Chapter 16: Smoke

Jake told the pack that he was taking me home. No one argued. The whole situation reminded me of a magnet I saw in a gift shop once. 'Friends are the family you choose for yourself.' Feeling ignored created a matching magnet in my mind, 'But first they have to choose you back'. I didn't tell Jake this, but he had already guessed most of what I was feeling. He filled the drive back with conversation; not allowing a single moment of silence for me to occupy in self-pity.

Jake talked about silly little things—exactly what I needed. No werewolves, vampires, or folklore. He talked about how little time he'd spent on the internet since faking his dreaded illness. He didn't miss it. Apparently becoming part-wolf had increased his love of the great outdoors. As someone who had always loved the great indoors, we went back and forth tallying which was better. Naturally, I won. He let me. That resulted in him agreeing to spend some indoor time with me—and in turn I admitted that a little fresh air was only a fair exchange. We discussed plans on movie marathons intermittent with a trip to some giant cliff that Jake wanted to surprise me with. I tried to pry enough to make him spill the big secret, but he said it had to be a surprise. By the time he parked at the end of my driveway, gone were the cobwebs of self-pity, swept away by a million meaningful distractions. Jake promised he would continue to return my texts, even if he had to text with his paws. It was a bad joke, but I laughed anyway.

Jake returned to the La Push reservation. I went to my room, grabbed a book, earbuds, a suitable playlist, and distracted myself for the evening. A few hours later my stomach started to groan at me. I was in the kitchen, a plate of nachos in the microwave, when Dad walked in. He poked his nose into the kitchen, lured by melting cheese, and I made him a plateful as well. He got out the salsa and we sat down to dinner together.

Dad was not a talker, but something about his weary, pale face told me this was not usual behavior. He also avoided meeting my eyes, which was another bad sign. I told him I'd been out with Jake today. Dad perked up a little, but not much, to hear that Jake was getting better. Since my dad and Jacob's dad were old friends it was no surprise that they talked often, but even Dad had to admit that Billy Black's illness story was beginning to sound too vague. Now that Dad had undeniable proof that Jake was recovered—because why would I lie?—his suspicions were gone. Or at least, it wasn't a major concern. Something else was bothering him.

"Dad."

"Mm?" He didn't look up from his plate.

This required full focus. I put down my dripping-with-cheese nacho chip. "Dad. What's going on?"

He looked up from his plate. He chewed methodically. A second ago he was practically inhaling the beef-and-cheese. "It can wait," he said around another mouthful.

I rolled my eyes. "Dad, you're obviously worried. If it's classified police work, I get it. I'm just a concerned citizen. Either tell me what vague details you can or tell me there's someone you can talk to who has the right security clearance."

Dad took a break from gulping down nachos. He nodded to himself, stared at the space between us. My joke was weak, but it was a bad sign that he didn't react to ti.

"Okay." He paused. He looked up. "Forks isn't a big place, Bella."

I smirked. "I noticed."

"We don't get big city problems. Guess how many homicides we have to deal with yearly."

I crossed my arms and leaned onto the table. Forks was regularly home to a coven of vampires and on the border of Wereville. "One?"

"None," he corrected. He tapped a finger roughly on the table. "If you want an average, I'd have a clear conscience saying none. You want exact numbers? We don't have a squeaky-clean history. No town does. Just a fact of humanity. We don't always solve our problems peacefully. I can count the number of homicides this town has had for two decades on one hand. Same with suicides. Like I said, quiet town. Animal attacks are usually the most worrisome thing on my mind. Even that is few and far between. Usually it's campers or tourists, not the locals, disrupting wildlife. Litter and traffic violations are higher on my list of regular felonies."

I pressed my lips together. This wasn't a safety talk or a warning about being wary of the woods. I shuddered.

"Bella, the last year has been my busiest time as chief." He brushed a hand over his face and leaned back in his chair. He shook his head. "I want this town to be a safe place. If safe is quiet and boring, that's good by me. I don't need to see Forks show up on a news banner for festivals or obscure world records to be proud of it. I like it exactly the way it is—friendly, quiet, and peaceful." He exhaled sharply. "None of this…"—he paused, look up at me and mumbled, "crap."

I smiled. Even in Chief Swan mode, he was my dad. Sometimes he still saw me as the little girl who he had gotten to know in bursts—weekends, summer holidays, time between my permanent place with Mom. I got up from my chair, and hugged him. He sat awkwardly, patting my arm with one hand.

"Dad, whatever terrible thing is happening in Forks," I said, "it's not your fault. You're a great chief. If history classes have taught me anything, it's that sometimes even small places get caught up in bad patterns. You'll get out us of it. Maybe not alone, but you'll do it. Okay?" I kissed the top on his cheek. "I believe in you."

"Bella." He rubbed the back of his neck and pressed a kiss on the top of my head. "Thanks."

I sat down. "So. Homicide?"

"Body found." He nodded. He paused.

I waited. A minute passed. He opened his mouth a couple times, near ready to confess. He leaned forward. Stopped. Leaned back.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. He ran a hand over his head. "They found her in the police station."

My jaw dropped. "What—in the police station!?" Suddenly what was left on my plate made me think less about warm cheese and more about a cold carcass. I turned away from the table.

A body. Her. My stomach tightened. Dad could count the number of homicides Forks had on one hand. Yet he'd walked straight into one at one of the safest places in town.

"We're not a big city station, but we have a couple security cameras," Dad continued gruffly. His voice was quieter now that he'd seen my reaction. "Both of them were turned off—which is unfortunately not that unusual. We checked though. One was supposed to be active. The power was cut."

My eyes opened. "When did they have time to…? Wasn't someone at the station?"

