Chapter 22: Smile! You're on Camera
Alice spoke to me for another hour. I described the strange dreams that had been visiting me all summer. Alice had the same opinion as me—they were very strange. She didn't think it was visions of the future, especially based on my descriptions. The seldom bits and pieces of scenery were old. Torches. Some stone buildings, some so old they were wood. Men wielding swords. Clothes that were definitely not modern, maybe medieval. Alice wondered if this was some new torture Victoria had set up. Maybe she'd turned a vampire who could sneak into my head and show me things to confuse me. It wasn't a brilliant theory, but we didn't have anything better. Alice said she'd look into it as best she could from across the world, but I had to swear to call her if anymore nightmares of ye old vamps came.
I fell asleep after hanging up the call. I slept for another two hours before my alarm rang. No strange images visited my sleeping brain that night.
Jake popped up long enough to join Dad and I for breakfast and then saw us off. Dad drove us to the station. Jake sent me supportive texts. He had wanted to come with me, but Sam had banned him. He was trying to be reasonable and had decided that seeing me at breakfast was reasonable. He wasn't sure the pack would let him see me again today, but he'd try later. I texted him back that he shouldn't worry. I told him I'd contacted Alice and everything was going to be fine.
Angie texted me a paragraph of encouragement. Jess sent a short text. I hadn't told either of them about meeting with the FBI. I felt guilty for not telling Angie. Had Lauren told Jess? Had Jess then told Angie? Maybe seeing Angie after the station was a good idea. If I my Jacob-time was limited, having another friend I could talk to might keep me sane.
The Forks police station was a small, stand-alone building, not far from the grocery store. Dad often went to the deli counter for lunch. It was one of the many things that made Forks feel small and cozy. The low crime rate kept the station quiet. There were never more than five or so people there.
When Dad drove up to the station we were stopped by a mob. Three vans from news stations, one from Port Angeles and two from Seattle. This sort of attention was really bad for Jake and the pack.
Cameramen angled to get us parking. Reporters who, moments ago had been shoving their microphones at those eager to get their five minutes of fame, now ran toward us. They kept a respectful foot away from Dad's car—at least I think that was their intention.
I was hyperventilating in the passenger seat. Dad squeezed my shoulder and told me they wouldn't be allowed in the station. He opened his door with a jerk and shouted at everyone to back off. The reporters inched back. Some people from town were a part of the mob. A couple ladies that worked at the grocery store. Some of the retired old men that had nothing better to do that stick their nose into town business. A handful of teachers I recognized. Mike's father—he probably had Mike working an early shift at his hardware store allowing him to be here. Angie and Jess were part of the crowd. They stood at the back, nervous and clearly not sure if being there was helpful or hurtful. I grabbed my phone and texted them both, Thanks for coming. Don't worry. Go home. I'll text you after.
Dad came around to my side and held open the door. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and led me into the station. The reporters pleaded for five minutes, two minutes—please answer one question! My phone buzzed in my pocket. I hoped Angie and Jess had left. I didn't need to worry about them worrying about me. Other officers—including Angie's half-brother—were keeping a distance between me and the mob. As the door closed behind me I heard them shouting reminders that they would not be allowed in the station while the FBI was interviewing me.
Dad led me to a room in the back, putting his arm around me as if that were enough to keep me from looking. It wasn't. I saw his office. The walls were half-glass, making it easy to glimpse. There were tiny yellow markers with numbers. Evidence. Points of interest. His office had too many to count. A coffee mug lay cracked in half on the floor. The chair was tipped, leaning on the back wall at a precarious angle. Above it, painted on the wall in a dark, flaking red was an address—the dance studio. The writing was cursive, with long, thin loops. It had been dripping as it dried. I half expected to see a body. There wasn't. But the way everything had been shoved off the desk left an obvious imprint. My body froze in terror and loathing, my mind locked on that unusual empty space and the markings on the desk. I tripped over myself as Dad tried to push us forward. I caught myself and yanked my head forward. That was enough. Torturing myself with the crime scene wouldn't bring her back.
