Forwarded To My Future

by Foenix2phorks

Complete. Bella is resigned to living a boring and unfulfilling life until she's old enough to graduate. But that was before fate stepped in. Looking up from her lunch tray, she sees four perfectly sculpted, pale faces - plus a bronze-haired, green eyed boy known for his gentility. He's not like the other boys in Forks. Can he help make her life a little more interesting? AU.

20. Something About The Way You Look Tonight

A/N- WARNING. The first portion of this chapter will deal with an attempted rape situation. Although it will be HEA and not excessively graphic, please keep this in mind if you choose to continue reading. And, as a friendly reminder, this chapter will be rated "Mature" for a wee bit of adult language.

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Chapter 20- Something About The Way You Look Tonight

March 5, 2005

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I try to ignore my initial gut instinct of the figure walking down the sidewalk. I remind myself that I shouldn't be afraid. I'm in the middle of downtown Port Angeles. Even though no one is out on the streets other than this stranger and me, it's unlikely that anything bad will happen. This city is almost as safe as Forks. Muggings and murders are rare. The man coming this way probably has business to take care of and is only heading to his next destination.

Although there is probably nothing to worry about, I decide that it is best to be safe than sorry. I walk forward with my sight set on Edward's car. It's twenty or so feet away, a scant few steps really. I'll just climb back in the passenger side, lock the door, and watch the stranger stroll right on by. Then I'll see for myself that I am simply overreacting.

Stocky is what comes to mind as the man moves out of the shadows. He walks with a self-assured strut, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. He is dressed similarly to any day laborer that you may see around the region - a baggy black nylon jacket over a dark blue flannel shirt and distressed jeans. The work boots on his feet are caked in mud along their bottoms. His dark hair is stringy and unkempt, like he hasn't showered in a few days.

I've always tried to abide by the saying "never judge a book by its cover" when it comes to meeting someone new. But, as the man draws nearer, I feel that there is something off about him that I can't overlook. While he isn't the most hygienic person I have ever seen, it's not his unflattering clothes or scruffy appearance that worries me. It's the expression on his face which gives me the creeps.

He stares in a way that feels invasive, the unwanted attention impelling me to look away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his thin lips slyly curling up. By instinct, my walking pace quickens. Unfortunately, he does the same. In seconds, he is in front of me and blocks the path I was taking. The strange man only stands three or four inches taller than my 5'4 frame, yet his body is much broader. I feel greatly disadvantaged.

With my heartbeat racing, my eyes dart to the side - searching for sanctuary. I'm only a few feet away from the Volvo. All I need to do is get around this guy and then I will be fine.

My anxiousness becomes more pronounced when his oily head cocks to the side and he peers down at me. "Hey. What's a girl like you doin' all alone on a night like this-ss?" he slurs in a drawling accent.

My throat dries of moisture, suddenly feeling as arid as the Sahara. The scent of hard liquor mixed with his putrid breath smoothers my face, nearly gagging me. I swallow a couple of times and manage to distribute enough saliva in my mouth to talk. "Excuse me," I rasp in a hoarse whisper while I try to maneuver around him.

The man moves at the same time, thwarting me from going even one step forward. "Whoa, whoa, whoa there. Where you goin'? Aren't ya gonna tell me your name?"

I don't respond and ignore the question. I try again to bypass him, but the man has become a living wall between me and the car.

"Don't be like that, baby," he implores in some perverted form of flirtation. He pauses while his leering eyes rake up and down my shivering body. "Ya know, you look like you need some loosenin' up. Lucky for us, I know just what to do with girls like you."

My lungs seize for a moment. This is much worse than a mugging. He wants more than just my wallet. The pepper spray Charlie bought for me still rests on my desk at home. I have nothing to defend myself with.

"No. Please," I gasp, on the verge of hyperventilating. I walk a step backwards to put space between us, but he follows after me. Taking another gulp of air, I stiffen my shoulders and hold up my chin in a show of faux confidence. "I-I just-... My friend will be here any minute. I need...you to move."

His lips curl further with malicious delight. "Aww, I'm sure your friend won't mind if I borrow you for a while." The man bends down until his eyes are on my level. "If you promise me that you won't be a bad girl and don't put up a fight, I'll try to show you a good time." Then he winks as though he's doing me a favor.

A rush of adrenaline pours into my veins and my muscles tense. No one is around to see what is happening. No one is here to help. All of the stores on this end of the street are shut down for the night. The ice cream shop and Edward are way up the road, and I'm not fast or strong enough to get around this guy. So I really have only one choice.

Run.

In a blind panic, I whirl around and take off in the opposite direction. My heart hammers in time with the pursuing footsteps I hear trailing behind me. Every time my feet make contact with the sidewalk, I pray that they will be coordinated enough to keep me from tumbling to the ground. I know that if they fail me, I'll be done for. He'll be right on top of me. And I can't let that happen.

Along with my panting breaths, I can hear laughter filling the otherwise silent night. His laughter. This warped stranger is enjoying this. He likes seeing me run in fear. I can imagine the pleased, chilling sneer he wears as he chases me. But I don't dare look behind me to see if my prediction is true. That would be a grave mistake.

We run past store after store but none have their lights on. I make it far enough to discover that the street ends at a three-way intersection, offering only two options for escape. I don't have time to decide which way I should go. My choice has to be instantaneous. It's a gamble - like blackjack. I won't know if I made the wrong decision until it is too late to change my mind.

I choose left.

Leaping off the sidewalk, I flee across the intersection without pausing to check for oncoming traffic. However, there are no vehicles around to help or hit me. The only things on the road in this section of town are a psychotic predator and his intended prey.

I'm running on the white lines of this new road when my limbs begin to hurt. I'm not used to running like this. My legs won't last much longer. But, not too far up ahead, a beacon shines in the night and brings me hope.

A shop sign.

A lit shop sign.

That means that there is a business open. There will be people in there. If my legs can just carry me a little further, I will be seen. Someone will witness what's going on and they will call the police. Maybe I'll even be able to make it inside of whatever store it is and this guy will get spooked. And then he will finally leave me alone.

The throbbing in my legs grow painful, but there's not much more distance to cover before I'll be at that store. A hundred feet? I don't know. It doesn't matter. What I do know is that I can make it now. As long as I don't trip over anything, I will be fine.

I'm passing where a small side road connects to the main street when a hairy arm hooks around my waist. My mouth opens wide to scream but nothing comes out except a dry gasp. Inhaling the chilled night air in heavy, panting breaths combined with my terror has rendered me nearly mute. No one will hear my silent scream.

At the same time, a calloused hand slaps across my lips and partially covers my eyes. My teeth nip into the skin of his palm, but the bite is negligible. He easily clamps my jaw shut and barks a mocking laugh at my feeble attempt to hurt him. I feel myself being dragged away, my feet scrapping the hard ground. No amount of struggling or thrashing convinces the arm to release me. In fact, it constricts tighter into my middle and makes it more difficult to breathe.

