Chapter Eighteen

Bella

Hunched under a blanket on the back step, I've been staring into the mysterious depths of the forest for the past hour. I'm cold, but I'm content to stay here until the last vestige of natural light fades or my ass goes numb, whichever happens first. Knowing that these trees are centuries older than me and will probably be here long after I've departed this world, helps bring me back down to earth after what has been a traumatic re-introduction to life in Forks. So much for escaping the chaos in New York. There's an old cliché about jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Well, I'd dived into Forks headfirst and the blaze I've helped start will be raging for a long while yet.

I'd be a liar if I denied that I'm experiencing an enormous sense of relief. I had always accepted that what happened between me and Berty would have to be addressed on some distant day in the future. However, initiating that first step on my own was the one thing I could not find the courage to do. I accept now I should have been stronger. I should never have walked away from the problem. I should not now be benefitting from someone else's heartache. Guilt is the overriding emotion I'm experiencing right now, but yes, I am mightily relieved.

When I left Forks for New York in September 2018, I did not possess the mental capacity to deal with the inevitable fall-out once the story became known in the community. If I hadn't been believed, Dad's name would have been tarnished by association and I couldn't do that to him. Now that mine and Faith's story is out in the open, the residents of Forks are being forced to come to terms with the proven fact that they harbored a predator in their midst, and I have to deal with my own guilt on top of everything else. If I had reported Berty back in 2018, he would never have risked trying it on with Faith or any more naive girls in the future whether or not I was believed. I wasn't sure yet whether the community would pin some of the blame for what happened to Faith on me or they would come to accept that I was just as much a victim as her.

A news story similar to what happened to me and Faith blows up in an extraordinary way in a small town. If this had happened in New York, it would command a one-inch article on a middle page of a second-rate newspaper, if that. Our local paper and community website will carry nothing else but 'The Scandal at Forks High' for days. Faith's name has been kept out of circulation because of her age. My name however has been plastered all over the morning newspapers and internet. Someone, possibly a member of the school board or one of the staff, has leaked to the media that the Police Chief's daughter, Isabella Swan, has claimed to be one of Berty's 'victims.' Consequently, every local news source despatched a reporter to our front door today to get the full story, but all went away disappointed after a very pissed Chief of Police sent them packing without so much as a 'no comment' to report.

Yesterday, when Mike was calling his parents at the store telling them to close the shop and get home, 'asap,' Faith disclosed to me that she had refused to perform oral sex on Berty but had given him hand jobs to keep her grade. Each time Berty made her do this, he stood over her while she scrubbed her hands clean before allowing her to leave the room. On the last occasion, she managed to swipe her hand over her clothes while he enjoyed the fruits of her labor so to speak. After her tearful admission to me, she rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

When Judy and Mike Sr. arrived at the house where Mike explained to them what had happened, Mike Sr. called the police who arrived about ten minutes later. I was expecting Dad to turn up but was surprised to see detectives arrive rather than uniformed officers. Fortunately for Berty, only the school administrator knows where Berty lives which possibly saved him from being blasted by Mike Sr.'s shotgun.

I called Dad while the detectives were talking to Faith in her room and left a voice message. Dad did not pick up, which meant he was out and about in the community. I warned him on voicemail to be prepared for a shock when he spoke to me, but that I was okay. When he called back, he'd already been told half the story. I don't often hear Dad curse, but he would've made a sailor blush when I told him that Berty had tried it on me too, and my refusal had affected my GPA.

Dad is lying on the sofa indoors now pretending to watch TV while I stare at the darkening forest. He's been through the full range of emotions since I admitted to him how I'd suffered during my last months at high school. Anger has been his overriding emotion, followed by hurt that I hadn't felt able to confide in him, and then understanding when I explained why I couldn't. The lowest point though was when he said he felt he was a failure as a father because he had noticed how withdrawn I'd become and hadn't questioned why. Like most parents, he put my change in mood down to stress leading up to my finals plus general teenage angst. I told him that my determination to protect his high standing in the community had been the reason why I didn't dare risk reporting Berty and not being believed. This was why I hadn't confided in him and that he would always be the best dad ever.

When he finally accepted my assurances that I felt happier now than I'd been for the last two years because Berty's arrest and admission of guilt had given me closure, he reverted to cop-mode rather than parent-mode. He couldn't believe how this asshole had gotten away with it for so long. When he had the opportunity to think about how carefully Berty selected his victims, he began to understand why.

