A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. Everything else, including mistakes, belongs to me.
Chapter 42 – One Second
Bella
I wake up gasping for air and hemmed in on all sides by almost all-encompassing darkness that chills me to the bone. Shivering, I struggle through the murky dimness, soon determining that I'm in a vehicle's back seat. There's a gurgling sound bubbling around me, one I'm all too familiar with and one I'm trying desperately to ignore.
"No. It can't be. It can't be."
But it refuses to go away, and so I must accept that the dank water rising with tauntingly slow deliberation is meant to drown me.
"How am I back in the same…?"
The rest of my words die in my throat; they're swallowed by the foul filth enclosing me and superseded by the urgency of the two heads at the front of the car – two heartbreakingly recognizable heads that bob on the surface in a manner I know all-too-well. A woman's distinct dark hair splays outwardly like undulating seaweed, while a man's shorter, thicker hair separates and flares like a rippling anemone. The river water continues its languid ascension, flanking my shoulders…advancing. I reach for the woman and gently lift her head, meeting her lifeless gaze.
"I love you, Mom. I miss you."
Resituating her on the water's surface as if I'm setting her on a soft bed of angels' clouds, I reach for the man.
I know what to expect at this point. Of course, I do. I've had this cursed dream too many times to be surprised. Nonetheless, I inwardly brace myself for the moment, in a few seconds, when Charlie's dark eyes – eyes the same shade as mine – will stare back at me through two vacant black holes.
This is why when I pull back the man's head, I am, in fact, momentarily startled. The eyes that gape back blankly aren't taupe; they're pale green, fleetingly unrecognizable without their vibrancy, emptied of all the expression I'm accustomed to seeing in them.
My heart rate spikes. Abruptly, I note the sharp, acrid chemical scent, also something new. Its odor is so intense it burns and singes my nostril's hair follicles.
Still disoriented, my gaze wanders further down the body's torso, where a rippling, crimson claw shoots out and reaches for me. As it grows, permeates, and turns the rest of the water around it a frightening hue, I realize it's not a claw. Heart now hammering, I jerk out of its reach, the water around me splattering with my brisk movements.
"Bella, despierta…"
My breath hitches wildly at the commanding female voice, confirming I'm dreaming and ordering me awake. It's the same voice that spoke to me up on the cliff. Wildly, my head pivots from side to side.
"Who is that? Where are you?"
"Despierta y corre!"
"Run to where? There's nowhere to go!"
"Corre y ayúdalo!"
"Help who?!"
Terror lodges itself in my throat and forces up bile. Slowly, unwillingly, my gaze reverts to the male body, the one who, in the correct version of this recurring nightmare, should be my dad.
But it's not my dad. And when my mind accepts what my eyes actually see…who owns the dead, desolate green eyes gazing back at me, a thunderous, deafening wail erupts from the sinking car's cabin. The windows shatter from the force of despair, dispelling jagged-edged glass as a river of blood rushes in.
And I scream and scream.
"Isabella?"
"No! No!"
"Bella!"
My eyes pop open.
Instantly, I'm beset by raging, cranial torment, like the pounding of a million hammers, all at once, against every inch of my skull. There's a bright light shining above me and directly into my eyes. A flashlight? A lamp? A laser beam drilling a hole into my brain? I'm more concerned with blocking it than determining what it is as I try to lift a hand. But my limbs are numb and unresponsive.
"Make it stop."
My voice sounds woozy and unfamiliar to my ears, likely because a mountain of sludge has invaded my mouth. Blinking a handful of times, I will my eyes to work in unison, but they insist on moving in opposite directions.
Instinctively recoiling from all the pain, I squeeze my eyes shut once again. But before I go under, I think I perceive a pair of concerned eyes gazing down at me.
"Shh," an accompanying voice murmurs. "It's the effects of the tranquilizer. It'll wear off soon enough. Rest for now."
And having neither the strength nor the inclination to fight, I do as the voice says.
OOOOO
The next time my eyes begin to flutter, I test my environment before fully committing to consciousness. The various aches, sores, and disorientation linger, but not to the previous levels. Once I can keep my eyes open without too much dizziness, the questions turn to why. That bewilderment is exacerbated when I hastily realize that my hands are bound and tied behind my back.
Finally, everything rushes to the forefront.
"Please, please, please," I plead with whoever or whatever may be willing to listen, "please let Alice and Emmett be okay."