Unexpectedly, the man sees fit to loosen his grip. My weakened legs fall out from under me and I stumble to the ground. Another cackle of amusement from him immediately follows. I quickly rise up on my feet and look around. This place he has dragged me to is filled with shadows. The only light which seeps in is a distant orange-hued streetlight. To both my left and right are the featureless sides of brick buildings. To my rear is a high wooden fence with no footholds to climb. I come to realize that he has brought me to an alley. An alley that has only one exit. And the psycho currently stands between me and freedom.

I am hopelessly trapped.

He knows it too. The way he smirks while his slitted eyes gaze with the friendliness of a viper tells me so.

After a pregnant pause, he inches forward as I move in reverse. When my back smacks into the fence, I do a half turn and frantically try to reach for the top. Even when I stretch out my arms and rise on the tips of my toes, my fingers are still too far away to grab anything.

Foreign hands fasten themselves around my shoulders and force me back around. "You're spunky," the guy chuckles darkly. "I like that. Right when I saw you, I knew you'd be fun." Then, with one hand pressing me against the hard fence, he begins to graze my cheek with the coarse pad of his finger.

The repulsive touch makes my skin crawl and I tremble in disgust. When the finger keeps moving down my neck - heading for the zipper of my jacket - another burst of energy inspires me to do everything I can to get him off. I use my legs to push him away while I claw at the hand latched onto my shoulder. My short fingernails dig into his skin, but he does not detach. He does the opposite. His grip becomes stronger and he throws me into the fence.

"Listen, sweetheart," he warns between gritted teeth. "The more you try to fight this, the worse it's gonna be for you. You get me? All you gotta do is play nice for a while and you'll be fine." When I attempt to look away from him, he grabs my chin and jerks it back. Another smile that chills my blood spreads across his face. In a whisper, he adds, "You might even grow to like it."

I suck in a breath and try not to flinch at what he just said. I don't want to give this guy the satisfaction of knowing how afraid I am. But I'm sure it's plain to see.

Once he assumes that I am relinquishing control over to him, he moves back a few inches. While still holding me tightly with one hand, he tries to remove his baggy jacket. He manages to shrug it off one shoulder but his sleeve becomes stuck on his wrist. He has no choice but to use both hands to extract himself.

The second he releases me, my brain goes into overdrive. A torrent of ideas flood my brain all at once. Going around him is useless if I don't have a plan in place. He is too close and he will just grab me again. Running away right now is out of the question as well. I would need a decent headstart if I have want a shot at outrunning him.

My only hope is to catch him off guard. If I can hurt or distract him for a few seconds, maybe I can buy enough time to get away. I can use the self-defense technique Charlie once taught me. A swift strike up and into the nose. That would give me a few spare moments to move around him and get out of here. Maybe he'll even go down long enough for me to make it to that store I saw earlier.

Both of his arms are behind his back as he pulls out of a sleeve. I move in quickly. Thrusting the heel of my palm upwards into his face, I hear a tiny crunch and an irate howl. My heart lurches in my chest.

This is it. My one and only opportunity for escape.

As fast as I can, I slip around him and take approximately two steps before I am stopped. Something has snatched the fabric of my jacket and it yanks me backwards, slamming me into the fence. Next, both of my arms are bound above my head as I struggle to move. Eyes made of black ice appear inches away from my own. A horrifyingly familiar scent soon overwhelms my senses. My head spins. My stomach turns. Through my suddenly hazy eyesight, I spot a trickle of red blood dripping out of one of the man's flaring nostrils.

Yes, I hurt him. But not nearly enough. All I have done is angered him further. And on top of all that, my squeamishness to blood is happening at the worst possible time.

"You're going to pay for that, bitch!" he yells in my face. Moments later, I am put into a one-handed chokehold. My mouth gapes open - desperately gulping for air - but nothing gets past the grubby fingers that are sinking into my upper throat. My body instinctively squirms and writhes. His grip grows tighter. His eyes colder. This is no man. A human being would not do this to another of its kind. This is a monster. And I am at its mercy.

I am going to die.

As this realization dawns, all I can see is the monster's enraged face. His teeth are bared like a rabid animal's. A throbbing vein bulges from his temple. And even as he tries to choke the life out of me, the corners of his mouth can't help but slightly curve upwards.

I don't want him to be the last thing I see before I go. My eyes clamp themselves shut. I try to block everything out. My aching lungs. My frenzied heartbeat. My terror. Everything except for my thoughts are pushed from my mind.

This will hurt my parents. Badly. But Mom has Phil. He'll take care of her. She will be all right. I'm more worried about Charlie. All the family he has left is me. What will he do? Hopefully, his friends will be there for him. Maybe he'll even make up with Billy Black.

When the thought of Edward penetrates my thoughts, it breaks me further. The two of us have barely scratched the surface of what we might have been together. I'm in love with him. And he will never know. All we had were a few weeks of friendship and around three glorious days of something more. Will that be enough for him to remember me? The thought of being forgotten hurts more than anything.

While I am focusing on these questions, I overhear the psycho grumbling irritably and cursing. I don't pay attention to what he says. It is unimportant. I block his words out and go back to imagining kind green eyes and tousled hair.

A startled cry blasts into my ears at the same moment the monster's strangling fingers disappear from my neck. In disbelief at the sudden reprieve, my hand flies to my lower jaw and rubs at my sore throat. My mouth greedily sucks in oxygen. Feeling dizzy, I lean forward at the waist and try to collect myself. Why is the monster taking a break? Is this how he plays his game? Give the victim hope before taking it all away again?

A hand other than my own appears on the side of my face. My entire body jerks in response, believing that it is the man back to deliver more torture. But I soon notice that this hand is not the same. This one is gentle, handling me as though I am a piece of delicate China that may break if treated carelessly.

"Are you hurt?" a voice asks.

I could almost cry. I know that voice. Smokey. Smooth. And full of so much worry that it hurts my heart.

Now that I know that it is safe, I pry open my clamped eyelids and find Edward. He's staring back, eyes wide and anxious. The dark shadows in the alley can't hide the fear on his face.

I move my head back and forth. "I'm fine," I reply in a panting whisper. Because I am. Everything will be fine now. Edward is here with me. The monster is gone.

His eyes temporarily close and the strained look around them relaxes. A masculine thumb brushes against the same patch of skin that the man had fondled not long ago. But Edward's touch is so very different. Soothing, intimate, and healing. It erases the unpleasant memories the monster's touch left.

A loud moan nearby transforms Edward's gaze into steel. His head snaps left. I follow in the direction he is glaring and see my attacker slumped against the side of the brick wall. He leans forward, rubbing the back of his scalp. My heart sinks a little. He is still here. I had wrongly assumed that the guy had run away once Edward appeared.

Edward keeps tabs on the guy while digging around in his pocket. His cellphone comes out and he moves to hand it to me.

"Can you call the police?" he asks with his eyes narrowed on the figure across the alley.

I stand upright and rapidly blink my eyes as I take stock of myself. My dizziness is mostly gone. My throat only hurts slightly. The scent of blood is no longer being wafted in my face. I think I can make a phone call. "Yes," I answer, grabbing the phone from his outstretched palm.

Edward straightens into his full height and moves to put his body between myself and the man. Meanwhile, the guy lifts shakily from his slumped position on the ground, stretching and dusting himself off as he rises.

"Stay where you are," Edward orders, his previously gentle inflection now a growl.

