A/N Hey everyone. It's been awhile. Many of you know - but for those that don't - I've been dealing with serious health issues and have been too unwell to write. I'm feeling better, but I'm still not 100% back on my feet. So, just to let you know, I'll be writing when and if I feel up to it, which means updates may be sporadic. Thanks for understanding.
Huge thanks to SaritaDreaming who pre-read this for me and helped tremendously with punctuation, grammar and well...just everything. :-)
Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 6
Tentazione
. . . . . .
Temptation
It never lets me down…
. . . . . .
It takes Edward only a few minutes to arrive at Isabella's small house. The street is quiet as he ascends the porch steps and makes his way to her door.
The lock has been fixed. He smiles as a quick flick of his wrist, identical to the one he used the first time he entered, breaks the repaired lock easier than before. He can hear her inside, sleeping peacefully, and though he wants very much to lay eyes on her, he pauses, surveying the room before him and dragging in the scents in the air. Human food, dust, paint, fabric, chemicals used to clean, a touch of mould clinging to inner walls; it all combines with a myriad of ghost smells from former inhabitants and visitors.
His nose wrinkles, and his lip curls. A male was here recently. His odour lingers, and Edward pieces together the unique signature, both fresh and stale. He's been here often, his stench embedded in layers into the furniture, walls and carpeting. Edward can trace the most recent visit. The male spent time here in the living room, and in the kitchen. The tingle grows stronger in Edward's nose. Something familiar taunts him about the smell.
Quileute.
Edward growls low in his throat.
The male is of Quileute blood.
Edward touches the front door and the lock, raising his fingers to his nose, inhaling hard. A strange burning ignites in his sinus cavity, a sensation that might have been a precursor to a sneeze were he human. The smell is unappealing, and he frowns. Something pertinent to the scent niggles at his mind yet evades his understanding.
Moving around the room, he drags the odour in deeper. At a shelf on the wall he picks up a picture. The sheen of glass covers an image of several people grouped together, posing. He recognizes Isabella clothed in a summer dress, her hair pulled away from her face. She is smiling, her arm wrapped around the waist of a tall male at her side with dark eyes and dark features. Handsome in a human way, powerfully built. His arm is around Isabella as well, his gaze on her, smiling with emotion that Edward only knows from reading it in the minds of others.
Love, adoration.
Isabella smiles at the camera, not at the young man by her side. Her smile does not reach her eyes, and she appears almost detached. It is for that reason alone Edward places the picture back on the shelf without destroying it. The depth of emotions he can see in the eyes of the young man do not appear to have been reciprocated by her.
His hand curls and uncurls. The desire to destroy the picture is perplexing. He understands the possessive feeling he has for Isabella, but this? This feels more like rage born of jealousy, for he can see and smell that this male is still a large part of Isabella's life.
He doesn't like it.
Jake. The name comes to his mind easily. This is the male Isabella's friend speculated upon. The scapegoat Isabella used to explain his mark upon her neck and her state of fragility after Edward took her blood and body.
The stronger and more present scent of this male leads Edward to Isabella's bedroom door. Upon opening it, he follows it to her bedside. One more inhale reveals that this Jake went no farther than this. Edward can still smell himself and their sex on her sheets. It pleases him that she hasn't changed the bedding. It pleases him more that it's his and her scents alone mingled there. She did not take the male to her bed, though he detects she once had. Most likely the male lived here with her, for a time, but no longer. He is a frequent visitor, though, and Edward's lips curve away from his teeth, a low growl rippling up his throat and over his tongue.
That will have to end.
Isabella stirs, her body shifting on the bed and turning slightly towards him, as though on some level she is aware of his presence. He watches her quietly, her chest rising and falling; the restful state of her body indicates deep sleep. She has kicked the blankets down around her feet, and she is dressed only in an old shirt that is ragged from wear.
She is beautiful, and she smells divine. His throat burns, his thirst a powerful call, but he can see the affects of their last encounter linger. She is fragile and weakened, and though she is recovering, to take from her now, even a small amount, could easily kill her.
