There's a lot of explanation that is required of me.

Firstly, I cannot apologise enough for the delay. Not only have I been completely inundated with an excessive lot of work, I have also moved countries, suffered ten tonnes of internet trouble and last week, my trusty laptop committed suicide without leaving one note. Meaning all those thousands of words... gone. RIP.

I apologise wholeheartedly for my complete and utter lack of disorganization but in response, please do not fret. Though the next few chapters might take a little longer than normal, I will keep people updated if I end to put this story on permanent hiatus (which I highly doubt considering I've had it focused for a good few years!). Please stick with it, and with me, this is only the middle of all that has been achieved and though there is an end in sight, I would dream it's a little way off yet.

The fault of this chapter shouldn't also go solely to the laptop, however. Consider this an official warning for a very long chapter, and some dark themes, as ever. Though the chapters are not as regular, I am always available for contact so if you wish to speak with me to discuss anything you have read. I will appreciate any and all responses in whatever form you wish to voice them. Be it review, which though amazing, isn't necessary, or a PM, which I will be happy to reply to just as quickly.

Thank you for your thoughtful concerns, again, I repeat, this is a long chapter even longer than normal and as ever, I will be impatiently awaiting your response just as you will be impatiently awaiting an update.

Which will come.

Thank you continuously for your patience, your thoughts, your interests and your dedication. My gratitude knows no bounds.

Edward

There seems to be urgency in her features, worn by the delay of sleep and stress, painted under her heavy eyelids like an abstract painting. She waits a few more moments, hesitates and begins with a tone conveying serious doubt.

'I know what you're going to say,' she murmurs, rubbing the cuffs of his jumper and breathing deeply as though picking up both scents of the washing powder and coffee. That washing powder. The washing power that makes my skin crawl and turns my backside into a cavern for the undiluted grains of aromatic chemicals. She revelled in that powder like a child to sugar. But with more gratitude and less desperation to consume every available scent.

I take another look at her and conclude that perhaps my metaphor was right. She'd inhale the stuff if I wasn't invading their space.

'Clearly you don't.' I correct, adding a bored shrug to try and ease the very sentence I've been dreading since the moment she demanded to speak with me.

It was polite of her to wait the courtesy five minutes of Carlisle leaving for work when she thwacked her impatient knuckles on my door, flushed with colour and very much unconscious to her lack of attire. She wasn't just consumed by the washing powder. She was consumed by him. It was gross.

'I do.' She contends. 'You're going to say I'm stupid.'

'You've just proved me right.' I say with a smug acknowledgement of her impatience. For starters, I was going to employ the very swear words she seemed to be neglecting this morning. This thought does little to ease the tension. She doesn't come up with another way to force an elaboration from my lips so I'm left to do my own work. 'I don't think you're stupid, Esme.'

'Everyone else does.'

'No one else knows you.'

She frowns, staring at her clutched hands because she's taken on a whole new persona today and while it was uncomfortable at first… it is strangely becoming of her. Like her excessive confidence is just a veil to this shy sense of indecision. It was the very opposite of Carlisle. He seemed to have a way of construing this awkward, naïve persona when in fact he'd become very much secured with himself. They were playing at opposite roles when their real ones were just as opposing as these imposters. They certainly had fewer complications, too.

'I know you're not stupid but I also know you're impulsive.' I hear myself warn, playing at that tone which suits neither of our manners.

'I am not!' She answers quickly and we suddenly both resemble our usual sibling nature. Except that she is the youngster in this moment.

'Whatever it is that you think you've got to do-'

'We can't just wait, Edward!' The tone of her voice has become sharper but not in an angry way. In a passionately desperate way.

'It'll work out.' I claim, emptily. Her grunt is not unlike a bull, dismissive and full of hot air. Annoyingly, I find my eyes rolling and though I know every person surrounding me would criticise my intentions, I go ahead and follow them. 'I know you're right…' I start to say, opening my mouth to no larger than a quarter-sized gap.

'See!'

'But,' the emphasis I have to pour on this word is ignored with a flicker of her lashes, 'whatever you're thinking of doing… it's not wise.'

'I don't even know what I'm going to do yet.' She mutters again, hiding behind her curtains as though for once, she can't bear to let her features shine through.

I miss the times when getting her laid meant barrels of eased tension and ridicule. Since employing my best friend as her new chosen coitus companion, an unexpected amount of melancholy seems to invade her every look. Or that's how it looks when we're alone. I don't even want to think about the look she offers in just his presence. Yuck.

'You're decided and that's dangerous enough,' I reply.

'I'm not decided…'

Why must she be so pedantic?

'Es, why did you ask for my advice if you're not going to tell me what you're up to?'

There it is. Alas, my own impatience beat hers.

'I need to know I'm doing the right thing.'

'You're not.' I tell her, earnestly. 'Whatever crazy plan you've got in mind; to bomb his church or contact CNN… It's not good to involve people in this madness. You're already on surveillance from some random creep. You can't even depend on your own safety anymore; it's no use trying to act for the good of other people.'

'So I should watch him get deported-?'

'For like a month, at most…' I lie feebly.

'-I should accept that there's nothing I can do? I shouldn't even try?'

'You listened to my parents; they're doing everything they can.'

'It's not enough!' She snaps, hand slamming on the table so that coffee spills. She falls back into the chair dismally, bringing her knees up to her chest and covering her face with both hands. She's not crying… I hope she's not crying…. Her exhaustion, the never-ending cycle of stress is eating up her fingertips, locking around the loose waves of her hair and pulling them tight.

Instinctively, I reach a hand over to untie hers from her face, relieving the needed rush of fresh oxygen. She's not crying… but she looks like she could do so at any moment.

'I didn't mean-'

'I know.' I shrug. 'I know it's not enough… but Carlisle's right. No matter how much I want to protect him, I have to abide his wishes.' His damn right stupid wishes. Again, she doesn't say anything. 'Think about it, Esme… you've been hurt a lot in these three years. If any of that is connected to this person…'

My head is starting to hurt again. Not to the extent where I'm going to need a lie down, but enough that I have to pause for a moment to let the words force their way out of the hazy view.

'Not as much as him.'

'It's not a competition.' I dismiss, irritably.

'It doesn't have to be.' She defends. 'I'm giving you simple facts. If he goes back he's going to suffer for it. Even just being in those surroundings-'

'Surroundings that you face every day you go into that damn coffee shop?!'

'I thought you said it wasn't a competition?'

'It's not!' I groan. 'But that wasn't a denial, either. So for fuck sake, stay away from it.'

'I have to do something!'

'You're going to get hurt! And if you won't listen to that, if you're not conceiving the depth of harm you are risking, then at least consider how you're going to hurt us all in the process. Especially Carlisle!'

My temper is eating me up now. The absence that I thought would stay with me until his return, from whenever a deployment would take place, is immediately replaced with this bitterly cold feeling. Just the image of her storming into the café, guns metaphorically blazing, is enough for the cascade of shivers to slip down my spine and burn up my numbed chest.

'There you are then.' She says, quieter. 'You do think I'm stupid.'

'I don't think you're stupid, Esme. I think you're being stupid; two different things.'

'Well, let this be my flaw? Give me this, a free-pass, and the moment you're correct, you'll never have to deal with me again.'

'Now you're being really stupid.' I say, mopping up the puddled drink with a soiled cloth. Oddly, she hasn't seemed to notice. She's very much consumed in her plan and it's setting my teeth on edge.

'It's all I'm asking for?' She pleads and though again the sound is not soft, the words are and I find myself looking into her very tired expression, her bitten lip and her nervy posture and sighing. 'Forgive me in advance?'

'It's not me you want forgiveness from.'

'It's also you.' She murmurs. As though this will flatter me enough to suddenly start cheering for her side.

'You don't know what you're asking-'

'I'm asking you to drop the sexist shite.' At that comment, my jaw falls comically open. 'Stop think of poor little fragile Esme-'

'I'm not thinking that because of your chromosomes?!' I yell, my manly gruff raising several octaves. 'I'm thinking that because you have been hurt and furthermore… it is concrete fact that you are being watched!'

'I can fend for myself-'

'Clearly not when your own mother can slap you!' Now it's her turn to look just as astounded. 'Oh yeah, I haven't forgotten about that. So stop making out like you're so tough when I see you exactly for what you are-'

'It's completely different with family and you know it! You have no right to use it against me!'

'I'm not using it against you, Es. I'm trying to show you sense. What if you get hurt by someone you love?! Godforbid, what if it is Alice spying on you? You know as well as I do she's been more than critical of your relationship!'

My mouth is currently in the modes of constant chatter. I'm offering up complete nonsense in desperation for her to take a moment and it's more than ridiculous of me to be using this as my argument. Make her wary of her own security network; genius, Edward.

'It's not Alice.' She says. The conviction and the certainty of her belief allows me to breathe a little. She takes her time, forming each word with such gentleness that it's like I'm being lulled into a sense of security. 'Edward, I need you to listen to what I'm saying.'