I flip open the phone and begin dialing 9-1-1 as the guy wobbles in place. He looks back at Edward with an amused grin. A dark, sinister laugh cackles from his throat. "Don't think that I will," he counters airily.

As soon as the man says this, Edward's forehead lowers into a scowl. His hands harden into fists and his jaw clenches. Somehow, I know what is on his mind. He wants to fight. Even in the half dark I can see it in his blazing eyes. But the last thing I want is for him to risk his life fighting this guy. Yes, Edward stands much taller, but the stranger is built like a stone wall. I don't want Edward to get hurt. The two of us can just walk out of this alley, let me finish calling the police, and they'll find the man eventually.

Just as I am about to beg him to back off and leave the guy alone, a bunch of things happen all at once. Edward shoves his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and moves closer to the guy, entering an area where more light from the far away street lamp shines. Next, his shoulders roll and then hunch into a defensive position as he stares down the guy who stands ten feet away.

"Bella. Get as far back as you can," he directs without looking away from his soon-to-be opponent.

My eyes open so widely that they feel like they will pop out. The darkened shadows and muted lighting are giving Edward a new and unexpected look. The color of his pure white shirt now looks old and antiqued. The blue shade of his jeans, the flesh tone of his skin, and the unusual bronze of his hair are all in shades of warm cream and dark brown. Even the vibrant green of his irises are too dark to make out right now. It looks so strange that I am almost positive that if I were to snap a picture of him right now, his photo would blend in seamlessly with the old sepia photographs from 1914 we saw at the museum today.

But his nearly colorless appearance has a simple explanation. This shadowy alley is messing with my mind. It's just a trick of the light giving the optical illusion that he has been plucked from a decades-old photograph.

What I cannot explain is his fighting stance. It's odd and rigid. One of his arms is crossed near his chest. The other he holds stiffly out. Both hands are fisted tightly. That is not how people stand when they fight. At least not anyone from this century. Weeks back, I watched a TV documentary with Charlie that showed pictures of a man who utilized a similar stance. His name was John L. Sullivan. He was a professional boxer.

And he's been dead almost ninety years.

Edward's head abruptly swings around and makes eye contact. The scowl vanishes and he studies me for a few moments. As I stand here paralyzed, his face softens.

"Please. Get back. I'll be OK," he insists, his eyes pleading with me to do as he asks.

At the same time, the cellphone I hold to my ear begins to connect to the call I made to the emergency dispatch. I blink and shake the weird train of thoughts from my head. I come to understand that he wants me to move so I will not get hurt during the impending brawl. I very much want to argue that he is being stupid. The risks to his safety are not worth it. But I can't. My words and thoughts are too jumbled to put up an effective argument. So, I slowly begin to move, walking backwards with my eyes fixed on him.

When I am around twenty feet away, Edward goes back to keeping his concentration centered on the psycho. The man is no longer wobbling and swaying. He is staring at Edward with an evil smirk and flexing his hands.

Edward lowers his head into a hate-filled glare. "If you take one step, I'll have to stop you."

The guy huffs a laugh and takes a huge step forward, stopping approximately three feet away from Edward. "What? Like this?" he taunts.

"Exactly," growls Edward right as his fist socks into the middle of the man's face.

I can hear the crack of cartilage. Next comes piercing screams of agony. The guy falls to the ground, clutching his bloodied face. "Shit! You broke my nose, you fuckin' asshole!"

"If you don't shut your mouth, I'll do it again," warns Edward.

"Clallam county 9-1-1," answers a voice at my ear.

I jump in place and clear my throat. I had been so focused on the goings on in front of me that I had forgotten that I was making a phone call. I give a basic explanation of what has happened and also give the emergency operator an approximate location of where we are.

Meanwhile, the man on the ground gnashes his teeth and his eyes turn murderous. He leaps up and attacks like a charging rhino. Edward waits until the guy is nearly on top of him before he side steps out of the way. The bloody-faced guy's momentum causes him to fly right on by his target. He almost collides into the opposite wall of the alley before he stops himself.

The guy readies himself for another attack, his hairy knuckles balling into a fist. My breath catches. He's going to punch Edward.

"Please tell the police to hurry," I urge the emergency operator.

For his part, Edward appears unafraid of what is coming. Still in his peculiar defensive stance, he watches the man launch across the open space. Right as the man's meaty hand rises to hit him, Edward ducks down and uses his long arms to his advantage. His fists pummel the man's gut like two battering rams, over and over again. The man slumps over, holding his injured waist. He groans and levels a glower at the bronze-haired boy who delivered the painful blows.

"Bastard," he yells, the insult bouncing off the alley walls.

Edward's lips press together. Taking a step forward, he grabs the guy by the front of the shirt and his fist gives one final blow. With eyes rolling into the back of his head, the guy drops to the ground and doesn't try to get back up. Edward kneels down and places his fingers on the veins of the man's wrist. From my vantage point, I see the guy's chest rising and falling. He is still alive. But once he wakes back up, he'll probably wish he wasn't judging by his painful looking injuries.

"And I think we're going to need an ambulance," I mumble into the cellphone, eyes stretched wide in awe.

I'm explaining to the 9-1-1 operator that my attacker now lies unconscious on the concrete when Edward appears by my side. Looking him up and down, I can find no signs of trauma. Only his knuckles appear redder than normal. Seconds later, I hear the unmistakable sound of a police siren. The cruiser soon pulls up nearby and a police officer rushes up to us. I inform the emergency operator that help has arrived and end the phone call.

"He's over there," Edward says to the officer, pointing into the darkened alleyway. We watch the officer checking the unmoving man on the ground for a moment. Soon I hand back Edward's phone, but he shakes his head and moves to give it back. "You need to call your father," he explains.

I take a step back and stare up at him in shock. Is he crazy? Did he get knocked on the head after all? I can't call Charlie and tell him what happened! He'll have an aneurism. Then he'll make this a huge deal and believe that I can't handle being alone ever again. He'll lock me in the house and only let me out for school and doctor appointments.

"Absolutely not! He'll go ballistic," I hiss.

"We are still considered minors, Bella. The police will insist that your guardian be notified."

We enter into a miniature staring contest. I'm glaring up at him while he's looking back solemnly, unmoved by my argument. And, even worse, I come to see that he is right. We're both seventeen. The cops will call our parents whether we like it or not.

Stupid adulthood laws.

My eyes roll and I reluctantly snatch the phone back. "Why can't you ever be wrong?" I scowl in retaliation. Since he knows that this is a rhetorical question, he does not give a reply.

I dial in the first few digits of our phone number until my contact information pops up. The phone begins to ring. My annoyance gradually is replaced with nervousness.

"Hello," answers Charlie.

"Dad?" I softly mutter, my bottom lip firmly wedged underneath my canine.

"That you, Bells?" he asks confusedly.

I make my voice louder and squirm in place. "Yeah. Umm... I kinda need you to come to Port Angeles for me."

"Hmm? Why? Did Edward's car break down? Do I need to bring jumper cables?"

"No, his car is fine," I reply uneasily.

"Then what is it then?" he asks. Charlie pauses and his tone becomes sharp as a knife. "Did that boy leave you stranded? He better not have ditched you."