No, he can wait. He will need to hunt soon, but her blood is a gratification he can and will delay in order to ensure its abundance. He cannot wait, however, to touch her. He uses one finger, sliding it down the exposed skin on her inner arm. She is so soft, so warm, so lush. He wants her. To drink from her, yes, but to taste her skin as a man and not a beast, to touch her body, hear her pleasured responses to his careful caresses, is a thirst and need of its own kind.
Isabella shifts again and sighs. His name passes her lips in a sweet, sleepy murmur.
"Edward."
She speaks his name so softly. For a moment Edward freezes, wondering if the silence of her mind has made him wrong about her state of sleep, but no, she merely settles with another weak sigh, her eyes moving behind their lids.
She is dreaming of him.
Exalted, he smiles, his finger continuing its path down her arm to the delicate underside of her wrist. Her pulse jumps, her velvet, ivory-cream skin prickling in a rash of tiny goosebumps. He can feel her blood just beneath the delicate tissues of her flesh. It seems to sing for him, its gentle susurrations musical and hypnotic.
Il tuo cantante. The phrase comes unbidden to his thoughts. He always thought it a myth that one human's blood could appeal more than another. Something unique, a rare gift to his kind, and more proof that she belongs to him.
"Tu sie il mio, Isabella." You are mine, he reminds her quietly. "La mia cantante. Il mio desiderio. Il mio possesso."
A small frown creases her brow, and he smiles as she utters his name a second time. There is a questioning tone to her sleep-soft voice, and he imagines she wonders when she'll see him again. "Soon," he tells her, drifting away from the bed. "Very soon, little one."
The urge to hunt has grown with the increased melodies of her blood and her sexual desire which seems to have bloomed with his touch. She whimpers again, growing restless as he moves to the door. He waits, suspecting she's awakening. When her eyes open, he allows her to see him, knowing her mind is still caught in the space between sleep and true alertness. She blinks, and in the time it takes those delicate lids to descend and ascend, he leaves, smiling as her heartbeat races and her intoxicating scent flowers with richer notes as adrenaline races over her.
Outside again, he drags the night air into his lungs and begins to hunt.
. . . . . .
The sun is hot. It beats down on her skin relentlessly, making perspiration run in annoying trickles down her spine and into the crack of her bum. A bead of it tickles her temple, and Bella brushes it away impatiently as she leans down to yank a weed that is deeply entrenched with long roots. The mid-August heat wave and unusual amount of sunny days have been wonderful for the late summer vegetables she planted, unfortunately though, it's also great for every manner of weed known to man. She works this one free by sheer will and diligence rather than skill, and finally stands straight with a groan.
Her back is killing her, and she has smudges of dirt everywhere. Her thigh muscles are starting to quiver with exhaustion, reminding her that while she feels a hell of a lot better, she isn't back to normal. Still, she smiles a little as she surveys the small patch of land in an equally small yard which constitutes her garden. The huge basket full of beets, parsnips and acorn squash she's collected are testimony to her success. All she has left to harvest are the herbs, and a satisfying feeling of a job well done makes her feel less guilty about calling in sick to work – again.
That is until she thinks about the stack of bills on her kitchen table. Bills the paltry sum of money in her bank account won't cover. Closing her eyes, she sighs and pulls off her gardening gloves, flexing her hot fingers before pressing them to her equally hot forehead.
With her eyes closed, it's so easy to remember and see...him.
Edward.
She snaps her eyes open, a wash of irritation making her bite her lip. Damn it. Why can't she get him out of her head?
He's just a guy. A hot guy that blew her mind, but still, just a guy.
Sure he is...
She shuts that train of thought off fast. It's bad enough she can't stop dreaming about him. Worse yet that she woke up last night and could have sworn he was standing in her bedroom doorway, watching her.
Until she tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes and he was gone, leaving nothing behind but a strange, electric tingle over her inner arm, a racing heart, and the residual ache between her thighs left over from an erotic dream.
A dream that started out hazy and then quickly filtered into a stunningly clear memory replaying behind her eyelids.
Is it any real surprise that she woke from a dream like that thinking she saw him, felt the lingering effects of his cool fingers running over her body, smelled that insanely amazing cologne?