Berty was arrested at his home and taken to Seattle for questioning purely for his own safety and also so he could be questioned impartially. There were a bunch of angry cops in Forks with daughters at the high school who, according to Dad, wanted to tear him limb from limb. Berty owned up straight away when he was told what Faith had done but so far has declined to give any information about any other girls he had assaulted and blackmailed in the past, including me. I'm not worried anymore about not being believed. The fact that I guessed what had happened to Faith proves my claim. I'm not looking for revenge or even compensation. I just want justice.

Mike Sr. is refusing to speak with the Principal or the school board until he has talked to his lawyers so I've no idea how that eventual conversation will go down. Mike Sr. also has a high standing in the local community, with many friends in the police and the legal profession that he can call on for advice. I imagine the school board is shitting themselves while they wait for the hammer to fall. Interestingly though, no one from the school has contacted me, even though they have been made aware I've claimed to be one of Berty's victims. Dad said they have most likely been advised by their own lawyers not to engage with me until after the trial.

While I'm breathing in the calming forest scents, I replay the recent conversation I had with Professor Casey about writing my own feature. A topical and controversial subject that I have personal experience of has landed in my lap. There's only one problem though. I can't send a finished article off for publication this side of Berty's trial. Afterward, though, I can present a damning piece about what has gone on in my high school, as a warning of what could be happening in others. I wouldn't be on a mission to denigrate schools or teachers in general, but to highlight where current child protection laws are inadequate, and how easy it would be for a rogue teacher to take advantage of a child desperate to get into the right college. Now that I've become a celebrity in Forks for all the wrong reasons, I can spend my self-imposed exile in my bedroom bashing out my article until the fuss dies down.

I haven't had the opportunity to think about Edward's revelation while all this has been going on. He'll be wondering why I haven't emailed or called him about the blatant hint about his longevity. I need to speak to or email Emmett and get his advice first. I decide to leave that until the morning. Hopefully, by then I'll be thinking straight again.

Jake is coming over after work, bringing Billy with him so he can watch a soccer match with Dad. I'm hoping that having company will help take Dad's mind off what's happened. I'd asked Jake not to come over until I was sure everything had calmed down which means I haven't seen him since he'd picked me up at the ferry. His unsurprising response when I called him after I got home from making my statement, was that he'd kill the bastard if he ever saw Berty on the street. 'No, you won't,' had been my fierce response, even though the chance that Berty would show his face in Forks again must be close to zero.

Today has been a sweatshirt day rather than a coat, hat, and gloves day but now I'm regretting not putting another layer on before coming out here. The wind has picked up and thick cloud cover means the moon and stars won't be making an appearance tonight. Jake has attempted to teach me how to 'feel' weather. He has an uncanny ability to predict storms just by sticking his head out the window. I can sense something is brewing, but whether this indicates that rain, thunder, or lightning will follow, I can't tell.

A vehicle horn jolts me out of my musings which signals the arrival of the Blacks. I glow inside anticipating Jake's huge arms around me. Before going out front to meet him, I rub warmth back into my ass which I realized when I get up has frozen. By the time I've walked to the front of the house, Jake has gotten Billy's wheelchair from the flatbed and is helping Billy into it. Dad sprints down the steps to help his friend and his Vitamin R supply into the house.

"Hey, Swany," Jake says after I've hugged Billy. He scoops me up in his arms and plants a warm kiss on my chilly cheek. "You okay?"

"Better than I thought I'd be," I reply, which is true. I'd lost count of the sleepless nights I'd endured over the last two years imagining what I'd feel like when this all came out. Not being the only accuser has been a blessing. Berty admitting his guilt has been the cherry on the cake.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks as he places my feet on the ground and slings his arm across my shoulders.

"Not tonight, Jake," I answer as I cuddle into him. "I'd rather hear about you, and everything that's happened on the rez. I want to know what the boys have been up to while I've been away?"

"Okay," he replies and gives me one of his dazzling smiles, his teeth blisteringly white against his golden skin. "Let's get indoors. A storm's comin' any second now."

As I pull the door closed behind me, I hear the rumble of distant thunder.

"Weirdo," I hiss, as Jake pirouettes triumphantly into the kitchen.