My forehead furrows at his false assumption. "No, Dad, he did not ditch me," I snap irritably.

As quickly as my annoyance came, it disappears just as fast. I need to just get this over with. At any minute, that police officer is going to come up to me and start asking questions. And if Charlie overhears any part of it, he will flip. I need to be the one to tell him the basics and pointedly remind him that I am neither dead nor injured.

Inhaling a large gulp of air, I say rapidly in one breath, "I need you to come cause some guy tried to attack me, but I'm perfectly fine right now and he's going to be arrested so there's no reason for you to-"

"I'm coming right now! And, for god's sakes, don't go off on your own! Stay with the officer in charge!" he bellows before slamming the phone down.

"Panic," I breathe out, completing what I had been trying to tell Charlie before he did exactly as I had feared.

Folding the cellphone shut, I hand it back to Edward. He deftly plucks it from my palm as I pout up at him. "It happened just like I thought it would. He is going to crash the car trying to get here as fast as he can."

Edward looks back sympathetically but does not otherwise respond. All does is drop his phone back into his pants pocket. My eyes squint accusingly. He insisted that I call Charlie and reminded me that the police will want our guardians present tonight. Yet here he is not doing anything to notify his family.

"Don't you need to call your parents, too?" I point out.

Two more police cars drive up with lights flashing. Edward nonchalantly slides his hands into his pockets as he watches them exit their vehicles. "I was on the phone with Alice when I saw you were missing. She was worried when she found out you were gone, so I'm sure that she let Carlisle know."

My brows pucker at his explanation. It makes sense in some ways while it does not in others. How could Edward just assume that Alice knew that my sudden disappearance was serious enough to inform Carlisle? What if there had been an innocent explanation? I could have gotten out of the car to stretch my legs or something similarly tame. Just because he found me gone from the Volvo does not necessarily mean that something terrible happened. Of course, something terrible had happened. But that's what makes this so strange.

And - now that I'm thinking about it - another curious anomaly burns in my brain. I ran down and around a city block. Then, that guy dragged me off into a dark alley way off the beaten path.

So, how was Edward able to find me in time?

As these thoughts are puzzling me, a female police officer strides up and asks for us to move away from the mouth of the alley. Once we are standing by a police cruiser, she starts asking for my side of what happened tonight. I start from the moment I was browsing the new age store's window display all the way until I am being strangled. Occasionally, I peek at Edward and see the muscles in his neck strain whenever I describe what the man had put me through.

When I end my story with Edward's appearance, she looks at me expectantly. "You told the 9-1-1 operator that the man you say attacked you was now attacking someone else." She nods towards Edward and adds, "Was that you? What happened?"

A touch of worry makes me speak up before Edward can. There is a part of me that is afraid that they will think he overreacted and beat the guy up needlessly.

"Yeah," I jump in. "That was Edward. He pulled that man right off me. Then the guy tried to go after him a few times. But Edward fought back. All it took was a couple of punches and the man was knocked out... I think he had been drinking." I skip over the part where Edward looked like a pro boxer from 1885. I don't need to be sent off to the psych ward. Charlie has enough headaches to deal with tonight.

"Is that true?" the officer asks Edward.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies.

The officer jots something down. "You say your car is parked on Sinclair Street. That's a pretty good walk away from here. How did you find her so quickly?"

Edward's eyes dart to me and back to the police officer's face. "Blind luck. I had a bad feeling when I did not see her anywhere around, so I took off running. If I hadn't heard him screaming, I likely would have went right on by."

We hear a loud screech and all three of us turn towards the sound. My attacker is awake again. Another police officer has flipped him over and is slapping cuffs on his wrists. The entire time he groans and attempts to wiggle free. A second officer sits on the man's legs to keep them from flailing around. Once he is properly restrained, they pull him up and escort him to another police cruiser. As he passes nearby, I study the changes in him. His nose points to the side more than is natural. His right eye is sealed shut and swollen. Blood leaks from his nose and busted lip.

I turn away from that gruesome sight and study someone much more worthy of my time. Edward monitors the procession as they lead the guy away, his face calm except for his narrowed green eyes. He has always been so reserved and polite. Who knew that a fighter lay hidden underneath his hunky exterior? Mike should count his blessings, I guess. If Edward wasn't so kind and had no self-control, he might have punched Mike out a long time ago.

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Edward and I are sitting in a room at the Port Angeles Police Department. After being driven here in a police cruiser, we've been stuck in this waiting area for what feels like forever. In truth, it's only been like ten minutes. But I think being inside this place is messing with the passing of time. It's ticking by painfully slow.

A man who introduced himself as Detective Anderson stands in the corner, watching us until our parents arrive. I keep wishing he would leave the room and stop looking this way. But that is unlikely now. Everyone here knows who I am. Or, to be more precise, they know who my father is. The Chief Of Police of Forks actually means something here. As soon as I informed them of my parentage, I went from being normal victim to a near celebrity. Now the detective over there won't stop prowling around the room - as if he thinks it's his duty to protect me until his colleague from Forks shows up. Edward tried asking him a few questions but he won't give up any answers, saying that everything will be discussed once our families arrive.

It's bad enough that I almost died thirty minutes ago. Why must I be stuck at a police station on a Saturday night too? I've already explained what happened. I hate this formality. Can't they understand that I just want to go home and stop thinking about it?

A large hand takes my own and a familiar thumb caresses my fingers. Edward has been watching too, but I don't mind as much. So far he has only comforted me. He is the one thing that makes being here not as bad.

I very badly want to ask him a few questions. Scratch that - a lot of questions. If there wasn't anyone in this room except us, I would probably ask at least a couple. Of course, since privacy isn't possible, I just smile weakly at him and continue to hold on to his hand.

Breezing into the waiting area, Carlisle and Esme are immediately stopped at the door by Detective Anderson. He gets in their way and demands to know their identities.

Carlisle looks at Edward and me before addressing the detective's question. Wrapping an arm around Esme's waist, he says, "We're Edward's parents."

The detective looks askance at them for several beats and takes a quick peek at Edward. His brow arches skeptically.

"We adopted him," Esme proudly adds, smiling sweetly up at the disbelieving police officer.

The detective's eyes become round and he stares dazedly at her for an inappropriately long time. Carlisle makes a show of clearing his throat which helps bring the detective back to Earth. "Oh, yes," Detective Anderson quickly says, looking away from the beauty which temporarily blinded him. "Now I understand."

Esme puts a damper on her smile and reveals a worried face. "We were here in town when our daughter called and told us that our Edward was in trouble. We came as soon as we could." She pauses and stares longingly across the room. "May I see him now?"

The detective rapidly bobs his dusty blonde head and does a sweeping motion with his arm, granting her entrance. At the same time, Edward rises from his seat and I follow. A second later, Esme zips across the room and simultaneously grabs Edward and me into a bone-crushing hug. Her body is hard as granite. I didn't realize she works out. She's a lot stronger than she looks.

"I'm so thankful that you are both all right. When Alice told us that you two were in trouble, I was so frantic," she frets, her voice muffled by Edward's shirt. He awkwardly pats her back as if consoling her, yet the expression on his face looks almost embarrassed.

