A/N: Hello everyone! The first few chapters of this story are of varying lengths, some shorter than others, but the average will be 3-4K per chapter. Unlike some of my other stories (which also have much longer chapters) most of this story is already written and will post weekly on Tuesdays until finished.

Thanks and Edward licks to my awesomely encouraging prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, for their invaluable feedback and friendship.

I treasure my betas, wmr1601 and Katmom, more than I can say. These ladies are beyond compare. Mwah!

Chapter 2

~Uncle Lou's Cabin~

After a few hours of hard digging, I don't have much. The one chink I sense in her armor is a Miss Angela Weber. She's the only person who has known Isabella since grammar school and remained in her life. Isabella has no family, few acquaintances, and no true friends other than Angela as far as I can tell.

When Isabella was seventeen, her father was killed in the line of duty during a holdup. This doesn't set off any red flags until I discover that Renee Swan, Isabella's mother, was killed by a hit-and-run driver in the middle of the day in downtown Forks the same year.

I lean back in my chair, gazing out the window. The sky is gray and hazy. The sun's rays are dampened by the heaviness of the cloud cover, only managing to peek through in spots. I feel much the same about this case: the more I dig, the more convoluted things become.

Forks is a small, quiet town with only one traffic light. What is the likelihood both of Isabella's parents met with deadly ends within the same year? Statistically, not likely.

Moving on, I research family properties and inheritances and come up empty. The Swans lived a thrifty existence, and neither of them thought to obtain life insurance, leaving Isabella with a paid-off home, partial college fund, and little else. Digging deeper into her education, I find that the remainder of her college was paid for by an anonymous benefactor. Again, when added to previous events, this sends red flags up for me. I'm not sure what the equation adds up to, but it doesn't seem simple.

My next order of business is to locate Angela Weber. I find her working in Seattle as an accountant. Hanging around her building during lunch hour, I spot her as soon as she exits the smoky glass doors. She schleps along with her head down, unaware of her surroundings. She's alone, rather than joining one of the many groups of chattering workers that exit her building.

I tail her until she reaches the small park two blocks down and settles herself on a bench with her paper sack lunch. There's something timid and mousy about her, although with her long, black hair and high cheekbones, she could actually be quite pretty if she made the effort.

Giving her a few minutes to relax on the bench, I stroll over slowly and sit next to her.

Why the hell is he sitting on my bench? There are a million places to sit around here. I hope he's not some kind of pervert. Her mind wanders over the self-defense class she took last year, planning how she will gouge my eyes, drop me with a knee to the groin, or slip my hold if I get my arms wrapped around her.

"Hello. Angela, isn't it?" I ask casually.

Nervously, she nudges her glasses back on her nose with her index finger and turns her head my way. "Y-yeah... who are you?" Holy shit! This guy is an Adonis. How does he know my name, and why is he talking to me?

"Edward Masen," I answer then cut right to the chase. "I'm looking for Isabella."

There's a sharp intake of breath from Angela. "This conversation is over." Her mouth is set in a thin line.

"But we haven't even had a conversation yet." I smile easily, leaning closer to her with my arm thrown casually over the top of the bench.

"I have nothing to say." Angela tosses the apple she was eating into the paper bag and folds it over, jumping to her feet. She starts to stalk away but hesitates, turning back. Her dusky skin is mottled with anger. "No, wait! I do have something to say. You tell James to go straight to hell!"

"James?" I question innocently.

"Tell him to leave her alone! She's not guilty of anything. Why can't he just let her go?" Angela wails then slaps a hand over her mouth. Shit! I shouldn't have said so much.

"Where is she?"

"As if I'd tell you if I knew—which I don't!" Nobody will ever think to look for her at Uncle Lou's cabin.

Angela can't walk away from me fast enough, but I'm no longer interested in her and remain on the bench for a time, quite satisfied with the end result of my snooping.

~*RK*~

Three days later, I travel across the country to a remote cabin in the backwoods of Pennsylvania. The property is owned by one Louis Diamonte, close personal friend of Reverend John Weber, father of Angela Weber, friend of Isabella Swan-Hunter. Uncle Lou's cabin.

It's a rather ingenious place for Isabella to hide, except she's isolated out there and completely vulnerable to predators. It's a great place to get lost, not a great one to be found—and hunted.

I've done my research: checked Google Earth for a view of the area (the nearest neighbor is five miles away), found out what security system Lou Diamonte uses, hacked into the computer of the architect that built the cabin for a floor plan, and plotted out all possible human escape routes.