Despite the heat, Bella shivers. She tells herself it's because the sun has just vanished behind a lazy cumulous cloud, but knows damn well she's lying. Her skin hurts, her body aches and longs for something...more of him...God, please...
Why can't she get him out of her head?
"Ask the real questions, Bella," she scolds herself out loud, trying to shake herself out of this mood by...what? Talking to herself? She sighs and reaches down to pick up the shovel she discarded in favour of yanking at the weed with her hands. The wood handle is old and dry, and as her no longer gloved hands shift, she feels the stinging bite of a sliver pierce her palm.
"Shit!" Dropping the shovel, she uses her fingernails to pinch out the inch long piece of wood, wincing a little at the bright red dot of blood that appears in its wake. Grabbing her basket full of vegetables, she hurries into the kitchen and turns on the tap, placing her hand under the cold flow of water. The blood streaks away with a stab of pain that makes her grit her teeth. The second she turns off the faucet, a fresh crimson bead wells up in its place. Grabbing a paper towel, she presses it tightly to staunch the new flow, purposely looking away from the few spattered drops that show up so brilliantly against the stainless steel. She's never been a fan of blood, especially not her own. She feels dizzy and closes her eyes again.
Blood loss always makes her dizzy...
"Stop thinking about that!" she snaps out loud to herself.
"Stop thinking about what?"
Nearly jumping out of her skin, Bella's eyes pop back open, and she drops the paper towel. Her hand presses against her suddenly racing heart as she realizes it's Charlie that nearly gave her a heart attack.
"Dad! Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!"
"Sorry, kid. I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me. Did you know your lock isn't working right?"
Bella frowns. "Jake fixed it, but I guess it..." She stares at Charlie, her mind unable, or unwilling, to fully digest how or why her lock is broken a second time. Instead, she wonders how she managed to not hear Charlie knocking or entering.
The pipes and plumbing in the house are old and the walls thin. Turning on water or even flushing the toilet is always a somewhat noisy affair, but Bella is honest with herself and realizes she didn't hear him because she was distracted with thoughts she shouldn't be having.
"What did you do?" Charlie reaches down and picks up the bloody paper towel, scowling a little, his voice sounding concerned and resolved all at the same time. Bella barely refrains from rolling her eyes. She snatches the paper towel from his fingers and presses it back to the tiny gash that stubbornly refuses to clot.
"Nothing; it's just a little cut from a sliver." She knows she's accident prone, but she's not a little kid anymore, and she doesn't need his practiced patience or another lecture on being careful. "What are you doing here?" She asks to distract him, not bothering to hide the irritation she feels at his surprise visit. Charlie has always been overbearing, and it's only gotten worse since her breakup with Jake.
Charlie's lips settle into a tight line beneath his thick salt and pepper moustache at her tone. "Do I need a reason to come and see my little girl?"
Relenting a little, Bella sighs and reins in her temper. "No, but it's the middle of the day, and you're obviously on duty." She gestures to his uniform and refrains from adding – and you've hardly been here at all since Jake moved out – and checks her hand instead. Still bleeding, damn it. She can smell the blood now – salt and copper and minerals. She presses the paper towel back to the wound, tighter this time, and moves to sit at the table. Now that she's out of the sun, she's aware of a light sting across her shoulders, telling her she's gotten slightly sunburned. Likewise, she can also feel the pull of muscles growing sore from the exercise of digging, lifting and pulling. She's tired and wonders if she hasn't overdone it. She still doesn't feel herself, still weak limbed and tired...
"You're white as a sheet," Charlie remarks, striding to her fridge and cracking it open. He pulls out her orange juice and rummages through the cupboards for a glass. He places it in front of her and pours one for himself as well, leaning against the counter. "Jake said you weren't feeling well."
Bella ignores the juice, gritting her teeth at that comment. Of course he heard it from Jake. Do the two of them even go a day without talking? She wants to ask him why he has to learn from her ex how she's doing instead of finding out by talking to her personally, but knows from experience where that would lead. Straight into another lecture about how stubborn she's being and not seeing what's best for her, blah blah blah.