I groan even louder and let my head come to the table top.

'Stop thinking of me?' She begs, softly, pulling onto any and all heartstrings and making me suffer eternally. 'Think of him.'

'I am thinking of him.' I repeat through gritted teeth. 'I am thinking of every shade of black and blue my skin will take by him if you get harmed. I'm thinking of his never-ending misery in day-to-day life, I am thinking of how he will hold me responsible, how he won't forgive me and I am thinking of how I will never forgive myself.'

My enthusiasm encourages her disapproval.

'I'm hardly going to get killed. I'll take a knife with me?' The look on her face is blank and I'm so bemused that I can't tell if she's joking. Until she shakes her head at me.

'Don't look like that, if it keeps you safe-'

'Oh for fuck sake Edward, I'm trying to keep him safe. Not in the sense of 'he's coping, he's fine', but considering the trauma he will suffer the very moment he is within the same walls as them.'

Despite myself, I shudder. It's not a topic I have discussed or even acknowledged to Carlisle. It's not something I'm going to profess to guessing or supposing. If even my father couldn't get certain truths from his vow-of-silence, my own attempts would have been less futile. Not that it was ever something I wanted time to digest.

So though I am thankful he has found someone to relieve these anxieties too… I am beyond disgusted that it has to be her. Because by telling her, he's in this constant paradox of suffering. She dealt with pain through love (usually the wrong kinds but love nonetheless) … taking this on from him will cause both the world of harm.

Is this normal? To be so in love with someone you'd sooner offer what could be your safety for your beloved's happiness? Or not even happiness. That was the worst of it. She wasn't doing this knowing she would keep him happy or safe. She was doing it for the chance of seeing him happy or safe. It was all based on suppositions and temporality. She is risking pain in hopes she could buy them time.

Worse, I am about to let her.

'What do you need from me?' I ask, avoiding all desperation to be bitter and instead striving for neutrality.

'I need you to keep your phone on you. Be prepared to jump in the car and pick me up-'

'Can't I just come with you instead?' I say, scrubbing at my eyes not for tiredness but for a long road of fatigue. She doesn't reply, just shakes her head. 'Come on, Esme. Don't be ridiculous, it's the only way I know you're going to be safe.'

'I want you to go find Tilly.' She continues, looking under her lashes as though waiting for my imminent disapproval. She knows me well.

'What?! Why?!'

'Think about it Edward? Who else would it be?' She looks through me as she says it, as though she's repeating rehearsed lines.

'Anyone.' I answer, rudely. She rolls her eyes.

'She's known me for ages, she knows you all, she's been throwing accusations at us for weeks… it can't be anyone else-'

'Except-'

'It's not Alice!'

'I was actually going to blame Emmet that time; you know how thoughtless he can be.'

It's fair to say that my joke isn't well received.

'It's not any of our friends. There were things they couldn't even witness. Like Carlisle's bedroom window. Who else would know a clock broke the glass excusing the perpetrator herself?'

I hesitate again, making that groaning sound when I know she's, for once, speaking reasonably when I wish she wasn't. Her reason is so sure of itself…so matter of fact… I finish the statement with a nod. I don't want to encourage her.

'You just need to keep her occupied. Make sure she's not on my tail.'

I'm sickened by how my stomach is a combination of heavy stone, weighing me down in guilt, and soft caresses of moth wings. The relief that the end of the task will bring… I'm excited for it.

'Fine but the moment I know she's occupied, I'm coming to the Coffee shop.'

'Fine.' She agrees, blankly.

'Now tell me what you're planning?' I demand, not bothering to be gentle with her.

There's a sudden rush of adrenaline in my blood. Hungry for the release; for the final success of our luck to turn out considering that she has actually prepared for the avenue of danger. It feels very much like a movie. Like she suddenly knocked on my front door and asked if I wanted to play cops and robbers. I do.

She shakes her head as if concealing a fun little secret.

'Es.'

'It's fine, I've got it sorted.'

I don't know if I believe her but she seems to believe herself which is all that we need right now.

'Just be safe?' I implore her and I'm relieved to see the slight movement of her nodding head.

It doesn't take very long for her to explain where Tilly will be. Frustratingly enough, I was delusional in hoping Tilly might have ended up working after all, just so I could be sure that whatever stupid plan she had worked out, I'd be there to see the start and the end of it.

That's not how it works out.

First of all, Esme is ridiculously adamant that I should attend my lessons and though I complain about this, she's right in accusing me of missing too many lessons recently.

Soon, it becomes crystal clear that this isn't a sporadic plan, though I presume my involvement might be. She is aware of everything she needs me to do and though I'm blinded by the darkness of confusion, she doesn't explain any more than she has to.

'So what time will you be at the Shop?' I ask, scratching the start of my nose to keep from fiddling on the table.

'I'll message you when I'm there.' She answers quickly, dismissing me like she's slapping dirt from my palms.

'And what about Tilly? Can you guarantee she'll be heading into town?'

'Of course not Edward, I'm supposing. I just need you to make sure you know where she is, that's all.'

I allow myself to smile a little and shake the thought away. 'So what will you do until then? Should I go grab Carlisle's pocket knife? I know where he keeps it?' It's not an empty offer but it's a foolish one and again, she doesn't appreciate the ill-timed humour.

'I was meant to be babysitting but I'm just going to explain I'm running behind in classes. I know Sarah won't mind. Then just wait for you, I guess…' She shrugs and touches the veins on her left hand. 'I do have a few errands to run… a few people to phone so maybe I'll do that.'

'Good plan.' I agree, a little too excitedly. The enthusiasm has eaten me up. She's won me over and the confrontation of taking just one of these bastards down is making my hands itch. My imagination is flying from me in speed and all I can imagine is a Terminator show down in that stupid little shop. An overflow of violence from my talented hands into the obese blob of skin that is her boss.

I am salivating at the sweet scent of revenge.

'And one last thing?' She says as I'm getting up from my seat and practicing each step as though testing how much force could be secured behind it.

'Hmm?'

'You would forgive me, right?' She asks, delicate again as she shies away from the sharp return of my look.

'I would never have a reason not to.' I promise.

She smiles once and it doesn't occur to me until that evening how broken a smile can look.

Esme

The guilt is much stronger than I had expected it to be as I watch Edward reverse somewhat eagerly out of the drive. He's got a dark glint in his eye, the type when he's making offensive jokes with Emmett, or discussing a topic he knows will get Carlisle riled up. This glint is worse though. It doesn't have its charming innocence twisted into it. It's delusional, but it's also scarily violent. I'm to blame for that.

It doesn't do good to watch him leave so while I'm on hold with the university, having sent an email with no reply early Monday, I trace the newspaper with a delicate hand. I'd been meaning to trash it, at one point I nearly had, hovering it over the wicker basket in the corner of the room but Carlisle had made me jump and asked what I was doing.

'Recycling.' I'd murmured.

'If you keep it, you might have a claim for slander.' He contended, shrugging as though he hadn't minded the outcome. I'd seen his bruised hand twitch though, his eye follow exactly what bin I'd been about to throw it into.

It doesn't do any good to invite a line of deception, so I'd thrown it to the table instead.

'I won't be doing that.'

He hadn't furthered the matter. That was Tuesday. That was when he suggested a movie. He'd taken back the suggestion immediately on account of our follower but the comment only motivated me. I wasn't going to be sectioned to a house. So the cinema it was. A movie that he was struggling to pay attention to once I'd slipped my hand on his crotch. He begged me not to do anything that would only endanger our reputation. His eyebrows met the middle sweetly and he closed his eyes while biting down on his sore lip.

So I stopped and he kissed me distantly instead.

It sounds like a joke but these three days had barely started before they began. I couldn't keep my hands off him, for more than just the hormone reason, but things were a prohibition. He would stand very close to me when opening the car door. He'd shut all the blinds and the curtains before returning my kisses. At night, I'd wake to find him locking the window, or checking to make sure Edward was alright and three times he'd either lost an erection or prematurely spilt his load on account of rushing.

He'd smile awkwardly, blush to high heaven and fail to utter a word as he tried to excuse himself.

'It is normal.' I reminded us both. He didn't believe me.

I couldn't believe myself either. I wasn't saying it because it was normal and I wasn't saying it because sex is new to him. He'd sleep with me either in his arms, tensed like an iron cage or he'd move away from me completely like he couldn't bear to touch me.

And the words.

Every word of his that almost exemplified the very passion of his emotions. They got heavier.

Every time he spoke, it felt like a goodbye. Made worse when he promised he loved me. It was an apology.

My finger traces two different words on the page. King Arthur. It makes me shudder, my stomach flipping more when I think about the suggestion. He was brave, pried on from a young age, acted for the good of his community and never once backed away from his responsibilities. Even as I read the words, he's busy working in a hospital he has no need to work in anymore.