Once she has had her fill of squeezing us, she backs up a few inches and thoroughly studies our faces. Her golden eyes squint suspiciously. "You are 'all right', aren't you?" she presses.

I nod and wrap my arms around my chest. "We're perfectly fine. Not even a scratch."

Still standing near the doorway, Carlisle asks, "What about the attacker? Where is he?"

Edward flashes a vaguely annoyed look at Detective Anderson before answering the question. "I don't know. They haven't told us anything new since we came here."

"We are waiting for the suspect to be released from the emergency room before we book him," Anderson announces.

"That answers my question," Carlisle sighs. He turns slowly and catches Edward's eye. "I guess you're to blame for that?"

The air of confidence that Edward normally exudes evaporates. He lowers his gaze to the carpet. "You guess correctly, I'm afraid."

Carlisle's pale lips purse while his fair head tilts ruminatively. "I thought so."

"Doctor Cullen?" interrupts Anderson.

"Yes. And you are?"

"Detective Anderson. I'd like for the three of you to come with me, please. I need to question your son a little more before he leaves." Then, Anderson moves to the door as though to usher them out. Esme glides to Carlisle's side, and they wait patiently for Edward to join them.

But he makes no move to leave the room. In fact, he moves closer to me than the door.

"I can't leave her alone here, sir," declares Edward.

"She won't be alone. I'll send out Officer Lopez to wait with her until her father shows up."

Edward frowns at the detective and goes to sit right back down in his chair. Crossing his arms, he says, "I just spent the darkest moments of my life not knowing where she was or if she was OK, sir. So, if you don't mind, I think I will wait until Chief Swan arrives before I go anywhere. After that, I'll do whatever you want."

They lock eyes and say nothing for a short time. I begin worrying that Edward will get into trouble for not following orders, but that doesn't happen. Something must have been silently communicated between the two of them - because the next thing I know - Anderson nods his head and agrees to Edward's wishes.

I sit back down next to him and he takes my hand into a gentle grasp once again. My eyes close gratefully and I try to relax. Being alone with some stranger - even if it is a police officer - would not have been good for me. Although I hate feeling weak and clingy, I know that having people that I know and trust close by is better for me right now.

Esme and Carlisle sit across from us and occasionally question Edward instead of asking me anything, which I appreciate. But mostly they distract, which I appreciate even more. They chitchat over inconsequential things, their voices blending together like a symphony. Sometimes Esme offers to track down food and water, but mostly she just smiles encouragingly.

Edward and I have been trapped inside of this godforsaken waiting room for around forty-five minutes when I hear stomping footsteps echoing down the hall. Seconds later, a man with wide, panicked brown eyes stands at the door. I almost don't recognize him. Charlie Swan never looked like this before. Even that time he stumbled upon a snake while cutting grass in the backyard, he was not afraid.

He bursts into the room and heads straight to me. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he pulls me up into a standing position and wraps his arm around me tightly. My mouth gapes in shock. Hugging is something else Charlie Swan never does. He lets you know he cares by feeding you and making sure you have the gas money to make it back home every evening. Touching of any kind is rare. And touching while in view of witnesses is practically unheard of. I think the last time he did this was when I scraped my knee on the driveway at five years old. That hug was the only thing that stopped my uncontrollable crying.

He releases me eventually and looks up and down. "Did you get hurt at all?"

"I told you on the phone. I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me."

Charlie examines me a little more before he takes me at my word. His eyes shut and he exhales a gust of air. The hysterical energy slowly dwindles until he almost looks like his normal self.

As I am taking comfort in the fact that he is calming down, another change in him occurs. His eyes snap back open and land on Edward, standing a couple of feet away.

"You were supposed to look out for her," snarls Charlie.

The room goes deathly still. It is suddenly quiet enough for me to hear as well as see Edward's wince and intake of breath.

If there is one thing I cannot take, it is Edward being mistreated.

Charlie comes in here with guns blazing without even knowing all of the facts. If he had waited five minutes and allowed us to explain, Charlie would see that Edward should be thanked for what he did - not chastised.

My hands ball into fists and I stand taller, glaring at my idiotic father. "Don't you dare try to blame him. If you want to blame someone - blame me. I was the one that got out of the car when Edward went inside that store. I was the one that couldn't get away from that guy. It's all me," I emphasize heatedly.

Charlie gapes back at me, a little paler than before. I don't let up though. I inhale and exhale a couple of times to even out my pounding heartbeat before I press on. "Edward was the one that found me. I would probably be dead right now if it wasn't for him. He doesn't deserve for you to treat him that way."

Recoiling at the truth, the word dead is enough to make him regret his ridiculous attack against Edward. Suddenly, he appears much older - exhausted in both body and spirit. He massages his weary eyes and sighs. "You're right, Bells," he admits somberly.

By degrees, Charlie's hand drops and he searches for and finds the messy-haired boy he just hurt. "I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you," he begins. "I spent the entire drive thinking the worst. I should have asked before I assumed anything. I'm sorry, Edward."

Although I kind of want Edward to milk this apology for what it's worth since Charlie rarely grants these things, I know that he isn't that kind of a person. A tiny bit of the strain leaves his face and he nods his head. "I understand. I would feel the same way," he replies, his voice low and rumbling.

The detective steps in and reminds us that we have to be interviewed. Edward quietly squeezes my hand before he leaves me with Charlie. I am led to another detective - a woman - since they insist it will "make it easier" for me to open up about what happened. I hate to tell them this, but that is not going to help. She is a stranger just as much as Detective Anderson. I will feel uncomfortable regardless of who I speak to.

Did I know my attacker?

Why was I out walking alone?

Who made contact first and why?

Did I feel that I was in danger at any point?

Was I threatened physically or verbally in any way?

Was I touched, fondled, or assaulted sexually?

She keeps finding new, creative ways to ask questions that I have already answered on multiple occasions. How many more times must I explain that he strangled me within an inch of my life? Why should it even matter that I didn't scream during the chase nor the attack? Does that diminish his crime?

Eventually, Charlie butts in to say that I have been interviewed long enough. He starts questioning her, pestering her for information about my attacker and his current whereabouts. Having the spotlight moved off of me and on to the detective makes me happy to have a father in law enforcement. This is probably the first time I have ever connected happiness with his career.

She informs him of the man's name which I promptly block out. I don't want to know anything about him personally. As long as he is locked up somewhere, I don't need his life story.

We leave her desk once he feels satisfied that he has received all of the relevant information, and we walk out into the main entrance area. I'm surprised when I see Edward standing there all alone, his back propped against a wall. I thought he would have gone home after his interview.

The two of us join him, and surprisingly, Charlie speaks first. "His name is Alonzo Calderas Wallace if what his ID shows is true. They're running a background check on him as we speak - though that should take awhile to complete. They have him locked up at the county jail for now."

Edward runs his hand through his chaotic mane of hair and sighs. "Thank you for telling me. Detective Anderson was rather hush-hush with me whenever I tried to ask a question about the man."

While Charlie fills him in on the news, I scan the lobby for signs of Carlisle and Esme. I see none. The only other person here besides us is a police officer stationed at a desk. "Where's your parents?" I ask.

"They went home," he replies simply.