Then, I squeeze my eyes shut and painfully push back any thoughts of the other FBI Agent sworn to protect me – the one who I know will never stop looking for me. I've got to figure out a way out of here, then somehow find him before he walks into this obvious trap. And if I allow myself to panic, to descend into madness right now, there's no way I'll accomplish any escape.
Edward will come for me; I don't doubt that for a moment. But then…what?
Inspecting my surroundings, I find I'm in a sparsely furnished room where an old, mahogany desk lays discarded in one corner, its dark wood scratched and dented beyond repair. The leather upholstery on the black, swivel chair discarded along with it is ripped, the cushioning protruding and bulging like overgrown cotton. The room's windows are large and plentiful but caked in blackened layers of scum and grime so thick it's impossible to tell whether it's day or night. There's an uncovered bulb hanging mid-ceiling. The entire space looks as if it was abandoned to rats and dust mites long ago.
Shuddering, I try to sit up over what appears to be the only other piece of furniture in the room – the decrepit, squeaking couch on which I find myself. Between the residual effects of the sedative and my inability to see outside, I have no clue how long I've been in here. That's when I note that my feet are bound as well.
"Fuck," I expel under my breath.
Either way, I refuse to remain in this prone, helpless position. Swinging my trussed-up feet back and forth like a pendulum, I create enough momentum to propel my torso. Once I'm in an upright position, I take a few seconds to breathe a long sigh of relief, then begin the attempt to free myself in earnest.
Wriggling my fingers, I bend and tilt them, curve my joints into painful angles while struggling to unknot the rope binding my hands. The unknown chemicals still coursing through my bloodstream make my fingers thick and uncoordinated, but I keep at it.
Time passes; from my still woozy estimation, I'd say about an hour. All the while, the dream is like a physical manifestation that grows in size and weight with each minute. My attempts grow increasingly frantic, but as much self-defense as I've learned, untying myself from the bindings of a maniac hasn't been part of the lessons.
The ropes grind into my skin and rub it raw, and while this new pain is not insignificant, it pales in comparison to my need for escape before Edward falls for the bait. My scalp prickles and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end because the dream…the dream feels more real with every passing second.
When the old, metal doorknob suddenly rattles, shakes, and begins to turn, I whimper more from fury than fear. I'm out of time. Nonetheless, I'm startled by the sight of the person who actually walks in.
"Garrett?"
"Shh!"
Garrett shuts the door slowly and methodically behind him, ensuring it makes no sound as it meets the wall frame. Then, turning, he pads toward me carefully, shuffling one foot in front of the other, fear and anxiety marking his features. He's dressed in a suit and tie as if he's just left the office. It hits me that he's been in here before when I first awoke right after the nightmare. He speaks barely above a whisper.
"Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not. I need to get out of here."
He takes another, hesitant step toward me.
"Isabella, I need you to know I had nothing to do with this. I tried to convince James and Kate to let you go, but they refused." His words quiver, spoken so low I strain to hear them. "But they've promised me they won't hurt you. They just want…they just want Tony- Edward to bring the evidence."
Dread twists my gut.
Edward.
They know. Of course, they know, and they're making him come for me, just as I feared. Cramps tie my stomach in knots, forcing me to momentarily shut my eyes against the rising tide of nausea.
"Garrett, listen to me. You need to untie me and help me escape."
He stops walking as if he's hit a wall, all blood draining from his face.
"I can't help you escape, Isabella. Can you imagine what they'd do to me? Besides, Kate said this was the only way. They're not going to hurt you. They just want Tony- I mean, Agent Cullen, to bring the evidence. They'll let you both go as long as you promise to disappear."
"Don't be stupid, Garrett," I hiss impatiently. "They're not just going to let us go."
His head jerks back, eyes growing wide. Yet, he remains where he is.
"If you don't let me go right now, Agent Cullen will come and kill all of you!"
Garrett swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, fingers twisting nervously around his tie. And all the while, my mind replays the dream and the river of blood emanating from Edward's floating torso. I try changing tactics.
"Look, Garrett, James and Kate are lying to you. Think about it. There's no way they're going to let us, let any of us go after this. That includes you. We all know too much."
"But…but," Garrett stutters.
"Garrett, she helped James kill my parents, and she tried to kill me."
"She says that's not true."