Charlie wants her back with Jake, and makes no bones about saying it any chance he can either. Charlie is old school. Charlie believes women need men to take care of them.
Charlie is a chauvinistic, overprotective, pain in her ass.
"I'm fine."
He regards her over his glass, which he drains in a few sharp swallows, looking like he doesn't believe her.
"That time of the month is all," she lies, smirking a little as Charlie turns red around the ears, his gaze refocusing on the wall behind her. Nothing shuts Charlie up faster than the mention of female issues. It's a good way to get him off the topic of her health, but not a good way to reinforce the image of her being a strong, capable individual. Charlie only sees menstruation and its symptoms as another reason women need to be coddled and looked after. He really should have been born in the 18th century.
"Ah...okay, well..." he clears his throat, and she drops her smirk quickly as he looks back at her, regaining his composure quickly. Too quickly, and she wonders if he believes her.
"Still haven't told me why you're here, Dad," she reminds him, more to distract him from speculating than out of real curiosity. Holding the paper towel to the small gash with her pinkie finger, she picks up the stack of mail she left on the table and begins to flip through it, using the perusal as an excuse to avoid eye contact. She's never been a good liar.
Grunting a little, he takes the chair across from her and runs a hand over his face with an odd expression. He looks...upset.
She drops the unopened envelopes, feeling a tinge of concern. "Is something wrong?" Charlie is the most stoic men she's ever known. It isn't that he doesn't feel emotion – he does – he's just not one to show it. That something has slipped past his guard, especially something that has him upset, is very unusual.
He studies her. There isn't any other word for it. His gaze is intent, probing.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly." He holds up his hand to stop her from replying when her mouth opens, though, in truth, she isn't sure what she planned to say. Defend her honesty, demand an explanation? He continues before she can get her brain to explain her mouths intent.
"I'm serious, Bella. No smart ass remarks, and no getting pissed off. This is official, and I need an official answer, okay?"
Official means police business, and Charlie's tone has slipped into interrogator mode.
"O...kay." Her answer is hesitant and uncertain, but he only nods.
"Good then." He stalls, still staring at her in a way that makes her want to squirm.
"What, Dad? You're starting to freak me out."
He doesn't laugh or grin, or say anything that might make her feel less uncomfortable. Instead, he pulls out a pen and his black notebook, flips it open, thumbs through it to a fresh page, and fixes her with a hard look.
"When's the last time you saw Mike Newton?"
Bella startles at the name. Her job at Newton Outfitters store means she would normally see Mike often, but being unwell the last few days meant she hadn't gone in on Saturday to pick up her check, and she didn't go in for her shift today. Mr. Newton – Mike's Father – mentioned Mike was A.W.O.L when she called in, but that was nothing new. There's a reason why Bella holds the manager position at the supply store owned by his parents and not him. Between his so-called job procuring bands for Forks' only bar, and his general over-all lazy attitude, he only worked at the store when money was short or when he had nothing better to do. At the time, she didn't think much about Mr. Newton's comment, merely replied that she was sure he'd be back around soon, and gotten off the phone as quickly as possible. She's always tried to stay out of the Newton family drama, even though she felt sympathy for anyone having a son like Mike.
"What is this about?" she asks, trying to buy time. The last time she saw Mike was outside the bar, grabbing at her wrist and getting pulled off by...
"Never mind that for now. Just answer me. When was the last time you saw him?"
"I guess...Friday?"
"You guess?"
"No...um, it was Friday. Friday, around two."
"At work?" Charlie is writing, and she realizes he thinks she means two in the afternoon. She bites her lip, nervously. He's not going to like her answer.
"Uh, no. I guess technically it was Saturday morning, at 2 a.m." She's right about him not liking the answer. He snaps his head up from looking at his notebook, and she adds quickly to be clear, "Outside the Twilight Tavern."
His gaze narrows. Familiar with the disapproving look, Bella bites back an urge to babble and explain anything beyond the question he asked.
I'm a grown woman, she thinks angrily. I have nothing to defend. I'm not a child. I'm 23, practically 24. I can go to a bar to watch a great band and have a few drinks if I want.