Charlie watches the two of us, his attention flicking back and forth. Once Edward finishes speaking, Charlie's mouth purses and he rocks on his heels. "I think I'll stay here until more info on this Wallace guy shows up."

My eyebrows knit together, bewildered by this newfound desire of his. Before we came out here, he made no mention of staying any longer. I thought we were leaving and heading back to Forks.

Edward looks between us for a moment. "I can take Bella home, sir. I don't think she would be very comfortable here."

Charlie gazes down at me, his head and brow cocked expectantly. "What do you say, Bells?"

I examine his face and see a message behind his chocolate brown eyes. Thanks to the interview he sat through, he knows the whole story of tonight. Now he knows exactly what Edward did.

I think Edward has just earned Charlie Swan's trust.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, I glance away from Charlie and look across the room. "Yeah. That sounds good," I agree softly.

"OK. Head straight home then. No side trips. I'll be calling the house at 10:30."

My face swings back alarmed. "But I left my truck at Newton's. I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Newton would appreciate having it parked there all night long."

His mustache twitches reluctantly a few times. "Fine. Get it, then go straight home."

Edward jumps in and says, "I'll make sure she makes it back home. I'll follow behind her."

Charlie doesn't speak. He nods at Edward and gives me one last glance. Then he swivels around and walks back into the offices to go harass his Port Angeles counterparts for information.

Edward and I head back outside into the cool night air. I follow behind him like a lost lamb, not really paying attention to where we are going. When we walk up to a shiny silver car, I stop short and stare. His car shouldn't be here at the police station. We hitched a ride in a police cruiser.

"I thought you left your car across town?" I say.

He takes his time in unlocking the car. Once he gets it open, he meets my eye. "Esme picked it up for me on her way here."

Biting down on my lip, I slide into the car and he gently closes my door. I watch him pass around the front and struggle to absorb his explanation.

How could Esme have found his car before being told where it was? I guess Edward could have told Alice where we were when I came up missing, and then Alice notified Esme. But, that leads to something much more strange. Carlisle and Esme showed up at the police station ten to fifteen minutes after we arrived. How did they do so much in so little time? They had to get Alice's phone call, leave wherever they were, hop in their car, track down Edward's car, and drive it all the way here. Does she drive even faster than Edward?

He fires up the engine and we merge onto the streets of Port Angeles. The music on his sound system has been turned down to a soft murmur. The roads are blanketed in a light mist, making it more difficult to see. Edward drives carefully, his eyes flicking here and there as we pass through the late evening traffic. He doesn't appear to relax until we reach the lonesome highway which leads back to Forks.

We enter into a quiet spell and my thoughts take control. Ever since he stepped out into the eerie lighting of that alley, my brain has been replaying that image on a loop. Everything about it was weird. His colors were faded. His fighting position was stiff and old-fashioned. Yet, strangest of all, I don't believe he has ever looked more beautiful.

My nails lightly trace the rough denim of my jeans. I stare straight ahead but nothing I see is getting through. All I can think about is the stack of curious details and unanswered questions that are piling up. Every time I think I know everything about Edward and his everyday life, I discover something else that rocks me to my core. He boxes like a long dead champion fighter. The Quileutes are strangely protective of him. His adopted family are seen as a threat to some while being praised by others.

Yet, even though I am left puzzled by all of these things, I am at least aware of them. What I don't know is what his life was like before he set foot in Washington. Was it just as crazy? I have no idea.

As the minutes pass, it dawns on me that I have been granted a perfect opportunity to question him. It's hard to overcome the worry though. I am aware that he is hesitant to discuss his biological family. His life in Chicago is something that he only brings up during certain times. The things he reveals are usually mundane. A mention of his mother's love of the arts here. A casual hint of his father's voracious appetite there. That's the extent of what I know. He never speaks fondly of friends left behind. He never discusses what his school life was like. He has never even hinted at his past dating experiences. I'm sure there is at least one girl in Chicago who misses his company.

I care about him. Daresay, I believe that I have fallen in love with this boy. He's a smart, quick witted, sincere person that makes me smile more than I ever have. But, do I truly know him? I have always suspected that he hides himself from the public at large. Yes, he has been more open with me. Sometimes he even gives me pieces of his thoughts, dreams, and personality that helps fill in the blanks. Yet, I know there is much more he chooses not to share. It's something about his eyes that lets me know.

I decide to start things slow. I'll see how he reacts to a simple question concerning what happened tonight that I still don't quite understand.

Turning away from the road, I quietly observe him. He's passing around another slow moving car, his bronzed eyebrows slightly lowered in concentration. I wait until we are safely ahead before I speak.

"How did you find me?"

Edward's head whips around with a hint of a puzzled expression which quickly fades away. Going back to keeping an eye on the road, he shrugs a shoulder. "I have no idea. I ran until I heard screaming."

"You told that police officer that it was 'blind luck'."

"It was luck. Something took over me and led me to you. I don't know how I did it. I'm just thankful that I did. I'm not going to question it."

My face falls to my lap and I berate myself. He said that so passionately that I feel a tad bit of shame for questioning his story. I am being irrationally paranoid. What did I expect for him to say? That he has a built-in tracker hidden somewhere in my clothes and that's how he found me?

But my curious nature has found enough fuel to keep it burning for hours. My next question forms inside of my head and demands to be said aloud.

"Edward? Where did you learn to fight?" I ask in a whisper.

"My father."

It takes time for me to compute his reply. Then I am mystified. Edward's biological father was a lawyer. Why would he need to know how to fight like that?

"Why?" I press with knitted forehead.

Edward remains silent for a short time before he speaks. During his explanation, he alternates between watching me and paying attention to the road ahead.

"He thought that I should know how to defend myself. When I was around twelve, there were a couple of boys from my school that enjoyed torturing the underclassmen - and I was one of those victims quite a few times. When my father found out, he took me into the backyard and began my first lesson. Every weekend for two years, he taught me everything that he knew," he drifts off introspectively. He wiggles in the driver's seat for a moment and readjusts his hand's' position on the steering wheel. "I learned a lot. By the time I turned fifteen, he was no longer teaching me - we just spared for the fun of it."

My head jars at this revelation. What kind of a dad punches their kid in the face for sport?

"The fun of it?" I repeat incredulously.

A hint of a smile twitches his lips. "Well, yes. It was one of the only ways he could forget about the troubles from his job and just relax. He was an excellent lawyer. He always fought tooth and nail on his cases - no matter if he thought the case was important or frivolous. Though, once he slipped on his gloves in our yard, he became his old self again."

"What do you mean?"

"He was something of a boxer when he was younger. That's how he paid his tuition for college," answers Edward with a growing grin.

My heart stutters in my chest. No wonder Edward so easily beat the snot out of that guy tonight. "He was a boxer?"

"Umm hmm. He was originally a farm boy from Iowa. His parents had a farm where they grew corn and raised animals." Pausing his story, he peeks at me and chuckles, "You know. Typical farm life. But he hated it. So, once he graduated high school, he travelled to Chicago to get a job and intended to save up enough cash to attend Northwestern University. The job he eventually got wasn't quite as lucrative as he had hoped. He barely had enough for his rent and food, let alone enough to save to go towards his dream. It was a rough existence for him at that time."