"She's fucking lying," I spit out fervently. "Open your damn eyes, Garrett, and stop being such a lovesick fool! See what's right in front of you! She's a goddamn liar and a murderer!"
The second the outburst is over, I regret it. It's offered no relief whatsoever, and based on Garrett's immobility, it's done nothing to convince him. Pressing my lips together furiously, I struggle with my self-control, fight to organize my scattered thoughts, to figure out the best way to get through to Garrett. But with a mind besieged by barely contained terror and still under the influence of whatever fog-inducing, fucked up chemicals James shot into me, I can barely think. I revert to begging.
"Garrett, please. You were, you are friends with Tony."
"Only he's not really Tony, is he?"
"Tony or Edward, he's still your friend. He's told me how you're the only decent one in that group."
Garrett tilts his head. "Has he really told you that?"
"Yes! Don't allow him to walk into a trap because we both know that's what this is, Garrett. You know, deep inside, that James and Kate have no intention of letting either Tony or me go. James is insane," I stress, deciding it's perhaps best to stop challenging his defense of Kate. "Think about it. Only an insane person would do what he did to me today."
Garrett's chest heaves. A heavy hand rakes through his scalp. He fists the blond hair at his crown as his eyes scan the room, deliberating.
"Insane, huh? That's…disturbing to consider."
"It is! And he won't let you go, either. You know that too, Garrett. Garrett…Kate…Kate isn't what you think she is. She hasn't been…forthright…"
A nauseating image suddenly invades my mind, one of Edward and Kate locked in a lovers' embrace somewhere dark while their naked bodies push and pull against one another. My sick mind insists on replacing me, in one of our latest lovemaking sessions, with an image of her.
A visible shudder rolls up my spine. It's the drugs; I'm still under their dark influence. With a vigorous shake of my head, I dispel the image. Unfortunately, I've piqued Garrett's curiosity.
"She hasn't been forthright how?"
"Look, Garrett, if you won't help me escape, at least call Edward and warn him. Let him know that this is a trap. I promise that afterward, I'll let everyone know how you helped us." Desperation makes me throw the devil herself in as a bargaining chip. "I'll even say Kate helped us! Just please," I say in a strangled whisper, "please don't allow them to hurt Edward."
Garrett cocks his head sideways, scrutinizing me for a long moment.
"You really love him, don't you?"
"Yes! Yes, I do!"
He nods and cocks his head to the other side. "That changes things. You see, I wondered if perhaps…perhaps you'd simply used him to cut a deal with the government – for the immunity and protection. But 'Love makes us do crazy things,' doesn't it? Tony- or rather, Edward, told me that once." He pauses, then muses, "I should let you go."
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes, Garrett, for all our sakes."
"But if I do," he qualifies, "you'll make sure you tell Edward and the rest of the FBI that I helped you and that I had absolutely nothing to do with this – that I simply found out what was going on here and came to help."
"Yes! Yes, I will. I swear, Garrett, I will."
With excruciatingly slow steps, he resumes his amble toward me.
"Alright, Isabella, I'll release you, but first-"
Garrett stops. His gaze moves toward the door just as it opens, and James strolls into the room with Kate trailing in behind him as all my hope for escape goes up in flames.
My eyes narrow in bewilderment at the state of James. He wears one of his immaculate suits, but his entire face is a bluish-purplish hue, his eyes and nose swollen, and his upper lip split down the middle. Beneath all the bruising, he wears his typical, bland expression. At first, neither of them spares me a glance as they make their way to Garrett.
"How is she doing?"
"She's obviously frightened," Garrett replies.
"Good," Kate sneers.
"Kate, there's no need for that," Garrett says. "Anyway, other than that, she's okay."
James claps Garrett on the shoulder, and for the next ninety seconds, they look like nothing more than a group of concerned doctors, exchanging their views on their patient.
Doctor Smith, what's your medical opinion? Will she lose it?
Well, she might, Doctor Penn. She definitely might.
While they're entertained, my eyes urgently scan the room, hoping for something, anything I've missed with the slightest chance of providing me with a chance for escape. I have to get to Edward before he arrives.
The windows! If I can manage to free my hands and feet, then make my way to the windows before they grab me…
In the next moment, I scoff inwardly because I might as well also hope for a white-winged unicorn to charge in and fly me off into the sunset. The reality is that I'm not escaping, and I'm going to have to come up with a Plan B. It's a reality I've just accepted when James turns his eyes toward me. As he approaches, I force myself to meet his gaze.