I can also take home a strange man – emphasis on strange – and have mind-blowing sex without squirming in this chair like I did something wrong.
I'm not a child. I just feel like one when he stares at me like that.
Charlie inhales hard through his nose then exhales just as hard. He slaps the notebook closed, leaning back in his chair.
"All right. Look." He levels another one of those penetrating stares on her. "I'm just going to come straight out and ask this. Are you and Mike Newton involved, romantically?"
Bella feels her mouth gape open, again, and the glass of juice she picked up merely to have something to occupy her hand, nearly falls out of it. "What?"
"You heard me, Bella. Are you involved with the Newton kid?"
"No. God, no! Jeez, Dad."
Charlie huffs and leans forward, still staring at her like he wants to see in her head. "I'm going to be honest with you here, Bells. I have reasons for asking, and some evidence that says you might be lying, the least of which is you admitting to being out with him at two in the damn morning."
Bella opens her mouth to further protest, but is stalled when he runs over any chance she might have by continuing in a hard, no-nonsense tone.
"I'm not going to harp on you about Jake. While I admit it's hard, I do – despite what you think - know that you're a grown woman. I get that you might date...or whatever." Charlie's face flushes red at this, but he doesn't miss a beat with his next words. "So, I'm going to ask one last time. Is there something I should know about you and Newton?"
She feels heat erupt in her own face, but it has nothing to do with embarrassment. Slamming the glass down on the table hard enough to slosh juice over the edges, she lowers her voice to a hiss. "No. I told you. There is nothing between Mike and me. We went to the bar to watch a band play. Ben came with us. Do you want to ask if I'm screwing him, too?"
She can't keep the venom from her tone, and Charlie's penetrating stare turns to a full on glare.
"Don't take that tone, young lady, and don't be so crass."
Bella snorts. "Then don't ask stupid questions. Mike is an arrogant, self-centered ass. I wouldn't date him if he was the last guy on earth. We went to the bar as a trio of friends only. Mike did a disappearing act before the band even came on stage." She stops there, biting her tongue as she realizes she's quickly painting herself into a corner. If she explains much more of that night, she's going to have to tell Charlie about leaving, and about Mike grabbing her wrist. Which will then lead to her having to explain...Edward.
Christ. She can't do that. Panic swells up at the mere thought, and she gets up quickly, grabbing the glass and carrying it to the sink to dump out. She tosses the red splotched paper towel into the garbage, barely noticing that the cut is no longer bleeding. Grabbing a dish clothe, she quickly swabs the spill off the table, careful to avoid Charlie's eyes.
"What's with the third degree, Charlie?" Using his name instead of calling him dad pisses him off. She generally tries not to do it, but right now, she would rather he be irritated with her than paying any attention to her body language or facial expressions.
Charlie stands, tucking his pen and notepad back into his shirt pocket. She can't help looking up at him when he doesn't say anything. Instead of appearing angry, he looks glum.
"Newton's been missing for a few days now. Looks like the last he was seen was the night you're talking about at the tavern. I went to his apartment this morning to check it out, see if maybe he was holed up there, or if there was any indication of where he might be..." The glum look turns grim and then turns determined. He straightens his spine and gives her an inscrutable look with eyes that seem half sad, half angry. "I'm going to need you to come to the apartment with me, Bella. There are some more questions I need to ask you."
"Can't you just ask me here?"
Charlie is already turning and heading for the front door. "No. There's something you need to see first. I'll be in the car."
. . . . . .
Charlie drives in a silence that is broken only by the sporadic and staticky talk over his police radio.
Bella chews her nails nervously. "Can't you just explain to me what's going on?" she demands as he parks in a 'no parking zone' out in front of the three story walk-up of cheap apartments in Forks' south end. Newton has lived here for over a year, but Bella never visited. Seeing him at work and through their mutual friends was more than enough.
"This isn't something I can explain," Charlie tells her, already getting out of the cruiser, forcing her to follow, though she wants to dig her feet in and refuse like a child. She has a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she can't stop thinking about the way the night at the bar ended.