Not if he ends up being deported in the next few days.

After being on hold for thirty minutes, I finally hear a voice.

'You're speaking with the departments of scholarship and bursaries, how may I help?'

'Hi,' I repeat, swallowing the growing bitterness at the answer I've already been preparing for the last few days. 'It's Esme Platt speaking; I've been in touch with your colleagues-'

'Oh.'

'Oh?' I ask, stopping mid-explanation and waiting. There's murmuring in the background, whispers and harsh tones as though I can't hear them.

'Yes Miss Platt, I was made aware of your situation-'

'Good, I just want to know how things will be affected what with my final piece-'

'Has no one yet been in contact with you?' The male asks, slowly.

'Well no.' I murmur, rubbing my forehead. 'The incident only occurred Saturday evening, you see and I've been trying to get in touch with your people-'

'I'm sorry Miss, I can't say anymore on the matter. Someone will be in contact with you in the next few-'

'It's not enough!' I interrupt, just as I hear the closing statements. 'No offence to you, Sir, but it is not enough. I have been waiting for five days. I have been in contact with six different members of staff and no one will give me a straight answer!'

'It is unfortunately for the board to decide-'

'The board made their decision when I was informed of the news last week. I just want to know what will be affected and how I can fix it-'

'Really, Miss Platt, I apologise but I can't help you-'

'Then find me someone who can!' I beg. 'I can't keep waiting, I need to know-'.

The man is getting just as flustered as I am and though he keeps trying to dismiss me, I keep fighting it. 'Someone will phone you-'

'Someone is phoning me. You're phoning me. Please just give me something-'

'I can't help-'

'Please?!' I repeat, kicking the table in another moment of fury. I stand up and audibly inhale so he knows to wait. 'Sir, please. I can't keep phoning every day, hoping you'll answer me. I just need to know-'

'Miss Platt… I…' He sighs too, regret seeping into his tone. 'If the piece wasn't insured when it was taken out of the site-'

'But I didn't take it out of the site, your people did-'

'If you gave your permission-…' he mumbles, ashamedly. 'There's nothing...'

'But what do you mean there's nothing?!'

I'm surprised I'm not more devastated. The only reply I have to that is that I knew the answer. I've always known the answer. I've known the answer from the moment I watched my creation torn in front of my eyes.

'I'm sorry but without the official letter of registration-'

'I was told it would be sent soon-'

'But the problem is, Miss Platt…with no final piece…'

It's taken a very long time. But here it is. The bottom line. I was naïve to think it wouldn't hurt.

'What if I create another one?' I ask, pointlessly, voice like a child.

'I'm sorry, really very sorry… but there's always next year?'

To that, I just hang up.

The dial tone rings in my ears even after I've dismantled the phone. I don't treat it in the same manner as Carlisle did but I do rather calmly find a small glass box of screwdrivers and take apart all pieces of the phone so it's left in compartments on the floor.

I value the silence more than I thought I would.

Jasper always mentions things about material objects. He's always complaining we're too reliable on them. That was the same advice he mumbled to me on Wednesday. He was reserved about it. He knew I was planning something and after receiving the lowdown from Alice, which I wish she would do a lot more secretively, he reminded me that it's no good having the material objects to hand.

'Everything you own is like a map to your life.'

'Is this why you don't drive?' I'd murmured.

'It's why you shouldn't.'

He's promised not to say anything to Alice but he also swore he wouldn't lie to her. Which I think is why he never asked what I was doing. He didn't want to help but he hadn't been exactly pleased about Carlisle's slander either.

Alice didn't like it when he was violent. So he did his best to respect that.

Rosalie had been a pain. I hadn't had to lie; I just had to keep shaking my head. It didn't stop her from asking but it stopped me from telling. She'd thrown her arms around me the moment she saw me and then we both stiffened and turned away from each other. 'Revenge isn't always the answer.'

I hadn't replied.

'Trust me, I know.'

A half smile was used to prove that I valued her honesty but it was as about as hollow as Emmett's head- oh. I guess it's not fair to make that joke anymore…

'Just be careful?'

It's not revenge I'm after. But trying to explain that to Emmett was just as fruitless.

'What you planning to do? Storm in there? Demand for him to stop following you? Threaten to call the police?'

He'd been lifting a dumbbell at the same time. Not because he was showing off and not because that's how I always imagine him when I picture Emmett. I think he was trying to make things seem normal. Like bulking up is and would always be his natural way.

He'd been lifting more since he found out we had an anonymous follower.

That's how they were all coping. They didn't say any more than they had to but they made preparations. They'd wanted to have a takeaway every night this week and it was left for Edward to remind them that normality is comforting.

They didn't know the meaning of back off.

Alice had comically just happened to offer to meet Carlisle for lunch and Jasper had wanted to take Edward on a random hunting-bonding session Friday after work. 'We could all go?' Edward had murmured. It'd only taken for Carlisle to raise his eyebrow for the suggestion to be buried.

Bella surprised me.

Edward had been reluctant to be honest with her. He'd been reluctant to say anything though it became immediately necessarily with how overbearing our friends were becoming. He'd asked Carlisle's advice on Monday when I was busy but Carlisle hadn't given him the answer he wanted.

So his only response was to attempt to avoid her. He was bad at that, too.

She happened to be the last person I met up with on Wednesday. It wasn't intentional, I'd been hesitating with going to class and found myself on their driveway instead, unable to tear my eyes from Charlie Swan's cruiser.

I wouldn't move until knowing he wasn't home.

'He wants to tell you everything.' I blurted the moment she pushed a coffee under my nose.

'He has a funny way of showing it.' She replied, not unkindly but quickly. The books on her table were dog eared and old looking and she was using them to find her bravery.

'It's not his fault, Bella. He's just…' In love Carlisle would defend. 'Panicking.'

'You seem to do that a lot.' She replied, casting her eyes low and suddenly widening them, too. 'No offence, of course.'

'Who does?'

'You three.'

'Three?' I'd repeated, frowning.

'It's like a really complicated Venn Diagram where you all panic over one another and none of you discuss it properly-'

'That's not fair.' I said, wrinkling my nose. She blushed then, combing her hair away but staring only at the table top like she was worried about facing me.

'You're both worried about Carlisle. Carlisle and you are worried about him and both boys are worried about you.'

'So then he did tell you what his parents said?'

She nodded her head, biting the inside of her lip and looking behind my head to find the words. For once, I just wanted her to look me stone dead in the eye and let me shy away. I'd been playing that role good enough since Sunday. I felt like an expert in it.

'When he stayed the night on Saturday…'

'I remember.' I'd tried to smile but took it back on account of her neutral stare. Perhaps she thought I was being rude. I hadn't intended to be. I didn't want to know about their sex life.

'You can't tell him I told you?'

'Of course not…' I said, warily, dragging the coffee closer as if it might sober me up. I'd been drinking a lot of coffee recently. It was starting to make my head ache.

'He'd climbed through my bedroom window, took one look at me and sobbed.'

'He …sobbed?!'

I'd never known Edward to sob. Either of the boys. They weren't ones who did that kind of thing. When under any negative emotion it took some serious coaxing to get the understanding of it. Trying to communicate could be difficult if they weren't up for it.

'I don't know what he was like at home, Esme… but that whole party really freaked him out.'

'Why didn't he say anything?' I'd complained. To both my own ears and hers.

'What is he meant to say? He's… worried for you.'

'He shouldn't be. We're handling it-'

'He's not stupid; he knows when you're dismissing him.'

'It's not intentional…' I fought, my brows lowering.

'I never said it was.' She had smiled, awkwardly before turning away from me to look at the ugly kitchen cupboards. 'I don't know what you're planning-'

'Why does everyone assume I've got some stupid revenge path in mind?!' I moaned, brushing my fringe away and staring at her. She didn't shy from my look this time, but she didn't like it either.

'If I thought I'd get away with it, I'd steal you a gun from Dad's store room downstairs.'

'Bella.' I groan. 'Gun control, please.'

'Exactly. But I still think it's better to be safe than sorry.'

Tugging the draw open, she'd put her hand in, rifled around a bit before her frown cleared. Shaking the can, she chucked it my way and nodded. A can of Maize. What is with this woman?

'The sentiment is sweet but I really-'

'Either you take that or I phone Carlisle immediately and let him know exactly what you're planning.'

'Bella!' I gasped. 'You don't even know what I'm planning!'

She shrugged, shyly, trying to fight the blush. 'Edward's right, you need to be wary. Who knows who could be giving you away?'

'For fuck sake, it's not Alice. She couldn't keep a secret if she tried!'

She hadn't responded for a moment.

'I know it's not Alice.' She replied, looking half confused at me. 'First of all, she hasn't known you for that long. I don't know anyone who has.'

'Point being?' I'd asked, not sounding nearly as rude as I remember feeling.

