignore the whispers of doubts that had arisen within my own heart and mind. Be it naivety or stubbornness, my willful disregard of truths that had long ago been established had led me to this moment.

There were no excuses I could offer, no words of apology or regret that could change what I had done. I had made my bed with the fragile glass of hopes. It was only fitting that those dreams had shattered into the sharp fragments of a broken heart just as the time had come for me to lie down.

And the worst part? It was no more than I deserved.

I had known better.

My chest and throat tightened painfully at the same time, forcing me to suck in a broken breath; the cold air feeling like sandpaper against the salt-raw walls of my windpipe, causing me to cough dryly which hurt even worse. I didn't bother using my hands to cover my hacking. The room had been blessedly empty, when I'd arrived and had remained so ever since. Not that I would have cared one way or the other. By the time I'd slammed the stall door closed behind me, I couldn't have gone another step. I hadn't even had the faculties to twist the lock into place. I'd simply crumpled into a boneless heap on the tile floor and allowed the waves of betrayal and pain to wash over me like a tsunami.

Squinting my eyes together tighter, I knocked my forehead against my kneecaps a few times in quick succession.

That's what you get for trusting a vampire, I silently admonished myself. And it was true. Every single vampire that I had ever met had hurt me in some way; physically, mentally … emotionally. Even the Cullens – especially the Cullens. They had sat there and watched Edward pull the wool over my eyes, had helped him to fake innocence and gentility. But they knew. They who had lived with him for decades. They had known all along what kind of monster he was.

And not a one of them had tried to warn me.

A hollow, heartrending sob slipped past my firmly compressed lips; the sound so pitiful I wouldn't have believed it possible had it not come from within my own body. It echoed off the walls around me, harmonizing with the irregular drips of a leaky faucet and the pitch-less creaking of the door of a nearby stall in an eerie way; sounding for all of the world like a macabre chorus of the broken.

Overall, it was fitting. Like the myriad of untended things in this restroom, there was something wrong with me. And, like with the cracked floor tile and the dented wall, the fractures in my being were overlooked by the outside world; deemed too inconsequential to fix – or too troublesome. Then again, tightening the washers on the faucet and doors were much easier to do than fixing what was wrong with me.

"Did you really think you deserved better?"The voice was quiet, rasping out from beyond that shadowy wall inside my head. "You who killed them, who sat by and listened to them being ripped apart by those beasts?"

A wash of dark energy surged forth from beyond the invisible wall that protected my sanity. And, too late, I realized that the barrier had weakened. The protective pool I'd once drawn from had grown tainted; the once-happy memories I'd filled it with had morphed, their hazy illusions now a reflection of the darkness I perceived in Edward. Gone was the assurance that I would be ever safe in his care. Gone was the confidence I'd once held in his goodness. In their place was a stream of faces and places which had once been locked securely away.

And the voice. That vindictive, grating whisper that provided the terrifying commentary backdrop for each of the images that now flitted through my head. The one that knew exactly what to say to strip me of my defenses, how to vocalize my worst fears and insecurities. Why? Because it was mine. It was the subtle sigh that told me I wasn't worth it, the screaming shout that decried I was nothing more than a freak. It was every dark thought, every self-defacing inclination I had ever had. It was as practical and calculating as it was cruel. It was the knife by which I stabbed myself in the back.

"No," I pleaded, the word little more than a tremulous whisper. Instinctively, I curled in on myself tighter; my arms exerting all their strength to pull my legs in as close as possible, my eyes squinting shut even more, and my head attempting to bury itself in the small notch between my knees and chest.

The voice chuckled wickedly and I felt another surge of power wash against my defenses, "You know it's true."

"No," I growled. Gritting my teeth together, I pushed back with every ounce of the waning mental strength I had.

"No what, Lily?"

My breath caught in my throat and I felt the muscles across my shoulders tense even more than they already were. The voice had changed; altered its timbre and tone to one less cruel and goading. Becoming almost friendly, familiar. The strange alteration gave me pause. Had I won? Was the damned thing going to crawl back into its detestable hole and leave me be?

Of course not.

Just as I began to believe I'd come out on top, it cackled out a long, low hiss of amusement; the sound sending chills down my spine, "You can't get rid of what's already a part of you."