Mike grabbing her wrist, using that annoying wheedling and slightly pissed off tone of voice, trying to get her to go back inside. Edward showing up out of nowhere, detaching Mike's hand from her wrist. Mike's grip was painfully strong, yet Edward made him let go with no effort at all.
She can still picture that strong grip clamping around Mike's. The way Mike's hand sprung open under pressure, hissing in pain, cursing and walking away, looking scared shitless despite the angry words he muttered.
"I asked Jake to meet us," Charlie says, breaking into her thoughts and jolting her back to the present. She immediately opens her mouth to voice a protest then just as quickly shuts it, knowing it's futile.
As if on cue, Jake's old Chevy truck rumbles around the corner. Charlie waves him over, pointing at the place behind the cruiser and gesturing for Jacob to park there. He turns back to her, shocking her by putting his hands on her shoulders. Charlie is not the touchy-feely type, and the bad feeling in her stomach grows.
"What is he doing here?" she asks, unable to hide her growing nervousness and irritation.
Charlie sighs. "I need you to brace yourself a little, okay? There's...stuff in there I can't quite explain, although I'm starting to get the gist of it now since you say there isn't anything between you and Newton. It's just...look, it's better to show you than to tell you, though damned if I want you to see this. Just...don't get upset or all worked up."
"Hey." Jake interrupts as he joins them, several lines in his forehead looking etched deep the way they get when he's stressed. "You okay?" he asks her, reaching out and putting his arm around her waist. Bella thinks about objecting to his proprietary touch, but after a second she settles for simply shrugging him off and stepping out of his reach.
"Can we just get this – whatever this is – over with, please?"
Charlie nods at Jake. The kind of nod that clearly indicates he's already explained things he's refusing to explain to her.
"You've told him everything, haven't you?" she states the obvious and rolls her eyes. "Why am I not surprised, Dad? Big old boys club and the little woman isn't invited in?"
"Bella, that's enough," Charlie barks. "I told Jake what's going on, yes, and I'll tell you, too. I'm not keeping things from you. It's why you're here. Just come inside, and I'll explain everything."
Bella feels chastised and manages to nod as she crosses her arms over her chest, protectively sealing in the ache that grows worse when she's confronted with the bond between Charlie and Jake. She knows she's being overly difficult, but she's tired, physically and mentally, of always being the odd one out, even with her own father. From the moment she met Jake, Charlie decided he was what was best for her. Even now, months after their break up, he wouldn't let that go and dragged Jake into everything. Not that Jake needed to be dragged.
She follows Charlie grudgingly, Jake right behind her, shoulders back, eyes looking around suspiciously. Like a body guard. She bites down on her tongue till it hurts, reminding herself she's too old to storm off and refuse to cooperate with their alpha male bullshit.
The stairwell of the old building is dark and rundown. The smell of cooking, old and new, combines nauseously with the smells of dirt, human sweat, and other things she would rather not think about. Bella concentrates on Charlie's back and not tripping. She's all too aware of Jake behind her, and it makes her feel trapped.
Charlie leads her to Newton's apartment. Bella knows she's been watching too many episodes of NCIS when she nearly asks Charlie why there's no police tape to duck under. There is a complicated lock with 'property of Forks Police Department' written across it attached to the door knob that seems slightly askew. She briefly wonders who broke the original lock before Charlie opens the door and ushers her in.
Inside, the air feels close and hot. Stuffy, with underlying scents of oil paints and something sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. The evidence of the latter is apparent when Charlie flicks on lights and she sees a basket of mixed, overripe fruit sitting on a table. The apartment is surprisingly clean. She isn't sure what she expected, but the normality of furniture nicer than her own and the simple layout that screams bachelor without being bland, isn't it.
Blinking, she looks around, noting simple beige walls, dark curtains and blinds. A TV, a desk, a small galley kitchen with dishes stacked in a drying rack on the counter, a few dirty ones in the sink.
"This way." Charlie turns right, leading her down a short hall. She sees a bathroom at the end, the door ajar, a small closet to the right is also slightly ajar. It looks like someone rifled through it. Charlie? One of his deputies?