His previously curving mouth becomes a thin line. "So... One night, he said that he decided to have a night on the town and stop worrying about continuing his education. He was basically giving up. While he wandered the streets, he noticed a flyer hanging on the side of a building that advertised a boxing match being held that night just a few blocks away. Having nothing better to do, he decided to go watch the fight. He said that the fight was disappointing to everyone who watched it - it was over in a matter of less than a minute. But, then he saw that both of the fighters had walked away with a large wad of money. He was instantly interested. He had a little experience at boxing his friends and neighbors back home. That's when he tracked down the owner of the establishment that ran the fight that night.

"He boxed off and on for two years after that. He never became famous or anything, but he was able to earn enough money for tuition and his living expenses at Northwestern. He liked to say that the time he spent in the ring prepared him for his future life in the courtroom. After I was old enough to watch him in court, I had to agree with him," he ends with twisted mouth.

My face gazes out of my passenger side window. It's too dark and the fog too thick to make out anything but vague outlines of trees and sporadic houses. But my mind is busy forming a picture - a picture of a man who once greatly influenced Edward's life and still does so beyond the grave. It was his father's dream for them both to be attorneys one day. Edward has admitted that he did not wish for that fate, yet he never said so to his parents. Partly because of that, I had assumed that his father was a harsh, strict disciplinarian. I envisioned him too caught up in his career to pay attention to his son.

But I must have been wrong on that front. He cared enough for Edward's well-being to teach him how to defend himself. I still don't quite get the "fun" aspect of boxing your kid in the backyard. But, hey, who am I to judge?

Slowly, it occurs to me that if Edward's father fought for two years, he probably would have been known in the boxing circuit. I am sure he would have been mentioned in newspapers and sporting magazines. I bet I could find something about his career. Maybe I'll even find a photo and see if he used that same, unusual fighting stance as his son.

I try to calculate when his boxing career would have taken place. Edward would have been born around 1987. So, if his dad was a boxer before Edward was born, this likely means that he boxed sometime during the late '70s to mid '80s.

My mouth frowns at how long ago that would have been. That makes it less likely that I'll find anything about his boxing career on the internet. But since he worked at a attorney's firm before he passed away, maybe they would have a little "about me" page devoted to him on their website. I'm sure adding that this particular lawyer fought inside of court as well as the boxing ring would have been a great draw for business.

It has been a while since I have spoken. When I turn away from my window, I see that Edward has been keeping an eye on me during my quiet reverie. His lips are pressed tightly together, as though worried or anxious over something.

"What was his name?" I ask, trying to make it sound like my question is completely innocent and that I don't plan on cyber stalking him or his family as soon as I can.

"Same as mine. Edward Anthony," he answers. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, matching the melodic rhythm coming from the car's speakers. Suddenly, the tapping halts and his head snaps to his right. "What's your full name? You've never told me."

Trying not to cringe at the question, I go back to pretending that I am interested in the landscape outside of my window. I despise my first name. And when you tack my middle name on to it, the sound makes me want to hurl. What were my parents thinking when it was time to give me a name? They must have said something like:

Let's give our mousy-haired, plain baby a name that sounds like she is a descendant of a former monarch of Catalonia. She will forever feel unworthy and spend the first ten years of her life begging for us to change it to something less regal.

"My middle name is Marie," I reply apprehensively, making no mention of my much hated given name.

"Isabella Marie," he says in a soft rasp.

I whirl back around. "Please don't say that out loud. I hate it."

His forehead wrinkles and he looks over at me. "What? Isabella?"

My nose scrunches and I fidget uncomfortably. "Yes. It sounds too formal for a girl like me."

His head rocks back and forth and he locks eyes with me. "Oh, but I have to disagree with you there. Your name is beautiful. And I think it suits you well."

I shake my head back at him and release a disgruntled sigh at how a seemingly brilliant boy can be so wrong.

"Will you tell me more?" I urge, steering the conversation away from me and back on to something much more mentally stimulating - him.

"Anything you want."

My interest is piqued. He has never said anything like this before. "Will you tell me about your family?"

"OK. What would you like to know?"

I suck on my bottom lip and try to think straight. I have a little information on his father. But I have very little on his other family members. "What was your mother's name?"

His Adam's apple quivers in his throat. After a short pause, he breathes out, "Elizabeth."

"And what was she like?"

"Kind. Loving. Funny. She was a wonderful person to be around. She always tried to find the bright side to things, even when they looked grim."

"Where was she from?"

"She was from Chicago. Her father was a founder of the firm my father eventually joined. That's how my parents met."

"What did they look like?"

"My father and I looked similar. We were the same height. Same facial structure. But he was darker than I am. His skin was naturally tan and his hair was almost black in color." Edward breaks into a grin and points at his head. "And he's the reason why my hair is the way it is," he laughs.

His laughter fades. Both his voice and smile soften wistfully. "I inherited my mother's hair color and eyes. She was quite a bit taller than most women. She had a certain, unexplainable grace when she walked. Even strangers on the street would sometimes stop to watch her. She had a mysterious quality that seemed to fascinate everyone she met."

I smile at his description. He must not realize that he inherited that part of himself from her too. I try to picture his parents now that I have a general idea of their appearance. They must have been very good-looking if their son is anything like them.

However, someone is missing from this picture. Edward has mentioned a couple of times that his family employed a housekeeper who died at some point in time. I have less information about her than even his parents. I can't even remember her name.

"You had a housekeeper, too, didn't you?"

His bronze head nods while his eyes droop. "Martha," he answers after a prolonged sigh. "She was more like my grandmother that just happened to be employed by us. She was with my parents before I was even born. Whenever I was being a terror back when I was a boy, I had to withstand a scolding from both my mother and Martha. To this very day, I'm not sure which woman I feared the most when it came time to receive my punishment." He chuckles, rubbing his jaw bashfully. A large smile takes over my face as I imagine what little Edward must have looked like when he was in trouble. I envision a cute pouting mouth, big remorseful eyes, and bronze hair sticking up in all directions. I don't see how they could have punished him if he was as adorable as I picture. They must have had to cover their eyes whenever they sentenced him to time out.

The grin on his face dies as he continues. "She was kind, but feisty. Funny, but stern when it came time to work... I miss her."

My smile falls along with his. "What happened to them, Edward?"

Facing the road, his eyelids clamp shut for a moment, as though saying the words out loud is incredibly painful. "They caught a strain of the flu. It gave them various health complications. It killed them all - one by one."

I suck in a breath. I thought that the deaths took place over a long period of time. He makes it sound like it was sudden and quick. They were there one moment, and all gone the next.

My head shakes in shame at my behavior. He offers to talk about anything I would like, and here I go reopening old wounds for the sake of curiosity.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked," I apologize, chewing my lip.

"I disagree. You need to know. I want you to know," he stresses with shining, determined eyes. "Don't be afraid to ask me whatever you want."

My head nods but I can't shake off the guilt. Is it wrong for me to want to know more even though he has admitted so much tonight? It doesn't seem right to ask about anything else right now - especially considering that Google might answer a few things.