A pair waited outside an open door to one of the back rooms. The man was drinking from a mug—the smell of cream with a splash of coffee. His hair was shaved short, just a hint of grey showing around the sides. His eyebrows were thin, small, severe. He was tall, broad shoulders, dark skinned. He was the complete opposite of the woman he was talking to. She was a head and a half shorter than the man, with long wheat-blonde hair and skin nearly pale enough to be a vampire—but not quite. Her eyebrows were thick but well-groomed. Her figure was full, but not overweight. They both were dressed too well for a small town. The man had on a light-blue button-up shirt and a dark grey suit. The woman had a black pencil skirt and a dark blazer. They both had ID badges—the man had his clipped to a pocket front of his jacket and she had hers tied around her neck. But these weren't any visitors. FBI agents.
"Chief Swan," the man acknowledged nodding over his coffee mug. Despite the sharpness of his eyebrows, his smile was big and gentle. My initial guess about who was good cop and bad cop were definitely wrong.
The woman had her arms crossed and she looked over her shoulder. Her chin raised an inch. She didn't smile. Her expression was kept carefully neutral. When she spoke, her voice was even, balancing the line between polite and indifferent. "And this must be your daughter, Isabella."
"Bella," I corrected.
"Of course, Bella," the man said.
The woman said nothing. Definitely the bad cop.
"I hope the press didn't badger you too much?" the man inquired.
"Hardly," Dad grumbled. "Can't go one foot without tripping over them."
"You should see how many come out in a big city," the woman said, the corner of her lips quirking up in mockery. "Like flies to honey." There was a hint of an accent. Minnesota, maybe?
"I'll stick to small town problems," Dad said humourlessly. He paused a second, and then shuddered.
"Unfortunately, your small-town problem is exactly why we're here, Chief Swan," the woman said in one breath.
"Alright then," the man said with a heavy sigh. "Small talk over." He eyed his partner and she looked away, a mockery of innocence. "Why don't we head in and get the worst of it over?"
I looked at Dad. He squeezed my shoulder. The woman headed through the open door and the man raised an open hand to encourage us forward. I went inside with Dad behind me, always keeping a hand on me. The man invited us to sit, so Dad and I sat at the table. It was an old thing, heavy plastic more than metal. The chairs were old, cheap and squeaked when we sat. The room was dim, and colder than the rest of the station. Or maybe that was my nerves. The man took a seat across from us, set down his coffee mug, and shuffled a file folder that had been waiting on the table.
"Bella, I am Agent Mason and this is my partner, Agent Tanner," the man introduced. "Your father told you the identity of the victim found in his office?"
I nodded. Swallowed. My throat was dry. I stared at the table. "She was my dance teacher. A long time ago."
"A decade is a long time, especially to someone your age," Agent Mason agreed. "You haven't seen or spoken to her any time in between your lessons with her, Bella?" He opened the file folder, eye darting over lines. "Alyssa Dubois."
My brow wrinkled.
"That was her name," Agent Tanner said spitefully. Her eyebrows furrowed, pronouncing a small scar puckering off-centre, in-between. "When you knew her."
My cheeks burned. Shame flushed through me. I couldn't picture her face. I hadn't remembered her name. Ms. Dubois. A memory of firm, but kind hands correcting my posture at the barre, her toes pointed as I tried to copy her. Maybe that was why I didn't remember her face. I was always looking down in her class. Mimicking. Avoiding the laughter of the other girls. Feeling myself stuck on the outside of the groups they formed—friendships I was too timid to try or too clumsy and untalented to earn.
"She married seven years ago, changed her name. Mrs. Bernard," Agent Tanner continued. She had her arms crossed again. She stood back, watching me from the wall. A sentinel. Her blue eyes were impenetrable. "She left behind three kids. The youngest is four."
"That's enough of that," Dad said sharply, scowling at the woman. "Bella did nothing to Ms. Dubois—Mrs. Bernard. Don't put any of this on her shoulders. She doesn't need to hear it."