'Point being that you should know who you can trust. You don't know who's watching Carlisle and whose watching you. But I'm sure it'll be a mutual acquaintance rather than your best friend.'

She'd finished that sentence by dropping her glass onto the floor. Like that the illusion was shattered and we were back to our uncomfortable roles in friendship.

'I really do hate to be a pain, Mrs Walderman.' I promise, tugging a lose strand of my hair back to its ponytail and stroking my arm from the cold. The smile she returns is reserved. I've caused an inconvenience for them and I hate it but I can't put it off any longer.

The moment it's done, the better.

'You can't just stay for the hour?' She begs, lifting my chin up to look her in the eye in a very parental manner. 'I'll pay you double?'

'I'm really sorry-'

'At least stay for a drink at least?' She insists. 'Look at you Hon, you're positively beat. Tell me what the matter is.'

'It's nothing.' I murmur. 'It's just class.'

'It's not just class.'

She half drags me into the kitchen and doesn't hesitate to drop her youngest into my arms. He's looking a lot better than when I last saw him. In fact he wants to show off and play, tugging on the straps of my shirt until I pay attention to him. After speaking with my brother, there's an unconscious need to just hold the kid tighter. To cling onto the perfect idolisation he has envisioned behind those wide, daylight eyes…

'Tell me what it is?' She insists, pushing a glass towards me.

She's staring at me, waiting impatiently for my response and because I can't summon the words, I take a swig of the cool copper glass instead. And nearly choke up my lungs. It's stronger, far too strong for this early in the morning.

'Long Island Ice tea.' She explains when I continue to cough. I wasn't expecting it- it went down the wrong hole.

'Bit early, isn't it?' I say once I've caught my breath. Her lipstick smile splits in two and she shrugs idly.

'Never too early for a cocktail, is it?'

'I don't know…' I start to say but I laugh a little when she insists I finish it. 'I really shouldn't, I've got so much work to do.'

'Oh Esme, love. Take a break.' I've been taking a break all week. 'Besides, that's only the first one I made, wait till you try my Atlantic Sunrise.'

'What's the occasion?' I ask instead, sipping the top and holding in the desperation to splutter.

'No occasion.' She replies with a shrug. 'Mark likes them though so I thought I'd treat him. You're my guinea pig.'

'Thanks.' I reply, shaking my head slightly. She pushes the glass towards me, watches me hesitate and giggles.

'At least just that glass?!'

'I really shouldn't, Sarah. I have class tomorrow…' I have class today, I have plans today, this isn't good. So much for not drinking…

'You only live across the road.' She reminds me. 'Oooh! That reminds me! I have some clothes that don't fit me-'

'I really should be going…' I fight pathetically but with a roll of her eyes she's dragging me upstairs.

'You at least have to try them on, brand new; I foolishly brought the wrong size.' She drags me into her bedroom, calls on Serena to entertain Johnathan and shuts the door like she might just wish to barricade me into it.

'I feel so bad leaving you when you're busy…' I repeat, in an effort to re-announce my intention to leave but she shushes my concerns and repeats something about it not being a bother. She's hassling around in the wardrobe and orders me to sit on the bed.

'So what's been on your mind, Hun?'

'Huh?' I say absently.

My shoes have caught on a wad of money on the floor and feeling rather awkward about it, I quickly pile it up and put it on the bedside table. It must have fallen out of a pant pocket. The stock market must really be doing well. There's a handwritten letter hanging out of the psychology book on the side on the table when I place the money down and for a fraction of a second, I'm sure I read- oh how ridiculous. I'm becoming paranoid.

'Esme?'

'Hmm?' I repeat, shaking my head when I find her waiting impatiently for my response.

'What's got you concerned?'

'Oh… oh it's just… it's just this damn scholarship… I…I thought I had it.' The rage that I want to burst into hasn't been present for the last few weeks. Maybe I haven't been either. Maybe this is all just a warped dream.

She hums to prove she's listening and throws a few clothes by my side. They're mainly summer dresses which look especially tight from here so I just sit idly on my drink and try not to choke on the alcohol content. Really I should be trying to keep a clear head…. But I need the courage.

'Just the scholarship?' She probes.

I sigh, quietly and shake my head.

'We saw the paper…' She murmurs, rubbing my shoulder like a genie in a lamp. Maybe she wants three wishes but I doubt I'll be able to grant them.

'I should've guessed.' I reply, miserable.

'So Carlisle really lost his temper, huh?'

I'm too busy looking at the state of my knees to realise she's pulling me to my feet and throwing something my way. Try this; she's encouraging without using the words. I'm trying to say he didn't lose anything but it was probably the only part of the article which was fairly true.

'It was a bit of a blur to be honest…'

'Was he drinking?' She asks, hanging dresses over the top of me and instructing for me to get undressed.

I think she makes a joke about my choice of underwear; it's not the most flattering thing I own but who cares for flattering anymore? I can't even be bothered to tease the most gorgeous man I'd ever been with. I wanted him to fuck me quickly just so I wouldn't have the guilt of watching him fight to stay focused. The dress is a middle aged blue which is strange considering it's only on rare occasions she herself looks middle aged but I try and pull it onto my iron figure.

Moving robotically, I hang my heavy head in shame.

'How unlike Carlisle.' She says to herself, almost confused.

'He was just so… stressed. It was such a shit situation, Sarah. Honestly. We were itching to get out of there.'

'Oh bless you, dears. Here, try this dress.'

I don't have the energy to tell her it won't fit so I just pull it on…and surprise myself…. The slim waist is tugging me in further, the V shaped is elongating my cleavage and the fabric is clinging to my lack of hips. It's fair to say it's a dress I suddenly hate.

'So what are you going to do about it?' she asks, zipping me up from behind and turning her head at me like she's Alice.

'I don't know.'

'But you're going to do something?' She guesses, pulling tighter.

'I think I have to.' I explain with a solemn nod. 'We think he's keeping an eye on us.'

'Carlisle's father?' She asks, sharply.

'Yeah…'

'How absurd! Who's telling you such a thing?'

'Essentially Eustace…' I confess, shrugging slightly. She looks disapprovingly and turns her head away to point her disapproval somewhere else.

'You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Honey.'

I nod, not really knowing what else to say or do and feeling miserable about it. She's helped me out of a second dress and is trying to encourage me to try on another but I'm feeling even more miserable than I did and each new item is sucking even more air and weight from my ribcage.

'So what are you going to do?' She asks again, voice turning to that motherly concern.

'I…I think I'm going to speak to someone.'

'Someone? Like a lawyer?'

'Maybe. Just an expert on the matter.' Or maybe even a locksmith.

'Have you tried talking directly to Eustace?' She asks, again turning away every time I try and watch for her judgement. I shake my head.

'Carlisle doesn't think it's wise.'

'With all due respect to the poor love, he's probably not capable of having an unbiased response to it all at the moment.'

It's a sentence I never expected to hear from her. It's come out too quickly, the words are in a jumble before my eyes but she softens it with another sigh.

'He's been very hurt by them all…'

'I know.' I say. 'I can't risk hurting him anymore but by not doing anything-…'

The sentence stays weightless in mid-air for a while longer, and she watches it go with a stare like the look I've seen in her kid's faces.

'Love is a complicated thing.' She murmurs, shyly and I feel a blush rise to my cheeks. Typical how furiously I demanded Carlisle's secrecy and how easily I betrayed my own wishes. 'Oh my love, it couldn't have been more obvious if you walked in here with him wrapped around your waist. Mark has been putting money on it for months.'

'I never meant for it to happen…' I defend, gasping when she relieves the pressure of the dress. 'It was an accident.'

'The two of you?'

'I…' I don't respond, I blush. 'Sarah, I really do appreciate your advice… but I think I need to go and sort some things.'

The dress, the voice, the stare… I feel sick. I can't look at her anymore.

'What does it matter as long as he's gentle with you?'

'Gentle?' I repeat, a frown tugging warningly on my brows. 'I never meant to imply he wasn't gentle?'

Were we discussing Carlisle here? There couldn't be a bigger definition to the term gentle than the man himself. He was in the encyclopaedia for it.

'Esme, Dear. The bruises speak for themselves.'

'Bruises?!' I repeat. After so many weeks, I'm still bruised?! Turning hastily, I try and catch a glimpse but she pinches the dress close to my skin, drawing an unexpected intake of breath from my lips.

'You're positively covered in them. Had you not of said….why, I could've very easily misinterpreted…'

'He hasn't bruised me? That wasn't Carlisle!' I blurt, already feeling a new heat gather about my neck as I try to hastily undo the dress.

She shoves my hands from the zip, her talons catching on the bottom of my spine as she brings the fabric together to undo it. The snagging of the zip is like ripping fabric in my ears and I want so much to be out of there, I can already feel the sweat on my wrists bleed down my arms.

'I didn't mean to judge, Esme. It's hardly my business.'

'You're right.' I snap. 'It's not.'