"Go away," I groaned, my arms moving to wrap themselves over my head in a vain attempt to block out its devilish delight. But, deep down, I knew it was right. The voice was as much a part of me as my liver or spleen. I could no more eradicate its presence than I could those of my vital organs.

"Lily," that sweet, worried tone again.

"No!" I tried to scream, tried to put more emphasis and power behind the proclamation, but I just didn't have the strength – mental or emotional. I was spent.

"Lillie …," the voice taunted, back to its demonic roots.

"Leave me alone," I pled, pointlessly trying to shut out the sound.

But it didn't. The voice proceeded to toy with me, bouncing back and forth like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde on LSD; sweet to cruel, worried to goading.

"Lily!"

"Lillie …."

"Lily, let me in."

"Stop it!" I cried, my dry eyes burning as they attempted to squeeze out tears that didn't exist. "PLEASE!"

"Stop it," it mocked, a ghostly chuckle following.

When something seized my hunched shoulders and began to shake me, I very nearly lost it. Things had never gone this far before – not even in the bowels of that Italian fortress. The voice had always remained just that – a voice; its wicked whisperings no more tangible than the dark dreams that filled my nights. But for this to happen …. Things had moved far beyond the realm of the acceptable.

"Lily!" Another rough shake, this one so forceful it shook the stall door behind me.

No, I thought quietly, trying to force the imagined stimuli away. It's not real – it can't be.

"Look at me, Lily." Soft skin, warm to the touch, brushed against the tip of my ear as slender hands attempted to pry my arms away from my head.

The reality of the contact frightened me enough that I acted instinctively; my arms uncurling from their protective position as my head snapped up, eyes held wide with fear and surprise, and grabbed the wrists of my attacker, intent on tearing their hands away. But what I saw startled me into complete immobility.

Deep brown eyes stared at me through the oddly-prismatic sheen of half-rimmed glasses, the face oval and framed by a wash of dark straight hair. It wasn't necessarily her presence that shocked me – I saw her almost every day. What surprised me was the intensity with which those eyes met mine. I was more accustomed to seeing them down turned.

"Ange …?" I tried, only to find that my throat had grown raw and swollen from the crying. Swallowing thickly, I tried again, this time managing to force a scratching version of her name past my useless voice box, "Angela?"

Her eyes, as dark as fresh coffee, scanned my face for a few moments; thoughts and emotions flickering behind them like fireflies. When she spoke, her voice was like a protective blanket settling itself over me, "Yeah, sweetie. It's me."

I opened my mouth to say something, to ask her what she was doing here, but all that came out was a broken sob. At the sound, my chest constricted so forcefully that I found it difficult to breathe. It was like I was being shredded from the inside – like my organs had shattered into a million tiny pieces, each so sharp they were capable of slicing through bone and flesh alike.

The pain must have been evident on my face because Angela leaned forward and wrapped me in her arms, her small form rocking me back and forth in time with my sobs, "Shhh. It's okay – you're okay. I'm here."

I don't know how long we sat there – how long the tearless weeping went on. Eventually, though, the shutters stopped and the breaths I drew in grew easier. When calm finally came, I found myself leaning heavily on Angela's shoulder, one of her arms wrapped around my shoulders as her hand rubbed soothing circles into my back. The familiarity of her embrace was a little disconcerting. There was nothing illicit in it, rather it spoke of a level of understanding and closeness I had never attributed with her. Before now, there had only been a handful of people whom I had ever allowed to hold me like this – to see me in such a vulnerable state – and Angela wasn't one of them. She wouldn't have even made the 'top ten' on the list – if there had been such a thing.

Yet, I hadn't thought twice about collapsing into her – and that wasn't like me.

Embarrassed, I pulled away; realizing, for the first time, how little room there really was inside the stall.

She let me go easily, shifting slightly so that she could see me better.

I just sat there, fidgeting a little with the ends of my hair and trying to think of what I should say. What she had seen … it went beyond what a casual friend should. In fact, it butted, awkwardly, against the realm of familial closeness. The problem was, how does one even begin to address something like that? If I'd had the faculties to do so beforehand, I might have asked her to leave – told her that I wanted to be alone. But I hadn't. So, what is there to say after the fact?

When I finally made myself meet her eyes, there was no trace of judgment in their umber depths. Even the hints of pity I saw were limited. What dominated her expression was uncertainty – like she was picking up on my confusion and echoing it back.