I keep my mouth shut until the lights of Forks come into view. In just a few minutes, I will be home. However, an important fact comes to light. If I am going to Google him and his family, I need to make sure that he hasn't lived anywhere else.

"Did you ever live anywhere besides Chicago?" I blurt, my hands trembling nervously.

He gazes back watchfully. "No. It's only been Chicago and Forks for me."

Worried that he will see right through me, I make my shaking fingers grab the zipper of my jacket and run it up and down its track. To distract him, I switch to another topic that I have often wondered. "Where will you go after you graduate?"

"I've no idea," he shrugs. The car turns into the sporting goods store's parking area. "I suppose it will depend on a few different factors that I don't know the answers to yet."

Edward parks and shuts off the motor. I get out of his car and move closer to my vehicle, but my eye stays on him. "Thanks for dropping me off," I faintly smile once he meets me by my truck's door. "It would have driven me crazy to know that my truck was sitting in an empty lot all night long."

"Dropping off?" he repeats, arching a brow.

"Well, yeah. I have my truck now. I can make it home all right."

Edward's forehead scrunches together and he gives a disapproving look. "You want me to just drive off and leave you here all alone? What if you have an accident?"

"I'll be careful. My house is what? Five minutes away? I think I can make it there in one piece."

"Bella, I promised your father that I would follow you home."

"He'll never know."

"Perhaps. But I'll know, Bella," he fires back, jabbing his thumb into his ribcage.

My arms fold at my chest. "This is ridiculous. You have done enough for me today. You should go home and relax. Besides, Carlisle and Esme are probably wondering what's keeping you so long."

He matches my stance and stares back intently. "I will get no sleep tonight if I am not certain you made it safely home. There is no use in arguing. I am following behind you and walking you to your front door."

I roll my eyes to the night sky, stomp to the driver's side of my truck, and climb inside. "You're starting to sound just like Charlie, you know," I huff before I slam the door.

My insult doesn't bother him. He stuffs his long legs back into his car and trails behind me as I drive down the near dead streets of Forks. Now that I am in my truck's cab, my left leg bounces nervously. This is the first time I have been alone since "the incident". That's how the police referenced it whenever they were around me. It got on my nerves at first. It sounds so generic. But now I prefer it. It doesn't elaborate needlessly on what happened.

Memories from the alley try to invade as I drive. I find my eyes darting to the rearview mirror more and more. Edward's headlights shine twenty feet behind me. Although I wish I could at least make out his silhouette, I am still grateful that he is there. Thank goodness he didn't listen to me. I never thought I would say that.

I'm turning onto my street when I remember that tonight was supposed to be special. Not only did I go on my first date, it was a first date with Edward. It would have been perfect if I hadn't run into that psycho guy. My frequent bad luck just had to put in an appearance. So instead of ending our night with a romantic stroll along the Port Angeles Pier, we held hands in a police waiting room. That alone should make Edward want to rethink if he wants to have a relationship with the likes of me.

My mouth curves downwards and guilt weaves its way into my consciousness. After all he has done for me today, I never so much as said thank you. And rather than be appreciative for escorting me home, I snapped at him for it.

I pull into the grass of the front yard while Edward parks at the street in his usual spot. He joins me and stays at my side as I travel the walkway to the front porch.

Once the door unlocks, I pivot around until I can see his face. "Thanks for following me home," I begin softly.

His rigid shoulders drop as he gazes back. "You needn't thank me for doing something that I want to do."

A warm sensation envelopes my chest and I give a slight smile in return. "There's a lot of things I need to thank you for that I haven't gotten around to do yet. I realized that I never thanked you for tonight."

"Thank me?"

A strand of hair blows in my face and I move it out of the way. "You know. Before it turned crazy...tonight was nice."

His eyes flash while his head shakes violently back and forth. "You shouldn't thank me for the trouble I put us through, Bella. I need to apologize. Because of my lack of foresight, I ruined the night. I want you to know that I would rather have suffered in your place than have put you through the-"

My forefinger lands on his moving lips. He stares back questioningly, his brows drawing together. "Don't," I command in a hushed tone. "Just don't. None of this was your fault."

I can see that he doesn't buy it. He is in self-flagellation mode, beating himself up for something he had no control over.

When he does not attempt to speak over me, my finger falls away from his mouth. "I don't regret anything," I insist. "Sure, I wish I hadn't gotten out of that car like I did, but I can't undo that now. I think I've learned more about you today than I have in all the time we've known each other. So, don't you dare try to tell me you're sorry, Edward Masen. Because I'm not sorry one bit."

I back up a step and he blinks a few times. "Your mind works in mysterious ways," he slowly drawls. "I'm not sure that I can understand your logic, but I'll do as you ask regardless."

"That's better," I lightly tease, presenting a small smile in return. My hand grabs the front door knob and twists it open. Leaning inside, I blindly search for the switch until the living room is bathed in light.

"Make sure all the doors are locked and the windows are shut," he says once I turn back around.

"I will."

"Do you remember my number?"

"Yes. It's up in my room."

"Call if you need me, OK?"

I do a decent job of not rolling my eyes at his excessive worrying. "I know."

Edward's head tilts forward, making his eyes bore into mine. "Promise me."

My face scrunches irritably. "Stop worrying. I'll be in the house. I'll be fine."

"Bella," he groans.

I heave out a long sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. "OK. I promise I'll call if I need help. Happy now?"

"Yes."

I draw in another breath and revert to my previous calm state. I look him square in the eye and attempt to soothe his anxiety. "I'm serious. I'll be fine," I say gently.

He nods and quickly runs his hand through his hair. "I know. I'll call you tomorrow." That same hand enters his front pocket. His gold pocket watch opens and he glances at its face. "Don't forget that your father is about to call you."

"Yeah, I guess I better go," I murmur reluctantly, a slight frown appearing. We share one last moment, our gazes fixated on the other's face. "Goodnight," I whisper.

He moves out of the doorway, the four fingers of his right hand inside of his jeans pocket. "Goodnight."

The door slowly closes until I can no longer see him on the other side. My fingers turn both locks. I briefly lean my back against it and close my eyes. Now I am truly alone.

Shaking that knowledge from my mind, I head to the kitchen in the back of the house and wait. The house phone rings five minutes later. Charlie tells me that he'll be home in a couple more hours. Then he tries to convince me to go next door to Mrs. Bryson's until he gets back. My firm "no" greatly annoys him. I'm safe and sound in a house that is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I understand that he is just looking out for me, but I refuse to be babysat at seventeen years old. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I hang up the phone after we say goodbye. Sitting at the table, I take the time to enjoy the silence of the house. By degrees, my eyes wander to the kitchen door and travel the well-worn path to the stairs. I have two whole hours to myself. And I am too wired for sleep. I can either sit here and relive what happened earlier tonight, or I can crank up my ancient computer and try to piece together Edward's life in Chicago.

Rushing out of my chair, I throw open a cabinet door and snatch down a box of crackers and a jar of creamy peanut butter. If I am going to snoop, I will need to be well-fed.

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A/N- I'm too worn out to come up with a creative way to ask for you to review. So, I'll just say, pretty please?

Next Chapter- Bella channels Nancy Drew and finds something surprising.

Thanks for reading! :-)