'There's no need to get defensive, now, Hun. Whatever you enjoy in the privacy of your own home…' She trails off, again playing with that teasing tone of mother-knows-best. The alcohol is making my head spin and the moment I tug the dress free from my hips, is the moment the blood drops from my cheeks to my feet.

'I don't enjoy this!' I gasp and then I realise she's still staring at me. 'It's not what either of us chose to do!'

'Woah, Love, breathe,' She nods her head and looks away from my gasping like she, ironically, is unqualified to cope with it.

'I've got to go.'

'Oh Esme... I didn't mean anything by it.' She insists rather dismissively, looking up as if to shrug.

'Still,' I mutter, pushing my fringe away because I need to see where I'm going.

I need to go. This is all it's ever going to be. It's going to always be a knife to Carlisle's throat at the extent of my pain. I pull the jeans on hastily, buttoning them so furiously that I don't notice how low they hand on my hips. I pull the T-shirt back on, I wrap a jacket around me three fold and snatch my bag up quickly.

'But where are you going, Esme? What can a lawyer possibly do?'

'I- don't know.'

Keep walking. I can apologise later. They were a Christian family. That meant charity and forgiveness. That means forgiveness. I can always ask for forgiveness. Her brisk hand tugs on mine just as I pull the door open. Her eyes aren't like her children's. Old looking, they look like a painting, her mouth is almost too still when she smiles and her wrist is tugging onto me so tightly it feels like handcuffs.

'I'm sorry.' It's not sincere but it's all I can manage right now. Forgiveness is necessary. Forgiveness I can strive for.

'The law isn't always on your side… Sometimes… gut instinct is better' She hushes at me, holding onto me so tightly that it's not like those words are even falling from her tongue. That becomes the last time I speak to Sarah Walderman.

It's funny how the skills you learn manage to impact most decisions. I didn't drive. Jasper was right, I'd only just got my car back, I couldn't afford to have it give me away. The engine is still too loud. I didn't take the knife that Edward so ironically joked about. I didn't take a bag. I took a screwdriver.

It wasn't a skill my father taught me but Daniel, back when my mother used to lock herself in her room on her bad days. She'd learnt to lock the doors on the few times, she'd threatened some unspeakable things. Screwdrivers didn't just fix things or make things, they could unhinge things too.

I took a screwdriver. The maize was another matter. I brought it as far as the window. My eyes upon the gate, watching for security cameras… not a car in sight. There was a good chance if I stuck to my original plan, I could make it in just enough time to avoid being caught. Sarah already mentioned about the sermons. His endless sermons….

The house is just as beautiful from the back and managing to climb over a few broken slats of a gate, I come round to the back of the river, stopping at where Carlisle… The sweet smell of spring stings my nose and shivering, from nerves, I hide a little behind the very tree he stood by. The tree I dreamt he'd push me against… and I spit on it, stamping my foot far into the dirt so it leaves an imprint.

Insurance.

My heart beats so powerfully that it moves my feet ahead like a steady march. I keep pace with my pulse and though I skulk low, it's so quiet around that I know I couldn't possibly be disrupted. Besides… as I climb, he is preaching a few miles east to a local orphanage. Eustace was good at pleasing the media.

It's a painful daylight outside. At barely past midday, of course it's daylight but for a second round of ease, I test the door knob of the back door… it's locked. Good.

The garden lattice that we only put up the other night becomes a great aid. As does the many years of climbing experience. I retie my hair behind me, tighten my belt, drool a little on my hands…again for insurance, and hold my hands to the squares in front of me. The window is near the left so if I can keep going diagonally, I should be able to reach the room where Carlisle got changed.

The climb is quick. My nerves make me fast but that also make my thoughtless. I miss my footing six rows up and tighten my hands so fiercely on vines and wood that I graze my palms. Good, I lie. More insurance. On the ninth row, the maize falls from my grip, between the missing leaves and flowers and falls into an empty flower bed, shrouded by plants. Six more rows to go.

By the top, I'm out of breath. Not because of the climb; that was easy. Not because it feels like poison ivy is stinging my blood stream. Because my heart cannot settle. It's making me dizzy and I sway so easily that I forget I'm holding all my weight up on one tiny ledge. I go to lift my foot onto it and push myself up. I can see my reflection. Haggard doesn't cover it. Pale and flushed, thin, bruised and bulky…

Luckily the window is ever so slightly open. Not enough for my fingernails but enough for the screwdriver and once I get a little bit of leverage, I can push it open a little more.

I hold myself up for just a second, tug off my soiled shoes and pull myself through nimbly. It's a steep drop outside though maybe safer compared to the state of the room. It's trashed from top to bottom. Broken glass from the mirror, the bedding ripped and spewing foam, the headboard broken, the walls smashed.

It's creepy and means I have to watch my footing.

The minutes I take waiting in the doorway are a deliberate indulgence. As much as I want to rush out of here and leave, or better yet set the place alight, the more mistakes I'm going to make. Dizzy is okay, carelessness is not.

Carrying my trainers by the shoelaces, I very carefully look beyond the top floor. Three rooms to choose from… Its twenty minutes past twelve. I have four hours, three before Edward gets worried and I want to leave in two. I can't afford Edward to become impatient though and deciding that, I head straight for the room where I last saw it.

The door is closed, how we left it. The room smells like Carlisle's expensive aftershave. By the side of the bed, fallen from the pillow is the head of a withering white rose, the petals decaying and fraying inward. My hands reach out towards it but with a sharp reminder, I turn instead to the desk.

My phone. It's waiting for me so perfectly, resting where I'd absently thrown it. I turn it on quickly and find, much to my relief, though there are numerous amounts of missed calls, there aren't any recent ones from Edward. There's still twenty percent battery, too.

This might be far easier than I imagined. Task two then and hesitant, I push the phone into the depths of my pocket and cross carefully to the office, my heart beating furiously and my hands so violently shaking, they can barely raise the screwdriver.

Edward

My eyes watch the clock impatiently. It felt utterly disrespectful to be hidden in the car. My stomach unsettled by the possible suggestion of a young man essentially stalking an over indulgent teenager… At least I'd found her. Esme was wrong. She was heading to town but that only made discovering her whereabouts insane. Much to my disapproval, she didn't go to the coffee shop. She made minor errands at a shop where she brought teen magazines and sweets.

The thought was ludicrous. Made entirely funny when she went to get her nails done. It wasn't yet three. I couldn't phone before three. She'd been reluctant to answer why. Just explained she'd had documents to deal with and left it at that.

My fingers play a quickening tune on the steering wheel. A quick run up the scale, a beat, a leap, a land, a pulse and doing it again till my heart copies the rhythm… Tilly has just left the hairdressers. I don't think she's changed any part of her appearance, simply booked an appointment but the task has become boring now. As guessed, I chose against lessons. I spent less than an hour in them before feigning illness and storming to the car.

The clock was mocking me. I needed it to be three.

The café is the next choice on the young girl's mind and though she meets a large stout looking man who looks familiar, I remind myself to cling onto patience.

The rhythm isn't helping. My shoulders are coiled, my elbow pulled into a restraint…

Carlisle phones me but I quickly decline it and push the cell out of sight. My eyes narrowing like a hunter to pray. What if I let the engine run and have her run over? Is that excessive? She did very nearly kill the only answer to happiness I'd ever seen answer in my best friend's features.

If that child had so much as slipped, if she'd drunken a little more, if she'd been more sober even… perhaps we would be attending a funeral right now. Perhaps it wouldn't be glass we'd be pulling out of Esme's skull.

The suggestion hurls acid up my chest, and clawing my hand on the plastic of the wheel, I keep a close eye on the deep blue of my veins. I allow myself seven minutes. My hand finds the cell and ignoring Carlisle's somewhat freakish suggestion of giving into the demands of the many, I debate about phoning Es. Another message pops up.

If you're at home, ask Es to phone me back? She won't answer the landline.

Sickening really. The stupid semicolon P he aligns next to it. The desperation to fake normality though her obvious silence was haunting him. It's twenty past two now and because I can't hold it anymore, because I know Tilly is a preoccupied child I drive straight to the coffee shop.

It's bright out. Warm and sunny enough for sunglasses but not so busy as to look like summer. That ratty old car isn't in sight. She chose not to drive. Perhaps because she asked me meet me? It's quiet. No one is speaking. I can't see through the glass doors and that doesn't stop me. My coiled limbs stay poised because I can't bear to loosen the hold I have on them.

She should've been here by two. Twenty minutes is more than enough time to threaten someone with legal action. It's not enough time for her to be dragged from sight. Not for Esme at least.

On entering the shop, my blood runs cold.

'Edward?' asks one of the baristas, confused. I don't know the person's name, I don't think we've ever been introduced but I stop the instinct to grunt.

'Where's Esme?' I ask quickly, looking around and feeling a new temperature seep into my veins. It's neither hot nor cold but both, singing my skin all over as my eyes frantically move from one person to the next.