"Any better?" Her voice was quiet, hesitant.

The question snagged me out of my embarrassment, bringing my addled brain back to the source of my pain. Though the hurt was a little duller now than it had been before, it was still more than I could handle. Cringing away from the anguish, I shook my head and tried to think of something else – anything else.

Slender shoulders sagged a little, as though beneath an unbearable weight, and those dark eyes scanned me again. I could feel it every time they paused to take in some sign of my distress; the unnaturally-tense cowing of my frame, the quick hitching breaths that shook my chest like small tremors, and the undoubtedly-red blotchiness covering my pale face. When they returned to me, her worry had sharpened into intensity, "Do you want to go home?"

Honestly? I wasn't sure. It wasn't that I didn't want to get out of this stall. More that I didn't know if I should even bother. With how much pain I was in, how betrayed and alone I felt, I just wasn't sure if it was a good idea to go back to a life that kept me here. My instincts were telling me that I should run, cut my losses and leave. Part of me recognized that doing so would hurt Julia – part of me even cared about that – but another, more selfish side, was trying to convince the rest of me that I just couldn't risk going through this again. And, from the dark recesses of my mind, the voice whispered that, given enough time, Julia would let me down, too.

Eventually, I gave in and just nodded my head. I was far too emotionally exhausted to contemplate the what-ifs and why-fors right then. The first step was simply getting out of the stall. Everything after that could be figured out later.

Angela rose slowly to her feet, somehow managing to cram her tiny frame into the empty space between the latrine and the stall wall; her arm extending down to offer a helping hand up.

I paused for a fraction of a second as my mind recognized the significance of that single gesture and the weight it would carry were I to accept it. The hollow echo of my previous conviction sounded in my ears,"Never again …." There was just enough time for me to worry over the implications of taking her aide. In the end, however, I pushed the worry aside. She was offering to help me to my feet. Nothing more.

Getting out of the stall was a bit of an adventure. The small space hadn't been intended to house two people and, consequently, didn't offer much space for the door to swing inward when so occupied. It took me backing myself into the wall, holding the door close to my chest, before Angela was able to squeeze through the opening.

When I emerged, I couldn't help but catch sight of my reflection in the huge, wall-spanning mirror over the sinks. And what I saw did nothing to raise my spirits. My pale face was blotchy with the same shade of red that ringed my puffy eyes – eyes that were unmistakably bloodshot. In short, I was a mess.

"Wait," I croaked, stopping Angela from pulling open the heavy door that lead back into the hall.

She didn't say anything, when she turned around; just looked at me with a hesitantly curious expression on her tanned face.

Reaching into my front pocket, I fished around until my fingertips found the slender ring of cloth-covered elastic I was looking for. Without a word, I used it to pull my thick hair back from my face before turning on the cold water to the sink. Leaning down, I filled my cupped palms and used it to splash my face; repeating the process a couple of times before twisting the knob back to off and tearing a swath of paper from the nearby roll to pat off the remaining wetness. When I straightened up to examine my reflection again, it was marginally better. The cold water had reduced the puffiness around my eyes and nose and had given my pale skin a more even pink tone.

Pulling the hair tie out with one hand, I nodded back at Angela, "Okay."

It was a minor miracle that we managed to make it all the way to the parking lot without anyone stopping us. Whether they saw us or not was a completely different story – one that I couldn't have cared less about. I followed behind her with shuffling, unhurried steps the whole way. When we stopped in front of a worn white Honda Civic, it took me a moment before I understood that it was her car. She pulled open the driver's side door before nodding toward the passenger side, "It's open."

I fought back a cringe at the familiar words and simply slipped inside.

She drove slowly – much more slowly than was strictly necessary considering the emptiness of the streets. Then again, considering how many worried glances she was stealing at me, it was probably for the best. I didn't really need 'automobile collision' added to the laundry list of complications I already had piled on my plate.

I stared absently out the windshield, my mind too preoccupied with being empty to appreciate the irony of there being no rain when my eyes couldn't seem to stop leaking – sporadic as the teardrops were. I'd shed more tears of grief in the last six months than I could remember having shed at any other time in my too-long life. One would think, what with everything I'd been through in the last century, that I'd have long ago lost the ability to cry. But, instead, it seemed the opposite was true. The longer I lived, the more capacity for grief and hurt I seemed to accumulate.