Propped up against a pile of pillows and cushions with our feet on my bed, listening to Dad and Billy hollering at the TV downstairs and my favorite Spotify mix playing in the background, I doubt whether I've felt more content in the last two years than I do now. I've spent the last hour laughing at Jake's stories about his Quileute friends which are mainly to do with their introduction to romantic relationships. Apart from Sam Uley, the boys are all younger than me both in age and maturity. Tales of their first attempts at fumbling are hysterical. Jake assures me he hasn't gone down the romance route yet, so we commiserate each other for being the oldest virgins in Forks by consuming a family pack of chocolate chip cookies between us.

"Shall we make a deal?" Jake says after one of my favorite tracks by Paramour has finished.

"What sort of deal?" I ask.

"If you get to thirty and I'm twenty-eight, so roughly the same age and neither of us are married, then we'll hook up."

Jake has his arm around my shoulders as usual. I sense him tense though while he waits for my response.

"Are you serious?" I ask as most of the time I can't tell when Jake is goofing around.

"Sure, why not. Old people say by the time you're thirty the initial passion has gone and you end up either being your spouse's best friend or divorced. We could miss out on the passion bit and live together."

I take a few seconds to ponder Jake's offer. I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

"Hmmmm. So you don't think you'll ever find me attractive, or, more importantly, anyone else will find me attractive?"

Jake roars with laughter.

"Swany, you're gorgeous, but you're my sister. I can't think of you in that way. If I met you now for the first time, I'd be on my knees begging you for a date. Believe me, I've tried to think of you romantically, but there's nothing there. Zilch. Zero. To tell you the truth, I'm dreading the day when you find your Mr. Right. How I'll not want to kill him the moment I see you looking all googly eyes at another guy, especially if he's a Paleface, and that's nothing to do with being racist ... I think ... I really don't know how I'll control myself."

"Holy hell!" I respond as I sit up and turn to look at him in the face. "You really mean that?"

"Sure. I'll be insanely jealous, but only because I'll lose a part of you that at the moment belongs to me. I mean look at us. We're both young and attractive, alone in a bedroom, and nothing is happening. Worst of all, our dads are downstairs totally fine about where we are because they know we're not up to anything."

"Geez," I reply and flop back on the pillows.

I'd never thought of my relationship with Jake in this way. How would another guy feel about Jake ... or his girlfriend feel about me ... if they knew how close we were.

"So, how would you react if you saw me with a girl? Would you be jealous?"

"I don't really know, Jake. I haven't really thought about it. I suppose I would because I wouldn't see you as much. I'd drop down to number two in your life."

"Are you ready for that?"

"Until it happens, I'm not sure. I hope I'll be mature enough to accept the situation, and that whoever I fall for, and you fall for, will accept our relationship too. It's going to happen though. You and I will each meet someone who'll ring our bells. As long as we warn each other when that happens, it will give us time to get our heads around it. This is so weird."

Jake laughs and kisses me on top of my head. "So, will you marry me when you're thirty?"

"Sure! Do you want to shake on that?"

Jake holds out his hand and we shake, and then we fall about laughing. At least I've had one marriage proposal before I reach twenty-one and I can guarantee being married at thirty, but where would we live? If I'd become a successful journalist by then, a wooden house on the reservation or in Forks really wouldn't be ideal.

After Jake and Billy leave, I lie in bed listening to the rain beating out a rhythm on the roof and the last remnants of a second thunderstorm rolling away in the distance. I'd cracked open the window before climbing into bed so I could bathe in scents from the rain-soaked trees and undergrowth. God, I've missed this place. Rainstorms in the concrete jungle can never compete with the deluge of sweetness that drenches our verdant peninsula.

The conversation with Jake about romance and future partners has made me feel guilty about keeping a part of my life in New York secret from him. Edward Cullen has definitely rung my proverbial bell. In fact, the chimes are growing daily and could now be considered cathedral-level peals consisting of a hundred changes. Since our talk at the airport, I've come to the conclusion that if Edward asked me for a date when I see him again, I would say yes yes yes without hesitation. I doubt whether he will though. He seems so much older than me, not in looks though where sometimes his face appears boyish - similar to a guy barely out of his teens, but in maturity and worldly wisdom, and the way he carries himself when dealing with people, like the airport staff.