"There wasn't," Dad muttered angrily. "Small towns don't need a big force. We're thin on the best days. We try to keep the schedule tight during the summer—tourists tend to find more problems. But we got a few calls. All false alarms. Normal stuff. Tourist thought they saw a wolf. Campers heard a bear—at least there were tracks at their site, but still no danger. One lady called in someone jumping in front of cars on the highway just outside town, forcing them to jerked out of the way. No crashes yet, but I checked it out anyway."

My eyes widened. "You think…some of those calls were to lure you away?" I shook my head. Someone had made the station empty. If everyone was out responding to calls, there was no one to guard the potential crime scene.

"We spent half the day trying to verify her identity."

My mind wandered. The station in the early morning, empty. Did Dad notice anything wrong at first? Had the lock been left open or windows broken? How far was the murderer from the body when Dad walked in? I felt sick. Dad had always been a cop, but he was right about it being a quiet job. He wasn't like detectives on TV facing down serial murderers or elaborate plots. It was usually a safe job.

"She looked familiar, but she wasn't a resident and we couldn't match her as a relative to anyone from town. No ID. Except…"

My head snapped up. Dad exhaled slowly. He had a fist on the table. He tapped the side of his hand nervously. He looked at me quickly and then his eyes dropped to the table.

"There was a note."

My throat dried. "Suicide?"

"Not that kind of note. It's wasn't…on paper."

"Oh?" My mind flashed an image. That station was empty. Newspaper clippings? No. Writing on the wall. There were plenty of walls with space and whoever dumped the body might have had time… If they didn't use ink… I shook my head. "Oh."

Dad winced. He knew he'd said something he shouldn't have. "I'm sorry, Bell."

"What did the note say?" I asked. My voice was weak. "It helped you ID her?"

"Yeah. It was an address." Veins popped in his fisted hand. He was pale. "When your mom died…"

My heart stopped. It must have. My hands started to quiver.

"There were a lot of questions. Why was she there that night? Why was there only one body? What happened to the arsonist?" He shook his head. "I didn't want to worry you, but they never closed the case. The trail was cold; they had to let it go. I was fine with that if it meant you might have a chance at…getting past it."

Bile in my throat. My stomach squeezed. I was sweating. My skin felt tight over my bones. My lungs were tight, too tight. Like I had an invisible boa constrictor winding around me. What did Mom have to do with a mysterious murder in Forks? The Cullens had been very careful—tried to make dots connect. They burned down the ballet studio. James' body was reduced to dust, less than, in that fire. Mom's body was found. Maybe it would've been believable for a flighty mother to run away and abandon her daughter and new husband, but I didn't want her to be remembered that way. The Cullens had made it messy because it was kinder. Not better.

The morning after, I spoke to the police—not small-town cops, but serious, big city police who couldn't count homicides on one hand. Every answer was either vague or a lie. I'd run from Forks because I'd been overwhelmed and missed my mother. Mom and I had been kidnapped. I hadn't seen his face. I'd been blindfolded. I didn't know why the ballet studio was chosen. I only escaped because Mom got loose, freed me, and took on our kidnapper. I didn't get far because I was hurt. I didn't know what happened after that—I hadn't seen her die. Lies and vague truth. The words had tasted like poison then. I could feel it stinging inside me remembering it.

"The address was that damn ballet studio," Dad said.

My eyes closed. I touched my forehead. My skin was warm. My head was topsy-turvy. Flashes of that horrible moment—not saving her, not even being able to protect myself. Feeling like death and pain incarnate had come for me. This was exactly why I shouldn't be a part of it. This was the reason he left.

"Bella." Dad kneeled in front of me and took my hands. "I wish I could keep you out of this, but they're going to want to talk to you again. This is a federal case now. They think this is linked."

I stopped listening. I heard him, but the words didn't stick. The body in the police station was my old dance instructor—the one who owned the ballet studio. The body was found in the police station where my dad worked. The body was placed with a note knowing I would find out. Dad and the FBI were right. This was linked. All the links were chained to me. The body was for me.

I pushed the chair back and dashed for the bathroom. I heaved over the toilet. Mom's body was in my mind. I wanted to picture her eyes, her smile, the odd ways she saw things, her hobbies that were rarely more than a monthly phase. That was gone. She was gone. All that stayed in my mind were images of death. I rinsed my mouth with handfuls of water. Dad rubbed my back and then hugged me. He promised he would take care of me. I heard him, but I didn't believe him.

Dad tossed the remaining nachos, brought me a blanket and sat with me on the couch. He talked; I listened. Nodded when nods were appropriate. Head shakes when the answer was an obvious no. He wanted to know that they might ask difficult questions, but he would be with me. As long as I answered honestly, nothing bad would happen. He also made me promise to never go anywhere alone. He was fine with me hanging around with Jake, but I couldn't go alone to meet him. The coincidence was too much to risk leaving me on my own. I agreed—but in my mind I wanted to say all the same things back to him.

This was Victoria. It had to be. This, her sincere reminder that I was the reason James was dead. Now Laurent was dead. My fault too. In her narrative, this was well deserved revenge. This was the warning shot. She wasn't afraid to shine the spotlight on me. She wasn't afraid to play dangerously. She'd get to me. Sooner or later. Maybe later. Once she was satisfied she had hurt me.

The phone in the kitchen rang. Dad ignored it. He let it keep ringing until the answering machine picked it up. No message.

A moment later another call. Dad grumbled about how rude it was to call during when normal people had dinner. He let the answering machine get it again. Again, no message.

The phone rang a third time. This time he grabbed it. He came back to the couch, scowling. "I didn't know you still talked to the Cullens," he said.

I took the phone.

"Bella?"

Alice.