Only another – oh, I don't know – eternity to go …, I thought ruefully.

My eyes slipped closed at the thought. At the rate things were going, I'd finally get the answer to the question about whether I was still human enough to die of a broken heart. My guess? Probably not. Dying of grief would be too fitting an end for the likes of me. My death – if it ever came – would more likely be the result of extreme violence. Violence dealt out by the hands of vampires, if there was any symmetry to the universe.

It was the first thing my eyes landed on, when I finally opened them back up; and it seemed almost providential. The long, narrow building was set back from the road on a small grassy rise, its front doors propped open beneath the tall stained-glass window set into the snow-white siding of the three-story steeple. A simple white cross adorned the top of the bell tower, its shape defined by the mist-grey uniformity of the ever-present cloud cover.

"Wait." The request was out of my mouth before I even had time to think it through.

"What is it?" The car began to slow almost immediately, despite Angela's obvious confusion.

I paused for one prolonged second; what remained of my rational mind trying to decide whether what I was considering was even possible – let alone a good idea. The consensus was mixed – and, therefore, totally useless. So I decided to just go with it. If it didn't work, it didn't work. At least I'd know.

"Can you pull in, please?" I pointed to the entrance of the parking lot ahead.

Though her brows were pulled together in concern, she nodded her head and maneuvered the vehicle into one of the available spaces.

I waited until she'd put the car into park before I motioned at the church, "Do you mind?"

She blinked, "No." There was some level of discomfort lingering below the surface of her expression, despite the readiness of her answer.

Her unspoken hesitancy gave me pause. I'd never stopped to wonder whether Angela was religious or not. It wasn't one of the topics that had come up within my group of school friends. Granted, I wasn't exactly what one could call 'religious' myself. I had faith, sure – it was one of the few things that had stayed with me throughout the whole of my lifetime. However, it had been decades since I'd been to church – and I hadn't stepped foot in a Catholic church since before Italy. As such, I hadn't been to Confession or taken Communion in longer than most people lived. Come to think of it, I'd stopped praying regularly a long, long time ago; instead bowing my head only when I was in trouble.

Still, I felt like this was where I should be. I couldn't have said why – God had never answered my prayers before. Then again, I hadn't been all that good at keeping His laws either ….

"I can walk home from here, if …," I didn't finish the offer, feeling awkward insinuating that she was uncomfortable.

Her dark eyes flickered away from my face, over my shoulder to take in the church. But, before they landed back on my own, she was shaking her head, "No, I can come in – if you want me to."

The smile that came to my face was a poor example of my gratitude, but it was the closest I could come at the moment, "Thanks. I just …. I need some time to think."

Her smile was full of warmth and support, "What're friends for?"

The instant the sole of my shoe touched that first concrete step leading up to those doors, I began to have second thoughts. It wasn't that I thought I didn't belong – well, not exactly. In a way, I knew I didn't. Since the deaths of my family, much of my life had been spent in the company of evil – whether by choice or not, it didn't matter. And, while things had improved after Italy, I could not say that I had lived a good life. There were things in my past that I was not proud of. Of the twelve simple rules that had been laid out for me to follow, I had managed to keep less than half – and some of those only because the opportunity to break them had never presented itself. No, I had not lived a righteous life. I was a survivor in a world where survival and salvation were neither synonymous nor sympathetic. Then again, that was kind of the whole point of a church – to help people find deliverance.

No, my problem wasn't in synergy. What I was afraid of, above all else, was rejection. Not by the church, of course – the clergy here knew no more of me than anyone else. I was absolutely terrified that God Himself would turn me away. That I would reach those open doors and find I couldn't go inside, that all my fears of abandonment and forsakenness had been justified. I was scared of confirming that there was no salvation waiting for me. I was frightened of being alone; wholly and truly alone.

Somehow, I managed to keep my feet moving, one in front of the other, all the way to the top landing. When I reached it, however, I found myself frozen in place; my limbs acting out the petrified state of my mind, as I stared inside. Gold and aqua light filtered down through the window above the door, its surreal beauty lending a welcoming aura to the simply-decorated narthex. But it wasn't the worn oaken floorboards that had caught my eye – nor had the carved pews or even the white-cloaked altar. No, what had grabbed my attention and immobilized me was the man-sized wooden crucifix that hung suspended from the cathedral ceiling.