Outwardly, his expression remains a blank mask, the picture of a calm, collected doctor – save for the massively bruised face. But it's this framework of dark bruising that exacerbates the scarlet flames dancing in his eyes and annihilates any illusion of calm.
What's more, Doctor James Penn approaches me with a gun in hand. As he crouches in front of me, he rests the gun on his lap, grinning with self-satisfaction at the shudder that rolls up my spine as his eyes rake me over.
"Tsk, tsk, Maria. What have you done to yourself, darling?" His tone, which starts as one of patient recrimination – how a parent might admonish a child – soon becomes one infused with disgust. "Your hair…and your eyes…such a dull, mousy brown. Had this been your look when I met you, I would've never given you a second glance."
Swallowing back the retort dancing on the tip of my tongue, I make no reply, not even when he skims a finger lightly across my cheekbone.
"After all this time, don't you have anything at all to say to me, Maria?"
Still, I refrain from speaking.
James offers me a light chuckle. "Is it because I'm still calling you Maria? Is that why you won't answer? Baby, I know that's not your real name. At this point, it's just a term of endearment – like calling you darling or angel. So, Maria," he watches his finger trace a path just under my bottom lip then move gingerly to my other cheek, "I just want to know why."
Seconds pass in complete silence – a silence that intensifies the shock when he bangs a hand across the sofa's armrest, so suddenly that I instinctively jump. He snorts and follows it up with a fierce roar.
"I ASKED YOU WHY?"
"BECAUSE YOU KILLED MY PARENTS!"
There's a burst of blinding light and then a stinging burn.
"James, no!" Garrett shouts.
The entire right side of my face is aflame. My brain rattles and my head jerks sideways while my entire torso reels and lands prone against the couch. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I've just been pistol-whipped.
Bewildered by the throbbing, my tongue juts out and probes the right corner of my mouth, an action I regret when it encounters a telling and metallic taste. Withdrawing my tongue, I press my lips together and swallow my blood right along with the pain I refuse to verbalize through whimpers or groans.
With his free hand, James wrenches me up by the hair at my crown and situates me back into a sitting position.
"No tears? No screams, Maria?" he sneers. "You're a brave little whore, aren't you? Let's try this again, shall we? Why?"
"Why what, James?" I ask as steadily and evenly as possible even though moving my mouth to speak is torture.
He sighs as if my refusal to answer his vague question exasperates him. Standing, he paces while simultaneously wielding the gun around.
"Fine, fine. Answer this then, darling. When exactly did you start fucking him? Was it before or after you decided to screw me over?"
Struggling against another outburst, I bite my lip and hiss under my breath at the ensuing agony.
"Answer me, Maria," he says, a warning in his tone now. "Did you start fucking Tony before or after?"
"I. am not. Maria," I find myself growling, "and I didn't screw you over! You killed my parents, so-"
He takes two steps forward, and this time, his empty hand connects with my other cheek with so much force that it staggers me to the other end of the couch. The blow whips my hair into my face. It sticks to my cheek and mouth.
"You're a lying bitch," he hisses.
"And you're a murdering piece of shit," I seethe through the shooting pain.
Again, he pulls back the hand with the gun. As I steel myself, Garrett steps in front of him and between us.
"Enough, James! You're hurting her!"
"Let James handle this, darling," Kate says. "This is exactly how a lying bitch should be treated."
My gaze pans to where she stands a few feet away, hiding behind both men.
"Untie my hands and come closer, and I'll show you how a lying bitch should be treated."
She scowls darkly, and though her gaze brims with undisguised loathing, she makes no move.
"Yeah," I snort, "I didn't think so."
Meanwhile, James reaches into his pocket, and while I wonder what implement of torture he'll pull out now – a blade, a screwdriver – he withdraws a cell phone, a seemingly benign cell phone. He offers me an icy grin, and I realize…I realize that this will be the worst form of torture yet.
"Edward," I breathe.
"Yes, darling. It looks like we have company," he says before answering the call. "Tony, buddy, where are you?"
"James, please," I beg, my voice shrill, regretting all my bravado as icy dread fills my veins. "I'm sorry."
James ignores me.
"Ah, so I see you made it past my first level of security. That's fine. I never really expected them to hold you back since I'm the one holding the ace card. Do you have what I asked for? Perfect, perfect. No, you don't need to speak with her; you'll see her soon enough. Just make your way up here, and…we'll talk."