"She does," Agent Tanner said calmly. "Because if you're forgetting anything that might connect you to Mrs. Bernard I need to spark your memory now. Her kids, her husband, deserve to have answers. Which, I'm sure you can relate to, can't you, Isabella?" She stepped forward, hip pressed into the table. "You never did get any answers about your mother's murder, did you?"
Dad's hands fisted, rolled over his legs. His teeth clenched. I chewed the inside of my lip. There it was again. Dad had warned me that the case was never closed, only swept aside into dust and neglect.
"At the time you denied having any knowledge of who had taken you and your mother," Agent Mason said, reading from his file like he was recording for an audiobook. Like this wasn't happening in front of him. "Your statement from the following day and a follow-up interview a few days later match. But they're both vague. Your doctor gave a statement that your injuries, including minor head trauma, would be a plausible explanation for missing details. We also acknowledge that being put into that frightening situation doesn't lend itself to perfect memory recall."
"We also acknowledge that running away from home only to be kidnapped a few days later is a strange coincidence," Agent Tanner said sharply. She moved around the table. Behind me.
"Bella answered those questions to the officers in charge of the case," Dad argued. There was restrained heat in his voice. His knuckles were white. "My daughter doesn't get into trouble. She doesn't get involved with dangerous people. I don't want to speak poorly of the dead, but if anyone had dubious connections, it was Renee. She got involved with anything she found and then would drop it. She might have stepped into something without even knowing it."
"We have looked into that angle," Agent Mason said, closing his file and speaking in a calm, quiet voice. His eyes were full of pity. A perfect counter to his partner's aggression. "Fact is, we wanted that angle. There were a few leads that seemed plausible. But after speaking to Renee's husband, to her current friends, old friends, instructors for all the classes and teams she'd joined—trust me, we spoke to everyone we could think up."
"Think harder then," Dad said. His voice was tight. "My daughter is the last person who would get near anything dangerous. She's practical—especially for her age. She's more grown-up than her mother. She had to be. Bella has a near perfect record. Ask her teachers. She doesn't skip class. Her grades are great across the board. Her one mistake was nothing—a speed bump. She had a fight with her boyfriend and was adjusting to settling down in Forks. Bella is the kind of girl who needs space and time to think things through. She's like me in that way. She needed space. It's not her fault that her needing space was at the same time some psycho wanted…wanted to hurt Renee." He slammed a fist on his thigh, exhaled sharply through his nose, and stretched out his fingers, letting the blood flow back. "Is that in your files?"
"It is," Agent Mason said. His thin lips pressed together.
"Would you agree with your father, Isabella?" Agent Tanner asked. "You need time and space? You're a recluse thinker?"
Dad and I exchanged a glance. He put a hand on my back. I straightened and took a breath. "I'd describe myself as an over-thinker."
Agent Mason laughed. Agent Tanner shot him a perturbed glance, petty. It was the first sign that there was something human under her stone-façade.
"Agent Tanner is also an over-thinker," Agent Mason explained.
Tanner nearly rolled her eyes at her partner, but caught herself. She moved to his side of the table and sat on the corner of the table. Surprisingly, though it flinched, the table held. "Sometimes it's good to have that perspective. To go over things again and again. It's like putting together a puzzle. A massive, two-thousand-pieces puzzle. At first, there are too many pieces to solve in one sitting. But over time, piece by piece, the information fits together. You connect two pieces. Then three. Match the corners. Build the perimeter. If all the pieces are there, there's a solution. With enough thinking, the answer is there." She raised her chin and glanced over her shoulder at me. "Which is why I'm asking some repeat questions. They're not easy questions, but I need as many answers as I can get—as many puzzle pieces as you can give me."
I nodded. As cold and sharp as she seemed to me, I had to admit that I was glad someone like her was an FBI agent. For people like Mrs. Bernard's family. For anyone who had someone stolen from their life. The scary thing was, I did have more pieces than I was admitting to—and I could give Dad the entire truth about Mom's case. Worse, I had missing pieces hidden in my head about an innocent victim. Agent Tanner was right playing bad cop. I deserved it. I deserved to be questioned, to feel guilty about what I was responsible for. Agent Tanner's instincts were right about there being a connection. Unfortunately, it wasn't just me I was lying for. If it weren't for that, Tanner and Mason might've gotten me to confess. My hands were shaking and Dad's faith in me was crushing. How wrong he was that I avoided danger.