Hanging lifelessly from the center was a carefully crafted wooden man, his arms extended out to either side with hands pierced through with crude iron nails, his feet stacked atop a small triangular platform and likewise punctured. A ragged cloth hung from his emaciated hips and a crown of thorns wrapped itself across his forehead. Even from so far away, I could make out the glistening of light reflecting off streams of red that ran down his bearded, bedraggled face, from the piercings on his hands and feet, and from a single, slender wound at his ribcage. The sight was made even more powerful by the presence of a large rose window on the wall behind him; its colored glass casting beams of multifaceted light around his broken silhouette.

Transfixed and trembling, I stared at the statue from the opposite side of the threshold. The metallic heads of the crucifixion nails glittered more brightly than anything else, as though in emphasis of the pain and suffering their installment had inflicted; and I couldn't help but gape at them in horror.

I'm not worth that …. The thought bubbled up from the murky quagmire of my mind, bringing with it a bitter taste that tinged the back of my mouth with the flavor of fresh ashes.

"No," I whispered hollowly, "I'm not." And it was true.

Of the myriad of ways authorities throughout the centuries had concocted to execute prisoners, crucifixion was one of the cruelest. Not because it was gruesome, but because it was both languorous and humiliating. Unlike beheading or draw-and-quartering, crucifixion was never quick. The condemned's death came after hours – or days – of torturous exertion – usually preceded by some form of scourging. If they didn't die from exposure or exsanguination, then they faced the chance of their wounds becoming infected and succumbing to septic shock. If they were unlucky enough to survive that, then asphyxiation stood ready, waiting like a vulture for the victim's legs to give out. Then again, the perpetrators were rarely patient enough to wait days for their wards to die. In that case, the crucified's knees were shattered using a mallet or hammer and either severe traumatic shock or asphyxiation finished them off.

All in all, a horrible way to go.

Out of nowhere, a passage from John flitted through my mind, "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son; that whosoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life."

I felt them coming, the tears. They tickled and burned the desiccated flesh at the inner corners of my eyes, making me blink repeatedly. Before I could break down again, my instinctual sarcasm flitted up through the pain to provide some alleviation, Yeah, about that whole 'everlasting life' thing – not all it's touted to be.

"I don't think that's what He meant …," I mumbled, finally able to draw my eyes down to stare at my feet.

"Did you say something?"

Angela's familiar voice snapped me out of the reverie I'd been lost to and, when I looked up to find her, I saw she was standing just inside the narthex threshold. Her thick brows were arched up in the center, making her dark eyes stand out all the more against her tanned skin.

Realizing I'd said the last too loudly, I shook my head; my nerves sending my teeth to lightly pinch the flesh of my lower lip between them.

"Are you okay?"

Flickering my gaze back up to her, I suddenly noticed how critically she was examining me. And, considering how I was acting, I couldn't have said that I blamed her. For the first time since reaching the landing, I took stock of what I was actually doing. My right shoe was absently toeing a crack in the concrete and I was wiping my stiff-as-hangers hands against the denim of my jeans.

Could you look any more nervous?! I mentally chastised myself before making a conscious attempt to mellow out my physical persona.

"I'm fine," I said. When she gave me a disbelieving look and opened her mouth, I decided to elaborate, "It's just … been a while since I've been to church."

With a determination equal parts fear and hope, I stepped forward and forced my right foot over the threshold.

Perched on the edge-most seat of the back-most pew, I stared down at my fidgeting hands. Every now and then I would peek up at something, my eyes lingering just long enough to recognize what it was before skittering back down to my lap. Despite having made it through the door, I still couldn't make myself believe that I belonged there. Being allowed inside was closer to tolerance than acceptance. Still, it was better than the alternative.

Save myself and the just-as-silent Angela, the nave was empty. It wasn't surprising, given the time and day. And, ungracious as it might have seemed, I was unrepentantly thankful that the priest was elsewhere. I didn't want to have to try to explain my presence.

For long, uncounted minutes I sat, uncertain of what it was I was supposed to be doing. Now that I was inside, I wasn't really sure why I'd come. Given my predicament, it wasn't exactly logical to expect to find solace there. In fact, most people in my position found more comfort at the bottom of a pint of Ben and Jerry's or a bottle of Captain Morgan than I was likely to find in there. But still, there was some contentment in simply being there.