He ends the call and breezily slips the phone back into his pocket. Meanwhile, alarm swells like a tsunami inside me.
"Your-knight-in-shining-armor has arrived for our…talk."
Every last bit of air expels from my lungs, and I feel as if I'm drowning in that river of hell all over again.
"James, please don't," I plead with the menial breath I muster. "I'll do whatever you want. You're right. You're right! You didn't kill my parents! I made it all up! I'll tell the jury that!"
"Oh, look how the tune suddenly changes!" he chuckles mockingly. "Well, it's a little too late for that, isn't it, darling? I can't exactly have you returned to where you came from and then return to my own life as if none of this happened? We're all going to have to deal with some life-altering changes; some of us more than others."
"What are you going to do? Just kill Edward and me in cold blood?"
"You forced me into this!" he shouts hatefully. "I wasn't a cold-blooded murderer until you accused me of being one and left me with no choice! You fucked Tony for immunity, and he fucked you to get you to lie!"
"You killed-!"
"What I did with those patients I did in the name of science!"
He's completely lost his grip on sanity. Despite the blatant lies and denials, hoping to calm him rather than rile him further, I back down from antagonizing him and make a final attempt to reason with the unreasonable.
"He's your friend, James. You told me yourself, many times, that Tony was your best friend. Your protégé!"
"HE'S A FUCKING UNDERCOVER FED!" he shouts at the top of his lungs. "You were supposed to be mine, and I took him under my wing, and you and he both set me up! You got together and fucked me over!"
"It was my fault!" I shriek. "It was my idea and my fault! I lied to him and the rest of the feds! It was all me, James! He had nothing to do with it! Please, James," I choke, the excruciating dryness in my throat making it hard to speak, "you can do whatever you want to me, just don't hurt him. Take the evidence, and get rid of it. Get rid of me. Then, let him go. Please. I'm begging you."
"You see, James, I told you it was all a lie," Kate sneers.
For a split second, I see the entire scenario as if I'm a third-person, an uninterested party, an audience member watching the entire scene play out on TV, and…and it makes no sense.
James defends himself as if I wouldn't know the truth when I was there.
Kate backs up that deceit as if James wouldn't know when he was there.
It's bewildering, and concurrently to that thought, something else tugs disturbingly yet insistently at the corners of my memory, something begging for all my attention. Only I have no time to give it any attention, much less all of it.
All the while, James glares at me balefully, but there's something else hovering at the edges of the abhorrence – something akin to…regret? Hesitancy? When he draws in a deep breath, he releases it shakily.
"It's too late, Maria. It's just too damn late."
"No," I breathe.
But he dips his head into my field of vision and speaks fiercely.
"I'm going to untie you, but you better not try anything, or I will shoot him first, and then you. Understand?"
I offer him a mute nod of compliance.
He gestures toward Garrett, who produces a blade and cuts the ropes binding me. I only have a moment to savor the blood flowing freely through my wrists and ankles before James nudges Garrett aside and roughly pulls me to my feet.
"Walk," he commands, pulling me along briskly through the door.
Outside of the room, it's clear we're in some sort of abandoned warehouse, dark and musty. Broken window panes peer out onto a wide, open field. In the distance, an airplane takes off, then another. Hovering lights in the air indicate about half a dozen more airplanes waiting to land. We're near an airport.
I only have a minute to note all this before a pair of feet are heard pounding toward us. I recognize his footfalls, the urgency in them. James grabs me in a headlock, tightening one arm around my neck while digging the gun's barrel into my temple. A quiet grunt escapes me.
"Special Agent Cullen!" James calls out. "We're up here, and just so you know, Isabella has a gun trained to her head. So I wouldn't approach with guns-a-blazing if you want to keep her alive!"
He then bends my arm so far back it feels as if at any moment, it'll pop out of its socket. When I inhale sharply but swallow back my cries, James chuckles lowly in my ear.
"You don't want to upset him too much, do you? Smart girl."
Then…from the murky darkness ahead, Edward appears. Still in scrubs, he wears a dark hoodie, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. His gun is up and ready.
"Bella," he breathes, his chest heaving, eyes wild.
"Edward," I'm consumed by a sense of relief that wars with growing dread. As Edward's gaze rakes me over, inspects me, I see his own relief warring with rage. His jaw clenches together audibly. His nostrils flare.
