I do not own Twilight.

I am shocked—and honored—by the amount of reviews and readings I have for this story. I'm so glad you guys are all so interested and I'm equally as sorry that I am terrible at updating. But, nonetheless, there are a few chapters coming your way.

Happy fourth to those who celebrate!

I'm never more grateful for the creation of cell phones than when I have to call home or, more specifically, when I have to call Charlie for something that I don't want my mother to know about. And she would know about this if she answered the house phone, because she always knows, somehow, when I'm upset.

"Officer Swan," Charlie answers his cell phone and I scoff because I know he knows it's me calling. He laughs a little, but is back to business in no time.

"Did you do it?" I ask vaguely, because I know that he knows what I'm asking about. The elongated silence on the other end tells me that as well.

"Yes," he huffs eventually. I sink into the kitchen chair I'm sitting on.

"How could you, Charlie? I said not to." I don't know why I'm so angry about this. Maybe it's because Charlie had always been the one to go to…the one who could be trusted. Who did I have now?

"This isn't just about you, Isabella," he scolds. "What if he does something worse to someone else he is dating? What if no one believes her this time? Having this in his record will at least make the victim's statement more liable."

I hadn't thought about this and I know, somewhere in the rational side of my brain that it makes sense, but I can't shake the feeling that I've lost everyone I can trust.

"What about me?" I demand. "I tried to slap him."

"You were provoked."

"Isn't that a little discriminatory? Girls shouldn't hit guys either. That's very misandrous of you."

Charlie's sigh is loud and ultimately annoyed. I can almost picture his mustache twitching over his top lip in contempt. "You didn't hit him. He stopped you by using physical force."

"Yeah," I say, "so he was defending himself." I honestly don't know why I'm fighting tooth and nail to have some sort of write-up on my record, it's not like I want one or fully think I deserve one, but just the idea that anything can be done so easily…

"Bells, what's done is done. You don't understand—being in the police force you see a lot of situations like this. Guys get away too easily tormenting their wives, girlfriends, anyone. If I can stop another young lady from being injured at the hand of an aggressor, I will. You of all people should understand."

I know he's referring to Edward's dad and I bite my lip, pulling away from the idea that I should have done more about that situation. I should have told others; I should have refused to let Edward return home after his mother left. But then again, I was a sixteen-year-old girl who hardly knew anything, much less the correct way to handle a boyfriend's abusive father. Especially when Edward all but made me swear on my life I wouldn't bring up his father to others unnecessarily.

He was terrified of what would happen if he and his brother were forced away from their father; I was terrified of what would happen if they weren't.

"Fine," I sigh, brushing my hand across my forehead to ease the developing ache. Each subsequent day seems riled with new revelations, shockingly determined emotions. "I didn't even know you could tamper with files like that. Isn't that illegal?"

"Not if it's true." I'm not entirely sure I believe him. "You confided in a police officer," he adds. "I have a right to write up a statement."

I don't say anything and I'm thinking of hanging up because I don't really want to talk about this anymore, not that I actually have anything left to say because asking him to retract the statement seems wrong in some way, but he speaks before I can muster up a reason to hang up.

"Talked to Edward today."

It's not a question. He's not asking if I spoke to Edward. I swallow once, then again, my mouth suddenly dry. "You did? Why? Did something happen?"

"Bella." He sighs and my pulse speeds against my fingers which are instinctively grasping my chest. "He's up for parole."

I don't know what I expected but it was not this.

"It's only been a few months," I argue. I'm confused by the emotions coursing through me. They're moving through so fast that I can't pinpoint a specific one, or a vague theme.

"And it's a minor offense," he's saying, "Most guys don't even see the time he's been in there for."

"But...he has five years." My words don't make sense as they roll off my tongue but now I'm curious because I just visited him five days ago and I'm wondering if he knew while I was there. Is that why he was so hesitant to tell me he didn't expect anything from me? Charlie's giving some explanation about time sentenced versus time served, but I interrupt. "When did he know he was eligible?"

"Couple weeks?" he guesses and I grit my teeth.

So much for honesty.