Charlie opens another door to the apartment's only bedroom, but hesitates, blocking her view while looking at her over his shoulder. His glance passes over her and onto Jake behind her. Something unspoken crosses between them, and Jake's arm goes back around her waist. She doesn't object this time, and when Charlie moves away, unblocking her view, she's actually grateful.
It takes a moment for her brain to catch up with what she sees. At first, all she notices is an unmade bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, pushed against the far wall. No headboard, just a frame, box-spring and mattress. The plain sheets and dark gray comforter look like they need a washing. The faint smells of stale body odour and sweat confirm it, but it's the kaleidoscope of colours that cover every inch of wall space from floor to ceiling that quickly commands all her attention.
She steps farther in, and the kaleidoscope takes shape. Or shapes, plural. Photographs. Dozens of them – no, hundreds of them – in varying sizes, are plastered everywhere, some of them overlapping.
Photographs.
Of her.
Her vision swims, and Jake's arm tightens around her. The stale air of the room starts to feel fetid and suffocating. She can't make sense of what she's looking at and tries to focus on one picture at a time.
She sees herself, walking out of her house, her head down, hair half obscuring her face. Her gaze flits to another, and she recognizes the coffee shop she stops at most mornings before work. This time she was captured looking straight ahead. She was wearing sunglasses that day and they were pushed on top of her head, pulling her hair away so the photographer easily caught the small smile she gave a passerby.
Another. This one of her at work, unpacking boxes. How did she not know her picture was being taken?
Another. Leaving a restaurant in Port Angeles, Jess beside her.
Another. Her and Jake, taken over a year ago outside the house. Jake was holding the truck door open for her.
Another. Her and Charlie...
Shopping for groceries...
Getting out of her car...
Walking...
Talking...
Laughing...
In her garden.
Wearing a winter coat...
Wearing a spring coat...
In her bathing suit...
She cannot assimilate. There are too many. Hundreds of snapshots and gross invasions of privacy. Close ups, looking blurry and grainy, obviously blown up from a smaller size. Wide frames, dozens of different angles and backdrops, snatches of her day to day life frozen on glossy photo paper and taped to this wall.
Her eyes are drawn to blank spaces, the marks of tape that stripped away paint showing that at some point there were pictures there as well. She pulls away from Jake and touches those places.
"What happened to these pictures?" she asks, surprised that she can find her voice at all over the choking sensation in her throat. Her hands are shaking.
Charlie clears his throat, and she hears Jake shifting his stance, though they don't answer. Spinning on her heel, a sick feeling of being violated beginning to swamp her, she confronts the nervous glances of her father and former boyfriend as they evasively look at one another and then at the walls, the floor. Anywhere but at her.
"There are pictures missing. You can tell. Where are they?" Her voice is shaking as well, but she still manages to inject demand into the question.
It's Jake who finally answers. "We don't know, Bella."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" She can hear the hysterical tinge to her tone, unable to suppress it.
Charlie shakes his head at Jake before walking toward her. He puts his hands on her shoulders for the second time, and he gives her a slight shake. "Those places were blank when I got here. The apartment was searched from top to bottom and we haven't found them."
She senses something in the way he's speaking. Like he's being evasive. "What aren't you telling me, Dad?"
Charlie drops his hands and looks around the room. His features are tight, his skin pale. A muscle around his jaw jumps repeatedly, a tiny spasm that betrays just how upset he is. Finally, he looks back at her, his expression wiped purposely clean, impersonal cop persona back in place.
"We know Newton hasn't been seen since the night you were with him. Whatever happened, he never returned home from that bar. When I got here, I found the lock busted." Charlie rubs his forehead, something she's only ever seen him do during times of extreme stress, the only tell in his otherwise impassive look. "Someone broke in here recently, Bella, and whoever it was, they took those pictures."
He points at the wall, but all she hears is the words – 'I found the lock busted.' Her skin prickles and something cold settles in her stomach as more pieces of a puzzle that she doesn't want to solve, slide into place.
. . . . . .
A/N – Tu sei il mio, Isabella - You are mine, Isabella. Il mio cantante. Il mio desiderio. Il mio possesso. - My singer. My desire. My possession.
Thanks to Camilla10 for her help with the Italian.