'Esme?' They ask, laughing.

'Is she out the back?!' I'm already heading towards it but they pull me back patronisingly and shake their laughter away.

'You can't go out there!' They say cheerily.

'Where is-?!'

'She hasn't been here for over a week. We thought she left!'

'What do you mean?! She's here, she's meant to be here!' One word melts into another, my hand gripping a counter so hard I can feel my fingers blending into the wood. 'Where is she?!' I snarl.

'We- we tried to phone but-'

The realisation is poison in my gut. Phone… phone… She lost her cell.

'Where is King?!'

'Dude, you really need to chill.' But sensing my urgency, they no longer laugh. Pulling their black hair from sight, they just shake their head once more. 'King hasn't been here either. Last I heard he was doing business with-'

My thumb is already hanging on speed dial.

Esme

Hours have poured through my fingers as fine as the cuts of paper. They slice my skin, weigh me down like a religious statue and keep my hands moving.

It's taken longer than I wanted but when my eyes pore upon it, the grief numbs my entire body.

Hidden in plain sight. Just above a shelf of bibles, a large framed photo of a historical England is pushed so close to the wall that it cannot be easily reached. It's not instinct that draws my eyes to it, its desperation.

Each drawer I have searched through, every book and record sheet is packed with personalised notes, signed and dated by Eustace himself and followed by what seems to be a catalogue looking number. Even the shreds of my painting, my name broken upon the wooden floor has a number next to it. A reference.

This framed photo it the only thing that doesn't.

The reason I know that is because the frame is broken, it's protruding, too. The piece has been thrown up too high and left a mark in the wall of the room and after a talented climb, I'm holding it in my hands. The middle bulges outward, packed neatly into the corners like it's ready to burst. Desperation as sweet as honeyed elixir is sealed onto my lips and tugging the frame free, I gasp.

There's a square folded inside, crumbled, torn, worn away and so imperfect, it looks as if it might be an ancient map.

It's something better. The writing is signed and dated by a nurse. A red border square separates the sections and the information is as follows;

Carlisle _ Cullen

14th February 1992

St Thomas's Hospital, London, England.

Mother: Julienne _Cullen

Father: _

Blood type: O-

6lbs 6 at birth. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Child possess few freckles on spine and nose and millimetre sized scar on the inlay of the right side of the abdomen due to complications in birth.

There's a faint sound of a closing door. Faint enough to make me feel so. My hands, already so unsteady are shaking a little more until there's a human sound of movement from the bottom floor. He can't be home. He can't be…

Dropping my breath upon my chest, I judge the weight of the paper. It's delicate, easily damaged and with that knowledge, I hurry to break the insole of my trainers with the metal. I'd seen Alice do similar. She'd been fixing her heels at the time, chatting away as her hands worked ferociously. My own do not share the same skill but ripping the back heel as silently as possible, I fold the sheet several times and tuck it under my heel where it can't be seen. I tie my shoelaces so tight my feet nearly break the fabric open, the string cutting into my skin so they can't come off. The room is spinning. But it's quiet. Edward keeps trying to phone me but the sound is off. There's no vibration because the battery is low, made worse when he refuses to quit calling.

My eyes fall upon the room. I check in the drawers to see if I might be able to find a passport, some important bank statement, anything to create a bigger diversion but my treasure is in my shoe.

I can't possibly conceive of my success because it's impossible to have such a thing.

Another sound. Human like but undetectable in nature falls upon my ears. I'd been closing the drawer. The sound could be me hurrying but the faint beat of my chest tells me I'm being naïve.

My phone is now blowing up. It's a nuisance in my pocket and because the fear is already rising, I'm tempted the stab the tool through it. I manage to instead send Edward a text.

Wait for me in Mason Avenue , I'll be there soon.

The betrayal may prevent his loyalty. For a second, I can picture him so furiously disgusted that he decides he won't come after all. His features imitating his father's as he pushes himself into rage. The temper breaking through when he smashes something he does not wish to smash.

Guilt moves me faster than fear does and with one last look at the room, I snatch up a fragment of my name and lay my moist palm upon the wooden door of his study.

It's locked.

Edward

'Edward, calm down.'

'Stop telling me to calm down!' I yell bitterly, screaming through the speaker in hopes that he jumps into action. My hand is tugging my longer hair. I've phoned everyone, no one has any idea where she last was except nowhere near Mason Avenue. No one has seen her, everyone is calling. Guilt is replacing the blood on my hands.

'I'm at work.' He hisses in reminder. 'You need to take a breath and try again. Now what's the issue?'

'Dammit Carlisle, stop fucking undermining me!'

'If you're going to continue to scream-'

It's not an exaggeration. I'm screaming. I know I'm screaming. I'm screaming at him and for him. The families in the parking lot are staring my way.

'Listen to me!' I shout

'I am listening!' He repeats, but the tone is harsh and I know that my own fear and ferocity has frightened him a little. 'Now tell me what's going on?'

'I-'

I can't. The words won't come. The only thing I can manage to picture is the attack of my hands on the piano, forcing weight upon the notes, drowning out the buzzing in my head.

'I don't have long, Edward! Just tell me!'

He's panicking.

I'm panicking.

Still the words are failing. How masochistic it is for me both to want him to punish me for the pain I'm about to inflict upon his soul… and how those trustful, peaceful eyes will inflict me with the utter slaughter of disappointment.

'Speak will you?!'

How can he possibly be patient when he already fears what I'm about to tell him.

I break six traffic violations driving to the hospital.

The receptionist is kind to me today, recognising me instantly and soothes my temper like I'm a sick nursery child. She doesn't return my rudeness and runs to my insistence when I demand to know where Carlisle is.

He's in the neonatal unit. The second stroke of pain hits me.

'Edward?' He gasps, when he passes me at the second reception, red in temples with fury. 'Thank you, Sandra. I'll take it from here.'

He smiles, too tensely for my liking, bows his head a little in high manners of respect (though he is the senior in both qualification and experience), and lightly rests his hand by my arm to pull me aside.

'You were going to call me back.' He reminds me, frown of confusion looking far too stern than I remember seeing it before. I've tried calling her every three minutes since realising. I have spoken to everyone. Alice is driving around town. Emmett has checked the nursery. Bella is speaking to the Walderman's and Rose has checked all the classrooms. No one has seen her.

'I can't find her.' I gasp, the words swallowed by the lack of air pushing them.

His pale face turns whiter and he pulls me towards a corridor void of voices. Voices except the cries of infants, faint and traumatic sounding in the background.

'What are you on about?'

'She…. She isn't…'

'Where is she?!' He understands the issue immediately. There have been discussions between them according to his response of dread. The tone of his demand is jarring like a missed note on the violin. 'What do you mean you can't find her? Where is she?' He asks again, deeper, voice thick and jaw locking.

'I'm- I'm so sorry-' I blurt, unthinkingly.

'What did you say?!'

'I-'

The excuses are falling off my tongue, they're mixing up my speech and in a very low moment for the two of us, he curls a fist on the shoulder of my jacket and shoves me into the wall, behind. His features are apologetic but his voice isn't.

'Tell me where she is!' He says quickly but it almost sounds like he's pleading. At the very least he's gone cold all over. If I'd been thinking the worst, he's writing an obituary.

'I don't know-'

'Don't lie to me, Edward! I can see it! Where has she gone?!'

'She was meant to be at the coffee shop-' I answer, hastily and knowing who he holds responsible, I add; 'Carlisle- I'm so sorry.'

Colour itself, even the pale ghostlike appearance falls dramatically from his face. His right hand unclasps my shoulder, dropping me so easily that I nearly slip to my backside. When he steps back, he does so airlessly. His left foot falters and his hand moves immediately to his chest.

'No…'

It's silent, a scene directed by Quentin Tarantino when his whole world doesn't move for a second. Then the penny drops. He seizes me by the collar, pushing me into the wall merely with the space surrounding him rather than harming me himself and for some bizarre reason it hurts more.

'Why?!'

'She thought she could speak to King-' I begin, voice hasty and hands pouring with sweat and grime.

He drops me once more and backs away from me, far away, eyes wide.

'Carlisle- I'm… I'm so sorry.'

'Don't!' He growls and before I can stop him, he's bolted out of sight.

Esme

The two options I face are ridiculous in all manners.

I can either phone for help, stupid on all fronts, dangerous, pathetic and inconceivably selfish. Or I can make a break for it. I have a screwdriver after all. It's just a shame about the maize.

Trying the door again but with more force, I kick it with my full foot, push it with my tensed shoulder and receive the thump of a returning movement. He's playing games. Yet strangely, that makes me far braver than I thought it would. Confrontation makes me brave and with this in mind, I directly address the bastard.

'You can't keep me locked in here forever. There's a phone in here, you know?'

It's 2016, like I have anyone's number listed in my head other than 9-1-1.