I make an attempt to work out how old he could be - if he isn't a time traveler that is. I take a guess at between thirty and thirty-five. A medical degree followed by time spent in South America, and he said he'd been living with his sister in Chicago for a while. Thirty would be an absolute minimum. Would he be interested in dating a girl at least ten years younger than him? I doubt it.

Damn!

But why do I have the impression that he's actively pursuing me? He must have guessed the age difference. Maybe he just wants to be friends.

Double-damn!

That's how my mind works as I lie in bed. The rain tails off before I fall asleep. I close the window because the wind is picking up. I go under fairly quickly, but not before I resolve to email Emmett before I do anything else tomorrow.

Okay, I have breakfast first, and a shower, and then I call Mike who says Faith is okay and that the school has agreed to pay for counseling and any psychological assessments she would need in the future. Berty being found guilty in court and locked up would I guess be the best therapy Faith could receive but I'm glad the school is at least taking responsibility for her mental well-being.

After a few attempts at composing Emmett's email, I settle on the following …

Hi Emmett,

I hope you and Rosie are well? Are you still in the city? I've come home to stay with my dad for a while, so I'm hiding away from the virus in Forks. I'm sure the bug will get here eventually, but I've decided to put my head down and write for the next couple of months and basically avoid people. My dad's a cop, so he doesn't have that luxury but at least he's taking the whole virus thing seriously.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing is I bumped into my 'time-traveler' at the airport, and ended up having a conversation with him while we waited for our planes. He was heading for Chicago, which is where his sister lives, allegedly. I didn't ask him straight-out whether he had been in New York in the 1920s, but when he left to get his flight, he gave me his email address and cell phone number. His email was his name with 1923 tacked onto the end, which was the year the photograph of him was taken.

I didn't realize he'd done this until I was on my own flight and now I don't know what to do. Obviously, I want to know if he is a time-traveler, but I'm also wondering how he knows I've seen the photographs. The whole situation is getting weirder and weirder. Also, and I hope you don't think I really am nuts when I say this, I am convinced he is telepathic and can throw his thoughts into my head. I'm imagining you slapping your forehead, Emmett, but I'm deadly serious about this.

I would appreciate your advice before I email or call him. My gut feeling is to ask him straight out, but I don't want to lose my connection with him.

I've put my cell number at the top of this email, so if you want to call me, please do.

Best,

Bella

My finger hesitates over the send icon for a few seconds before I hit it. Afterward, I regret mentioning telepathy. Emmett might think I'm embellishing the story to make it more interesting. Time will tell. If he doesn't get back to me I can take from that he believes I've escaped from crazy town.

I spend the rest of the morning tidying the house and attacking a mountain of Dad's laundry. In the middle of the afternoon, I walk to the grocery store to pick up vegetables and fruit. Dad never has enough in the house to feed my cravings so I go a bit mad in the fresh food section. I can hear folks in the store whispering and feel their eyes on me as I amble around with my cart. Either this is because I'm the only person in the store wearing a mask, or they recognize me as Mr. Berty's accuser, or that I've actually walked to the store rather than drive. I'll never know because I can't be bothered to front any of these people up.

I make lasagne for dinner – one side meat, the other side vegetarian, with salad and garlic knots. Every time I come home from New York, I introduce Dad to another 'exotic' dish from my growing repertoire of recipes, courtesy of Elliot's tuition. I've made Dad lasagne before, but this time I've added some extra Italian herbs and two extra cloves of garlic. Before Dad arrives home and while the lasagne is cooking nicely, I run upstairs and change into the tiger onesie that Angie got me for Christmas which admittedly makes me look twelve. When I get back to the kitchen, the smell of garlic is overwhelming which means Dad will probably recoil at the thought of eating it.

I open the kitchen windows and the door at the back of the house to circulate the air but this doesn't help. When I hear Dad's key in the lock I'm considering ditching his side of the lasagne and starting again. When he ambles into the kitchen though he doesn't say anything. He just smiles and wipes his forehead.

"You look shattered," I say and pull a chair out for him.

"I am," he agrees. "I've been everywhere today from one end of the county to another. There're a ton of angry people out there throwing their weight around about what you can and can't do because of this wretched virus. I'm sick of it, Bella. Why don't folks just mind their business and not interfere with other peoples' lives?"