"Bella, are you okay?"
I simply nod.
"What did you do to her face?" he seethes, his eyes on me.
"Maria and I had a lover's spat, Tone," James says, dark humor infusing his voice. "But then we made up. Didn't we, darling? "
When he places a kiss on my temple, I flinch and watch Edward's gaze darken further with impotent outrage.
"I'm fine, Edward. I really am."
"Never mind our lovers' disagreement. Did you bring what I asked for?" James inquires.
"Let her go first," Edward spits out through barely moving lips.
"First, put the gun down, and show me what's in the bag, and then I'll let her go."
Edward glares daggers at James and keeps his gun up and ready.
When James cocks the trigger he's got aimed at my temple, I inhale sharply.
"Alright, alright!" Edward says. Holding a palm up, he crouches slowly and sets his gun on the ground.
"Kick it away!" James commands.
Exhaling loudly, Edward kicks the gun toward the darkness beyond.
"Good," James says. "Now, toss the bag over here, but don't try anything stupid, or else Miss Swan here will pay the price."
With a deep, fiery breath, Edward tosses the bag over. It lands a couple of feet from James. However, James makes no move to retrieve it. For a long moment, the two men simply glare at one another.
"I took you under my wing, Tony," James finally says, accusation and resentment etched into every word. "I taught you everything I knew, brought you into the fold, and this is how you repay me? By fucking my girlfriend? By devising some bullshit story about my killing her parents? By lying to me about who you were the entire time?"
As James rants, his fury grows, and he bends my arm further back. Finally, unable to hide the pain any longer, a whimper escapes me.
Edward advances a step.
"Don't you fucking come closer," James warns.
"James, you're hurting her. You have what you want. Just release her."
"I asked her why," James continues, "but she refused to answer. So now I'm asking you why."
Edward takes another step forward. "James, let Isabella-"
"WHY?" He digs the gun deeper into my temple, and bile rises to my throat.
"Because it was my job!" Edward shouts. "Because I'm a federal agent, and what you were doing with those patients, with those drugs, was unethical and illegal!
James' labored, fuming breaths bathe my neck and send cold chills down my spine.
"And what about the murder charges? Was that just you and the government's way of ensuring I remained behind bars for decades upon decades?"
Edward squares his jaw, and for a moment, I think I see something like indecision flash in his eyes.
"Release her, and we can talk about it."
"I'm not a cold-blooded murderer," James hisses.
"That's debatable, James."
During this exchange, James' grip on the gun he has pointed at my head begins to slacken. Concurrently, his hold on my arm loosens. Both actions are so gradual they're almost imperceptible, and I assume this distraction is why Edward pretends to entertain James' claims of innocence.
"What I did with those patients was in the name of science, and yes, fine, I profited from it, but this is America, for God's sake. Who the hell doesn't want to profit? But it doesn't make me a cold-blooded murderer," he insists.
Edward takes another slow, deliberate step forward. At this proximity, I think I see something else brewing in his dark gaze. It's something beyond the obvious fury, beyond any indecision, something more urgent, taking precedence above all. With mounting horror, I recognize the look in his eyes; it's the look I saw in my dreams.
It's fear, but not fear for himself. Fear for me.
"You're not a murderer?" Edward asks. "Do you really think that's what the families of the drug trial victims would say?"
By this point, James' breaths are long and labored. He makes no reply.
"And what about this situation here?" Edward presses. "What are you planning to do now, James? I'm asking you to release Bella. Let her go, and you and I can work out the rest in any way you want."
"Edward, no," I expel. "James, let him go, and keep me."
Both men ignore me. Edward takes one more step forward. He's now an arm's length from us.
"Let her go."
James' hold on me loosens further. For an eternal second…no one moves.
James yanks the gun off my temple. For a moment, I actually believe he means to release me – to allow us both to go free, to hide, to disappear. For that one moment, I allow myself the relief of hope.
In the next moment, James points the gun at Edward, and just like that, my nightmare has moved into the realm of here and now. Without a conscious decision, my elbow thrusts powerfully into James' ribs. James' arm shoots upward and aimless, discharging a bullet into the ceiling.
"NO!"
In my periphery, I see Edward reach for me, but James is already smashing a fist into my chest. As I reel backward across the room, blood pounds wildly between my ears.