The door bangs again.

'What about if I lost my temper?' I threaten, loudly. 'Plenty of books in here, Sir. It would be a shame if damage occurred.'

It rattles again, a warning, a response. How pathetic.

'For all you know, I could've already broken someth-.' That gives me an idea. Or less of an idea. I'm running on a mixture of adrenaline, bravery and stupidity and with that in mind, I grasp a large volume of the shelf. It's older looking, antique and smooth excusing the decaying title pages seeping out the wooden border. With as much force as I can inflict, I hurtle it loudly at the door.

The book smacks loudly against the wall and slides down dramatically, falling to the floor like a clap. Eustace keeps silent, but he rattles the door again.

'Tell me, sir? Do you often keep harlots such as I locked in a room?'

I hurtle another book and feel a sense of achievement wash through me when it collapses awkwardly in on itself. The thought of damaging books should make me feel guilty. All this money going to waste… And then I throw another book at the door.

He doesn't respond. That would be giving in. He's making me wait. He's driving me to desperation but it's not going to happen. I couldn't be more prepared.

'There must be something in one of these volumes, Sir!' I taunt, calling out like I'm threatening Satan himself. 'Those who fuck a harlot must by association, become one?'

Another stupid book added to the pile.

If I was that desperate, I could probably make a fire. But I can't afford the risk it would do to me. It's as good as suicide.

The next volume I chuck is the first of sixteen bibles. It's smooth, older looking that anything that's been in my hands so far and is a weight to lift. The third one hits the door so violently that for a moment, it looks as if it might give way.

'If you're looking for a good time, I hate to tell you, I'm perfectly legal. Not exactly your preferred prey, so I hear?'

And to follow this jab, I heave the fourth book over my head and throw it, with both hands upon the cover so that it bounds against the door as hard as stone. It makes a similar sound to the floor. Unmistakable in its destruction, it lies like an injured animal on the floor. Paper is seeping out like poured blood, piled against the cracked oak of the door, the hard covers bruised and flimsy from impact.

I nudge the front with my foot. Not just paper.

A sharp corner is poking out from beneath a page, some sermon or whatever. Pulling the book up and emptying it of any further contents, my heart starts to pound. There's a square of card on the floor.

Just a square.

A polaroid.

My feet sway unsteadily and I take a second to clench and unclench my hand before crouching beside it like a child to an insect.

To look was a violation of every trust I'd ever been bestowed with. To look was to change every perception I ever had of him. To look forced an empathy I wasn't ready to align with and to look was to achieve confirmation.

To not look was to live a lie.

The card is so flat against the wooden floor that it doesn't come up easy. It takes for me to pry my nails underneath and pull it over.

I look at it for no longer than two seconds. For a fact. The first second is enough to capture the scene as a whole, as if looking at a pattern of pixelated flesh and the second is to affirm one detail. No older than twelve. Hiding the photo in my back pocket, I lift my foot and push it so forcefully against the door that I feel the weight of a person be knocked from it.

'Hey, you sick-fuck!' I scream, feeling the vibration in the wood because now, the salt water is clawing up my throat and along my tear ducts. 'Is this what it's all about? A swapping fest? Endorsing child prostitution like the cancer you are?'

The door unlocks and the figure moves so fast that even though I'm prepared for the attack, I move as easily as paper when he shoves me into the wall. Grabbing my chin in his hand, he keeps me staring at him, arms forcing me into some hanging painting until the frame is piercing my skin.

'Perhaps it would do you well to hold your tongue,' He warns, leaning so close to my face that the wicked eyes and nose nearly push into my features. I bite my tongue so hard that the salty brine of blood swims along my taste buds.

'You don't frighten me.' I spit, pushing against his frail looking arm though that only tightens his force. It's not as frail as it looks

'Then you are naïve. A child.'

'Your usual victim.' I remark, bitterly but my own realisation makes me feel worse. I wish I hadn't so hastily leaked tears because he can see them on my face. He can smell it and eyes it like a marking of respect.

He's so old looking. Friendly from a side profile but the smirk is so dark, so unlike Carlisle that they become opposite people. Even more opposite then their details make them seem. He's unshaven and the stubble catches on my skin when he lowers his threats to my ear.

'Do you often throw tantrums?' He asks, narrowing eyes upon my body like he's sizing me up for market. 'Throw your toys out the pram?' The sound of his sinister tone is so foreign that I cannot detect its source.

'Run with sharp objects?' He continues and clasping his hand around my wrist, he slams it back into the wall until a cry of pain leaves my lips. The screwdriver falls dramatically from my grip and hearing it clatter upon the floor; he smirks once more and shakes his dark head.

'Isn't pride one of the deadly sins?' I remark, pushing onto my tiptoes to try and give me leverage. He's pushing into me so heavily; I can feel the suffocation eating me. I don't want to gasp for air and give him the satisfaction but I'd rather do that than faint. He surprises me in dropping me and watching me stumble upon wavy feet.

'You stupid whore. Pride and pity are indeterminable to such creatures. One will lead to your eternal torture and the other…won't.' He finishes his sentence with a smart shrug, shoulders coming up casually as he backs against his desk, professing the scent of disgust and dust.

'You can't threaten me with your God-bollocks after fucking children, you twisted pervert!' I spit, using my face to arrange the disgust as violently as my tongue does.

With a simple flick of the wrist, he smashes a paper weight to the wall, inches from my right shoulder so that the shards of glass bite into my cheek. I closed my eyes in enough time and when I force a breath through my chest, turning around to face him again, the burn of his hand across my mouth knocks my face into the wall.

I groan lightly.

'You should wash your mouth out before being a fool enough to answer me back-'

'Don't like that huh?' I respond, briefly touching my jaw to check to see if the inflammation is as bad as it feels. 'Don't like witnessing your sins-?'

'Do not blaspheme me; I have only ever followed the will of our Lord. It was His will to purge the Earth and I will restore His honour by following in His light.' As he speaks, the energy eats his posture, pulling up his frame so that his suit stands out like a costume in a fancy dress party.

The moment I laugh, he snarls.

'You're not just a paedophile-'

'Watch your mouth!' He roars.

'And not just proud, either!' I laugh, louder and shake my head. The rage is emanating from him like an aura of heat.

'To insinuate I am sinful-'

'You're blasphemous.'

He stands up now launching himself towards me and despite every instinct in my bones, I stay still. He stops before my feet, towering over like another being, a harrowed creature, his nose too stout and his lip trembling.

'Do you dare offend-?' He begins but I proudly interrupt him.

'You think you're a god.'

'This is no other but He-' He shouts, the words falling short of a punch in the face, like I'm surrounded by protective glass.

'You're right. And yet you offend him most by using His honour to excuse your vices and live in His light to absorb it-' I speak so hastily, that I care little about the sense I'm making or if I'm making sense at all.

Clearly I've struck a chord and just as the note sounds, his own fist strikes upon me again. It feels weirdly bad to do so but I kick out my leg and return the injury, doubling him over so that a grunt falls short.

'Such a brat as you will be punished in the highest accord.'

'What you going to do? Stone me to death?' I laugh again, though it's painful, and stay close to the wall by the door. He's left it open. My escape is imminent. His own stupidity is as clear as day and while I make no sudden movements, I make sure my route will be as simple as possible.

He cannot conceive of his failure just yet. His arrogance is as consuming as wild flames of pain upon my cheek. I can feel the swelling gather already.

'I've already told you of your punishment.' Something on the floor gathers his attention and as he reaches to grab it, I similarly reach and gather a bible in my hands. When he faces me, the laughter is eating into his worn face and for a moment he looks so beyond the capabilities of pain that I doubt myself completely.

'You don't frighten me.' I repeat but my voice shakes this time and his smile sends shivers up my spine.

'You will suffer eternal torture and will do so imminently.' His voice drops to a sinister whisper and while I have a direct route behind me, I throw the book his way and force my way through the door, running so dramatically that I nearly catch my death on the steps into the hallway.

The chandelier light blinds me for a moment. My pulse quickening at the feel of fresh air pours onto my sore face. I fall onto the front door with both my hands spread and rattle it desperately. It's locked.

Of course, it's locked.

I run through the very rooms I decorated, reaching through to the backdoor and that, too is locked. My own sense of paranoia is screaming inside my head. Sirens and screams and laughter pouring into my ears like a bad dream- I'll have to head into the front room and break a window. So I run back, looking up the flight of stairs but Eustace is hiding away from view. He's not chasing me as I so rashly fear. He's probably phoning the police. He has enough evidence to get me arrested.

Shit, my blood. My grazed hands are sore but my nails are causing them to bleed. I've touched so much… my DNA is everywhere… I didn't prepare for this. I didn't prepare for success…

The front room is open but not as dark as it looked a few nights ago. Without Carlisle to restrain inside it, without the scream of Edward's words, it's simply an attractive looking room. The window is obviously locked and though I cry out, I know I can break it with a chair or something.