When I reach the edge of the thick woods surrounding the clearing the cabin is nestled in, night has just fallen. A recent series of snowfalls has left everything blanketed in a thick layer of white; the mostly undisturbed snow looks like white glitter where the light of the risen moon glints off its surface. Ice crystals adorn every individual branch and twig of the trees, causing them to appear as if they've been dipped in jewels.

'Log cabin' seems to be an understated description of the dwelling before me. Yes, it's made of logs, but it has large windows, a second floor, a wraparound porch, and a shed the size of the average log cabin out back. Mr. Diamonte is quite wealthy, so I'm not really surprised. Next to the shed is the hulking shape of an SUV covered by eighteen inches of frozen-over snow.

I hover in the thick brush to the rear of the cabin. With my vampire hearing, I have no problem discerning what's going on inside.

One heartbeat.

Beating slow and steady.

Tup-tup...tup-tup... tup-tup

Someone scrapes food from a pan into a dish before placing it on what I assume to be a table because a moment later the legs of a chair scrape the floor.

A soft, feminine voice whispers, "Thank you, God, for this food and for all my blessings. Amen."

I hear the clink of silverware against china as she eats the food she prepared and thanked God for.

Why would someone on the lam—a would-be murderess—take the time to pray before eating?

After her meal is over and the dishes have all been washed and put away, she turns on the television and giggles as she watches Seinfeld reruns.

It takes me a little while, but I realize that I'm not hearing her thoughts. My gift usually strengthens once I know someone—like creating a bond—so I'm not immediately concerned.

A short while later, I hear her feet padding up the stairs—the muffled sound tells me she's barefoot and the steps are uncarpeted wood—and she gets ready for bed. I hear murmured words as she prays before climbing into the bed. Again, I realize I haven't heard any thoughts from her. Perhaps I need to be up close, although hers are the only thoughts for miles; I should be able to home in on her quite easily.

She seems to be at peace; that is, until she falls asleep.

The thrashing begins almost immediately.

Then mumbled words being to tumble from her lips, and her heart beats faster.

"Please, no... James, don't..."

Tup-tup, tup-tup, tup-tup

"The blood... no, no... not again."

Tup-tup, tup-tup, tuptuptuptup

"How could you? How could you betray us this way?" Her voice is a plaintive wail now, her heartbeat erratic.

Tup-tuptup-tuptup-tuptup-tup-tuptuptuptuptuptup

"Hannah!" she screams, waking in her bed.

She heads down to the kitchen, and I hear the clank of the teakettle against the burner of the stove. While she goes about making her tea, she cries freely, sniffling and hiccuping.

Why shouldn't she openly cry? She's under the impression that she's out here all alone.

A twinge of guilt tickles my senses, but I quickly squash it. The girl might be a cold-blooded killer, and my job is to bring her to justice, not feel sorry she had a nightmare.

Get it together, Masen.

After Isabella returns to her bed—since she called out 'James' in her sleep, I'm going to assume this is her now—I plan my next move. Stealthily leaping from the edge of the woods, I land softly beside the house; it wouldn't due to disturb the blanket of snow and tip off Isabella that she has company before I'm ready to reveal myself. I leave the power on, but I cut the cable and phone wires. Since there's a satellite dish, I assume the cable is for internet, and I don't want her to have access to outside communication. The alarm is rather useless out here since it would take police at least thirty minutes to reach the secluded cabin, but my research indicated a snip to the phone wire would render the alarm incapable of reaching the outside world. If it did go off, who would hear its lonely siren squalling deep in the woods?

For a moment, I feel like a psychotic stalker: cutting wires, plotting, playing voyeur. I'm learning about Isabella while she's under the impression she's alone... safe.

Part of me feels guilty. A larger part of me feels a tingle of anticipation.

~*RK*~

A/N: We've been laying the groundwork. Next chapter we'll meet Isabella Swan-Hunter, and things will begin moving. See you next week! (God, it feels good to say that!)

This fic is all from EPOV. Going forward, if there's something you'd like to see in Bella's POV, let me know in your review and I'll consider it if I write any outtakes.

The holidays have been busy, and I'm behind on some of my fics. Updates will be coming more regularly, and I thank you for your patience. Mwah!

Follow me on Twitter: (at) SaritaDreaming for fanfic or (at) SarahAisling for original fic. I'm also on Facebook as SarahAislingauthor.