When I land with a thud, there's no time for physical pain. I look up and catch Edward and James locked in a battle for the gun. Edward wrestles it away from James, but when it lands between them, James kicks it. It glides across the floor and comes to a stop just a few short feet from me. For a second, I glare at it, then ignoring the panic attempting to seize my brain, the fear wrapping itself like manacles around my limbs, I force those same limbs forward and reach for the gun.
Someone fists my hair and yanks me back before grappling me to the floor. My head pounds the cement.
"Oomph!"
"You little bitch! No, you don't!"
Kate jumps on top of me, fisting my hair again in both hands, and slamming my head against the floor.
The room spins, and my consciousness threatens to slip.
But this monster killed my parents, and now she's attempting to take someone else I love from me. I'm not allowing it.
When she lifts my head again, preparing for a repeat, I ram a fist against her jaw. Kate's head snaps back and recoils, and I take advantage of the moment to grab her platinum blond locks, wrap them around my knuckles and heft her down, trading places with her. When I mount her, I slam her head against the concrete once, twice, three times before she's out.
Hovered above her, my eyes sweep back toward Edward and James, and my heart slams against my ribcage.
James and Edward have moved their fight underneath the jagged edge of a broken window. A serrated piece of glass shakes and shudders with every thrown fist, threatening its own fury.
"No!" I cry out.
Reaching for the gun, I force my fingers to curl around the handle, lifting it with shaking hands, pointing it…
"Stop!"
Neither one listens. My hands spasm and quake.
"James, stop!"
James doesn't stop. Instead, I watch with a nauseous, sick stomach as he cages Edward's head between his hands and purposely, precariously pulls it closer to the saw-edged glass.
"Stop! Stop!" I shriek outwardly, inwardly begging myself to fucking shoot, to recall all those hours spent with my dad practicing, aiming.
Fucking shoot!
But all my outward shouts and inward cursing are useless. My finger ghosts over the trigger, but it won't pull.
"Stop!"
"Bella, give me the gun."
The voice is firm yet soothing. I look over my shoulder and watch Garrett approach, one hand extended.
"Give me the gun," he repeats.
Garrett's grey-blue eyes lock me in his gaze, blue eyes abruptly more…alive, more vibrant than I've ever seen them. Every hair on my body stands on end.
"Give me the gun, kiddo." He reaches for the gun.
"No, Bella! NO!" Edward roars.
Garrett snatches the gun out of my hands. When he points it toward James and Edward, aims, and cocks the trigger, he doesn't hesitate to pull.
Time is a strange thing.
Conceptually, we're taught that it's an even measurement; it occurs linearly, that every second is equal to the second that comes before and after.
It doesn't always feel that way.
An entire lifetime elapses before James falls; before the thud signaling that his lifeless body has met the floor resonates in my ears. In reality, it takes two seconds – two seconds, during which relief sets up a tentative foothold in my heart.
James is dead.
Two seconds during which the whole of the night when my parents were murdered replays itself in my mind. A million different thoughts, a million different phrases from that night run through my head in those two seconds.
James is dead.
'She's got to be here somewhere, James! We'll put an end to everything if she gets away!'
'She's got to be here somewhere, James! We'll put an end to everything if she gets away!'
'She's got to be here somewhere!'
'James will put an end to everything if she gets away!'
So different.
So differently, in fact, that while consciously I experience the stirrings of respite, of alleviation, of gratitude for the fall of the man I've believed to be the cause of all my pain, subconsciously, I now know the truth. My mind may not fully register it yet, but my heart realizes that the danger isn't over - not by a long shot - and that these two prolonged seconds, as I watch James die, will be my final seconds of reprieve.
When James' body falls, and Garrett lifts the gun again and aims again and pulls the trigger again, time slows down…again. It becomes uneven, stretches in slow motion as I follow the trajectory of the bullet. Time stands completely, wholly still, though it'll be measured in one solitary second that I can't speed up, or stop, or rewind, or take back, or ever forget.
One second….one bullet…shot straight into Edward.
Unlike the silence that fell when James fell, a loud, feral scream erupts when Edward goes down. It fills every space, every nook and particle of my being with the sound of a terrified creature, of a bewildered animal who's lost its mind. The screaming goes on and on for a thousand lifetimes, for an agonizing eternity without end.
When time finally moves again, in its even, linear form, I realize I'm the one screaming.
A/N: Thoughts?
Oh, boy.
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