a/n: This is how he got into this mess, the start. Days before ...
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Chapter 45 - Turn Around
EPOV Days before...
It's a big house deep in the woods. Far from where he came. He hiked for almost three days. He'd stop, his stomach would growl at him, and he'd eat. He'd sit on his bin with everything he needs in it, and he'd chew on whatever food he carried. One bite or two. He was tired. Maybe three or four bites that time. Rationing food every day is a game of roulette. He'd drink from a canteen. He had plenty of everything.
Eventually, not enough.
He never thought hiking this far, this long, would bring nothing in sight. Trees and streams and more trees. Maybe a deer or two in the distance looking at him, ears pointed as they'd freeze.
After a day, he sat and wondered if he should go back. The feeling was strong. The anger even more so.
He'd sigh hard. Rub his eyes, wishing the image of Bella would rub off, too.
Bella. Bella.
Still, he works the name through his lips. Thinking of all the historical Isabella's he's read about: the Isabellas of England, and Castile. Yet none so eccentric as this one. The one he grew to know.
Why would he go back? There's nothing there. No food. No resources. She's not there. She's moved on. A bulging belly to prove she's moved on. That boy in her life, in her pictures, he's there, everywhere, moving on with her.
So Edward stood, and he kept going. He let the thoughts go. Maybe keep them for later.
Three days, and now the food is sparse on the fifth. That house. The one house he's run into this entire time. He camps out far enough not to be seen, and he watches.
Just watches.
Every move is recorded. Every windowpane observed. This is his day job. The one he does well. Patience is virtue.
What he does see is the lack of movement. The empty driveway. Possibly an empty garage. And there it is. The weak spot. The loophole. The garage light at the top flickering. He lifts his glasses to his head and observes. The energy lagging, working hard to get the garage protected. A measly security system for such a house. Internally he laughs maniacally. Bingo. Jackpot. This one will be easy.
When the moment seems right, he leaves the bin behind at his hiding spot. He walks up. And like alarms, hundreds of them go off in his gut.
Turn around.
But this is easy. It'll be quick. He tells himself this.
Turn around.
This one will be like lounging on the lawn chair by his tent. The ease of sliding into it and forgetting, letting the open sky gently lie right on him.
Turn.
No. This one is it. Nothing else around here for miles. Tired. Hungry.
So, his hands fumble blindly for that camera after walking around the visible spots. One snap of the box behind it. One tug of a wire. Pull there. Twist there. Now disconnected. The light that flickered goes out. At the same time, the garage door opens at the bottom, a slight pop. Silent enough.
He would smirk, but he's anything but professional. This is survival mode. Charity. He hates it, but it's taking him further, for more miles.
He pulls that door from the bottom and slides under. The inside door is that way. The kitchen connects to this part of the house; seamless.
He gathers what he can from the pantry. Barely anything, but enough. He opens his backpack and tosses things inside.
The fridge. The light brightening everything inside. He finds the switch to 'off.' He holds it while he looks. Cheese, ham, hot dogs, bread. Anything. Cold refreshments lined at the bottom. A handful of those for the bin. This all means they will be home soon. Nothing spoiled yet, so he hurries.
But first, batteries. There must be some. This cabinet of knickknacks? Bingo. Too easy. He grabs a package.
When he turns, three men are silently watching him from the shadow at the door he came in from. One guy picks up an apple from a bowl. He bends a finger from around it and beckons Edward silently. They file out from where they came.
Edward looks around. Never been caught. Never stirred like this. His heart begins to hammer. This isn't supposed to be this way. Heart-hammerings are for the end of the job, when he runs off. There are no other exits around, but far in the living room. Should he run? He can't follow them. He won't.
They've caught him red-handed, cookie jar empty. He even took those.
….