Dad doesn't take up the offer of the chair. Instead, he wanders slowly into the living room and throws himself into his Lazy Boy, where he closes his eyes. I don't bother to answer him – he's both right and wrong at the same time and I guess he knows this. On the one hand, Forks is a tight-knit and supportive community. On the other, it is populated by folks who would fight Godzilla to keep their individual freedoms. In other words, a no-win situation.

"Do you want dinner on your lap tonight?" I ask in the cheeriest voice I can muster.

"Sure," he mumbles. "And a beer," he adds.

He's asleep when I take in his tray. I nudge his elbow which wakes him. After he's pulled himself from his slumped position I carefully place the tray on his lap.

"What's this?" he asks.

"Lasagne – you've had it before."

"Ah okay. Yeah, I liked it. Hope you've gone easy on the garlic this time. Nobody would go near me at work last time you cooked it."

"You mean you can't smell this?"

Dad bends over the plate and sniffs.

"Nope! Can't smell anything. Looks good though."

I don't say anything in response – the alarm bells in my head are clanging too loudly. I get my plate from the kitchen and sit on the chair opposite Dad's. I take a mouthful of mine – I've overdone the herbs as well but it is edible.

"Do you like it?" I ask.

"Yeah, but the last one you made tasted better. Is this a new recipe?"

"No, Dad. Same recipe. Have a drink of your beer."

Dad swigs a mouthful and then another before he looks at the bottle's label with a strange expression.

"That's weird," he says.

"What's weird?" I reply, even though I already know.

"My beer tastes odd. It's like I'm drinking … water."

I can feel the blood draining from my face. My expression must have changed dramatically as Dad stops eating when he notices me staring at him.

"Are you okay, Bella? You've gone as white as your plate."

"Dad … I think you've got the virus. I read yesterday that one of the first symptoms people notice is no sense of smell or taste. The house reeks of garlic and I overdid the herbs in the lasagne. You haven't noticed either. I'm calling the doctor."

"Bella, no!"

I don't take any notice of Dad's protestations, which continue while I'm searching for the local Medical Center's number. I call the out-of-hours line and get a recorded message. I call the hospital, who advise me to contact the Medical Center first. I scream in frustration. I get on the internet in desperation and find a local volunteer virus information number I can call. After twenty minutes of hanging on listening to the same thirty seconds of annoying music on repeat, I speak to a knowledgeable medic who tells me not to panic but to watch 'the patient' for any signs of labored breathing. If that happens, I should call for medical help immediately.

The internet proves to be a mine of information. After I'd read advice about sleeping positions to relieve pressure on the lungs, and which non-prescription drugs have proved helpful so far, I feel more relaxed. Dad's breathing is fine. He doesn't have a temperature or any other symptoms. Apart from feeling tired which could be partly due to the stressful day he's endured, I'm confident he isn't going to die overnight.

He's still okay in the morning. No temperature. No cough or any other symptoms. He calls his boss, who arranges for the police doctor to visit to check him over and take samples for testing. When the doctor and her assistant turn up, covered head to toe in protective clothing, both Dad and I are shocked. Imagine Dustin Hoffman in Outbreak and you get the idea. After the doctor has taken testing samples from Dad, she turns to me.

"Your turn next, Isabella."

"Me?" I question. "I feel fine."

"You mean you feel fine, now. If your father has the virus, there's a ninety-nine percent chance you have it too. Hadn't you realized that?"

"No," I choke as she advances towards me with a lethal-looking swab on the end of a long thin stick.

As the doctor pokes this thing up my nose and twists it several times which is a hundred percent more uncomfortable than anything I've ever had done at the dentist, I can hear Dad chuckling in the background while I'm squealing.

"Sorry, Bells," he says as I wipe away the tears which are streaming down my cheeks.

"You will be," I hiss.

The following day we get the results. We both have the virus. The next day when I'm up in my room deciding which songs I want played at my funeral, my cell vibrates on the nightstand. I glance at the number which I don't recognize. I answer the call anyway.

"Hi, who is this?"

"Hey, Bella. It's Emmett. Gurrrrrrl, this is getting very interesting."

So, they both have the virus, which is unsurprising considering how much Charlie has been out and about in the community. Don't panic, they won't get it badly (I'm telling you this now as I don't want you worrying over the next few days.) Being infected will have both positive and negative consequences though for Bella.

Back to Edward next chapter who is having to deal with a very pissed Tanya.

Thanks again to everyone who is reviewing - I'm loving reading your guesses as to where this story is going.

Joan xx