Sort of like going home after everyone had gone.

The quiet breath I'd been drawing in halted inside my raw throat, as an image flitted across my mind's eye: just a simple dilapidated stone building, crumbling and partially overgrown with untended weeds; the door-less frame precariously leaning to one side and coldly empty. As unsettling as the lonesome image was, it wasn't so much the vision as the accompanying memory that set my hands to trembling.

No, I thought hollowly. This is easier.

"Lillie?" The call was soft, the voice both familiar and not at the same time.

Frowning at the prospect of running into someone who would know damn well I was supposed to be in class, I reluctantly lifted my head to see who had recognized me. When my eyes landed on them, I automatically stopped breathing.

Bright, metallic golden eyes stared out at me from within an unnaturally pale heart-shaped face; the lines of which were set into confusion.

Anger and pain boiled back up from beneath the uneasy calm I'd succumbed to, their sharp contrast dragging a quiet gasp through rigid lips. Seeing them – particularly after I'd learned what I had – was like a slap across my face. Because, Lord knew, I hadn't already suffered enough for one day.

The look on my face must have been worse than I realized, because the confusion on her face soon gave way to concern, "Has something happened?"

It took two tries before the words worked their way past my tight lips, their volume as low as their tone, "Why don't you tell me."

Soft brows pulled down once more in bewilderment, fantastical eyes carefully examining my face before she spoke, "I don't understand."

"Don't you?" The words, though quiet, were accusatory. Part of me understood that she couldn't possibly know what had happened – she couldn't see into the past. But, at the moment, that didn't matter. She should have known. They'd all worked so hard at keeping me in the dark. Surely she had considered the possibility that I'd learn the truth. Murphy's Law was universal, after all.

It wasn't until those amber eyes flickered off to my right that I realized that Angela had come to stand beside me. Her warm presence was comforting, even if I inherently understood that she could never comprehend the full extent of the conversation. In her, at least, I could believe the concern.

"No," the single word was oddly soft, hollow. When her eyes flickered back to meet mine, there was a new quality lingering behind their supernatural sheen – something I couldn't quite place.

Had I not been inside the church – and with a human companion within earshot – I might have let her have it, right then and there; laid out all of my pain and anger at her betrayal in shrill, shrieking tones. But I was, and so I didn't. Instead, I sucked in my cheek and did my best not to draw blood with my teeth as I considered the options. Part of me – a very large, very hurt part – wanted to deny her; to tell her I'd had enough of her entire family – and their whole damned species, for that matter – and that I had no intention of being polite to someone who saw fit to lie so blatantly to me about something so important. But there was another part of me that wanted closure; that craved an explanation despite knowing full well that it wouldn't make any of it hurt any less.

For several long, uncomfortable moments we just stared at each other; neither one letting the other in on our trains of thought. In the end, however, a decision had to be made. And so, with heavy resignation, I addressed my friend, "Angela, could you give us a moment, please?"

Although I wasn't looking directly at her, I felt Angela's hesitation as she quickly eyed the two of us. It lasted only a second, however. Ever discrete, she touched me briefly on the back of my shoulder and told me she'd be outside if I needed her before taking her leave.

She waited until Angela had left the building before speaking, even then keeping her voice to a minimum, "What happened?"

Looking at her, I couldn't help but draw parallels between her perfection and Edward's – despite knowing there wasn't any actual relation. The concern that tugged at the corners of her marble mouth and eyes looked so genuine that I had to remind myself that she'd already lied to me once with a straight face – and done so so convincingly that I'd never even suspected the falsehood existed.

Even hurt and angry as I was, I understood that I had to be careful. I'd spent long enough in the company of vampires to understand full well that immortal or not, gifted or not, I was not an equal. All it would take was one wrong move – a misplaced word or erratic gesture – and her geniality could disappear like it had never existed. So, despite the aching pain that filled my chest and urged me to lash out, I carefully selected my words. Too many and I risked losing control over my temper. Too few and I risked irritating her with my vagueness.

"I know the truth."

A/N: Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I know it's shorter than usual, but flow was more important than length in this case. I'm working on the next one as we speak. Feel free to drop me a review and tell me what you thought (you'll get a preview of the next chapter before it's posted on FFn, if you do).