'Leaving so soon, My little Brown eyes.'

Everything stops. The only sound that occurs is the rush of blood in my ears as I watch the figure step towards me. My whole body is statuesque and yet the shakes take me so violently that it's a struggle to force movement.

I'm just still.

'Thought you'd escape so easily now didn't you?' He sniggers, his bulbous face breaking into another grin. 'You were so proud of yourself, Esme.'

'Don't come near me.' I warn, stepping away from him and falling backwards over a chair. I try to scramble up, to reach my feet but nothing moves, my hands won't grasp the floor. My legs won't stand. My feet are dead. To make things worse, I've just collided my head with something sharp and instantly, it's knocked my vision enough that I can't make sense of the images.

'You were never so clumsy at work.' He teases, narrowing an eye and breathing thickly out his nose. It's so like a snore that I can feel the sickness from the photo try to reach up again.

I actively swallow a lump of vomit from my tongue.

'You just love to tease…' He murmurs, aligning one foot by my hip and the other on my thigh. If he so much as leans his weight, it'll break. It's already impossible to move.

The aches and alarms of agony already seeping into my hair are running along my thigh. Carlisle was right. I've lost weight. For the first time since noticing, I couldn't feel more sickened with myself. There's just a swollen fragility and when I try and move, the frailty cracks. It's no more than a fracture and yet still I scream.

'Now… why don't we finish what we started?'

Then he kicks my head back into the table so that everything in the next twenty minutes and beyond fades to black.

When I wake up, I'm lying in a pile of my own vomit, my hair tugged over my face and my hands embedded into the floor beneath me.

No, not floor. Grass. I'm outside with the spring air attacking my limbs.

I go to open my eyes, push myself up. My arms can't bear the weight and trying again, I'm knocked when a scream falls about my ears.

'She's responding. Oh my word, she's responding.'

I can't place the voice. I have some weird desperation for it to be Alice. Alice's comforting tones, her squawk of disapproval that I shy away from… The hand surrounding me is too heavy to be Alice's.

'I don't think she can stand…' The voice is saying. It's young, trivial and panicked. I think her hand is on my back but everything hurts so violently that I just can't tell which is genuine pain is which is just pressure. It all feels the same.

'Someone's on their way.' She tries to reassure.

Maybe even my mom. She'd be disgusted with me. She'd hate me for depending on her but beneath it all; she'd at least be there to recognise the state of pain. She'd open up her robotic arms and hug me coldly, pretending that she knew.

'I don't think she speaks English.'

I can't see much, but I don't know if that's because of my closed eyes, constantly leaking like I'm crying in my sleep, or if it's because it's evening. I don't even know where I am. It's just cold but the stranger is kind enough to try and soothe my shudders with some gentle placating.

At this current moment in time, I can't find the voice to tell her she's hurting me. Or maybe she's not hurting me. Instead, I'm just hurting. I'm just hurting.

'There, there…' She hushes, stroking my back like she's unsure if I'm a feline or a child.

I decide not to open my eyes again until they're forced open by blue lights.

After being poked and prodded and having people yell loudly into my ears, a dark and concerned face peers into mine. His reflective jacket is making my eyes water but when I scrunch my eyes up, he tugs my eyelid again.

'Do you know where you are?' He asks, louder, clearly, breaking each word into an individual sentence.

Technically no. On grass? Unfortunately not on grass, though.

'Can you tell me you name?' He repeats louder, attempting to coax it out of me but in a manner that is so professionally forced, it feels artificial.

My head is still on my arm, out of the vomit now. I can hear them try and calculate not only the number of injuries on my person but how they have been obtained. He makes a signal with his hand, maybe he's trying to see if I'm deaf, and the relief breaks through him when my eyes follow the hand movements.

'She's responsive.' He yells over my shoulder. 'Can you speak for me? Tell me your name?'

'I need water.' I croak.

No one obviously hears that but when I try and pull myself up, a group of them stop me, warning me that I need to take it slow.

'Do you know where you are?'

For the sake of ease, I nod and from there, they trust me enough to help me sit up. I try to stand up. They tell me off. I try to do it again and though I manage it, even with them guarding my movements, the sudden weight makes me retch and I double over to attempt to empty out my stomach. Nothing else comes up.

They put me in an ambulance. They don't listen to anything I say, even when I'm sobbing. They just keep telling me I'm okay as they drape blankets around my shoulders.

'Let me call someone?' The dark-skinned guy offers, he's sat close to me but at an angle which is suggesting he's afraid I'll run. I shake my head. 'Please, your parents? Anyone?'

'I don't live with my parents.'

He seems amazed I speak English and keeps looking to where my hands are clasped together on my knees. I haven't stopped shivering.

'Who do you live with?'

But he doesn't get another word of out me.

It's obvious. Even shielding my face, even after begging, they take me to the very obvious hospital and speak in hushed tones to the receptionist. They're making sure I don't escape. They have me on lock down. I feel guilty for crying again but it's the only method I have. It doesn't work and the moment a nurse looks at me, I know I won't have to stay here much longer. The whispers say enough.

The unit I am taken to is a specialist one. It makes you feel like you're at Day-care with laboratories pouring out your ears. They don't let me leave, not easily at least and they don't let me wash either. They swab everything, they take my clothes from me, my shoes, my jeans but I have such a meltdown, that they concede to returning them momentarily.

The photo I folded in the pocket and the paper in the shoe they question, but not aloud and I'm granted permission to keep them without having to pry them open. I don't get to keep the clothes after that.

It's not just the clothes they swab but me, too. Like they're taking cuttings of my body and peering inside the crevices with a microscope. I cry so much that I forget why I'm crying.

It's just comforting to purge now.

In the fight between us they win. I am the stubborn child and they, the relentless adult. They get to take their swabs, they can judge the alcohol on my breath and they can pick at my skin and fingernails.

The words I don't give so easily.

They sit me in a room with two women, a man and a Dictaphone. They ask me, in soft tones, what happened and I can barely find the energy to shrug.

'Were you at a party? You've been drinking.'

I shake my head.

'Do you remember what happened?'

I shake my head again.

The younger police officer, sweet, gentle looking but with excessive oily skin lays her hand on the table.

'Miss Platt, we understand the difficulty of your position but if we don't find out who did this… you could be the first of many victims along the line…'

I regret giving her my name now.

They ask if it was a boyfriend, an ex-partner, a flirtation. They don't like not having the answer. They're frustrated, they're offering me coffee, biscuits, a full meal, they're promising they'll only revisit it the once…

Still I keep quiet. Any information they tell me I just nod my head to, like I'm not involved until eventually, they concede a little.

They need me to do a report. I won't give them more than two words.

'Would it help if you had someone with you?'

I'm shaking the tears away.

I arrive home at a little after ten. My eyes are sore and bloodshot and I'm struggling to walk as if I haven't shat myself.

I'm in so much agony maybe I have shat myself. Who's to tell anymore? After the alcohol on my breath, whose to believe anything I say.

'Will there be anyone home?' The offer asks, opening the car door for me like an invalid. I nod.

I'm trying to use up the last of my silence here so I can pretend to be brave once I get up to the porch-. It's too late. The light comes on and in a panic; I throw my hand over my mouth to stop me vomiting again.

'Here, let me walk you to the door-'

'Esme?'

'Es?!' Edward realises and he pushes past Carlisle's horror to grasp a hold of me. He thinks I'm going to fall.

'Careful, Sir-'

'I've got her.' He snaps to the stranger, barking almost with his nose snarled. 'She's fine, I've got her!'

I try and push past but the movements are so weak that Edward doesn't recognise I'm trying to break free from him. Carlisle does though and looking from the corner of his eye, he rests a hand on Edward's arm.

'Let go, Edward.' It's such a quiet sound, so neat and even but so delicate. I wonder if he might jump to keep me standing but no one moves and I don't catch him looking at me again.

Frowning, my copper haired companion unloosens his arms from my shoulders, staying too closely aligned for my liking but he can't recognise that. He's just a kid.

'What's going on Officer?'

'Perhaps we should head inside…' He starts to say, looking at me for confirmation. I want to burn him alive. 'Miss Platt?'

'I'm fine.' I repeat, my voice monotone, fighting the look of all three men. I've frightened myself with the tone.

'What's going on?' Edward asks, looking between us like he might faint but Carlisle is astutely calm.

'Miss Platt… in cases such as this it is often best-'

'I'm fine.' I repeat louder in hopes this will achieve finality. The sound is a claw upon a window.

'Miss Platt-' he repeats, desperately but I'm already doing my best not to hobble inside the house.

'Es-' Edward adds, 'Wait, we need to-.'

Carlisle must stop him but I don't talk to him. I don't talk to either of them.

Closing my door and shutting the blinds, for the next three days, unaware of the new bedding that has been acquired, I fall into an unconscious sleep.