For Jake. For the pack. For the Cullens. For Mrs. Bernard's family who didn't deserve to be involved with a dark supernatural feud. I would keep this secret to protect all of them. It was the least my small, human self could do.
Agent Mason and Agent Tanner questioned me for another hour. As Tanner had promised, she went over my statements and other details again and again. Mason tested me on the names of people Mrs. Bernard and I might have had in common. When I didn't recognize a name, Dad sometimes confirmed that I wasn't anywhere near that person or had never been friends with those girls. Mason confirmed that Dad was right every time. The few names I recalled were people I'd known for a few brief months and hadn't seen or heard from in years. That part was easy. There was no lying. My conscience was clear and the agents obviously noticed, because they moved on to the parts that called for lies.
"The Cullens moved," Agent Mason said, lips in a simple, blameless frown. He leaned back in his chair. "We don't have a new address for them. Dr. Cullen—Dr. Esme Cullen stayed for a while after most of the family was gone, and then only information she left with them was a cell phone. No forwarding address. Very odd for a doctor with so many people depending on her skills."
"Dr. Cullen's skill was always bigger than this town," Dad said quietly. "She probably needed a challenge. Not much to do in Forks with on a day-to-day basis for our doctors and nurses. Summer is the only season the hospital sees much traffic, and that's because of tourists."
"Yes, we've looked into records—numbers," Mason agreed. "Hiking accidents here and there, anywhere from ten to twenty yearly, most of those minor injuries. Some one-on-one encounters with wildlife, again mostly minor injuries, with a handful of fatalities. Less than, most years. Human against human violence is stunningly low, and I applaud you on that, Chief Swan as the numbers have been consistently low since you entered your office. We went back a few decades—back to the year you were born, Chief Swan. This truly is a quiet little town."
"Too quiet for a doctor like Dr. Cullen," Tanner said. She crossed her arms again. "What attracted the Cullens to Forks? Did Edward ever tell you, Isabella?"
I inhaled slowly. The name pinched in my chest. "The Cullen family loves the outdoors. Hiking. Nature. I think they liked how quiet Forks is."
"But Edward never gave an exact reason? No family history? No ties to Forks specifically?"
I shrugged. "We didn't talk much about his ancestry."
Tanner scowled and flinched at the accidental slip of sass in my tone. Mason smirked. Dad's hands relaxed. He was getting the impression that I wasn't bothered by talking about the Cullens. Good. He deserved that small, misinformed peace of mind.
"How long in advance did you know they were leaving?" Tanner's chin was raised again. Her signature I-am-in-charge move. Her hands were on her hips. Her nails were short, but perfectly round, French-manicured.
"I didn't," I said, speaking around the bitterness tightening my throat. I stared at the table again. "I don't think Edward wanted to tell me. He didn't want to break up with me, but he had to—because he didn't believe long-distance could work. I agreed."
Mason nodded, laying a hand flat on the table. "We spoke to some of your friends yesterday. They all said that Edward was head-over-heels for you. Makes sense that he was putting it off until the last minute. It's hard to say goodbye when you'd rather stay."
"Unless he'd had enough after your big fight," Tanner suggested. "You ran away from Forks. He figured you might run again—if things got serious? It was better to break it off than try long-distance."
I stole a quick look at Tanner. She wanted me to feel bruised. She was hoping that talking about Edward would be my weak spot. She was right about that, but I wasn't going to let her use it. I wanted her to see her plan end in a dead end.
I laid my hands under the table, hiding my hand as I pinched my nails deep into my skin and focused on my memory of the day he left. I willed tears. It wasn't difficult.
"I'm not sure why it matters to you that my boyfriend left," I said, voice quivering, "but, sure, maybe he thought I was a terrible girlfriend. All I know is that he said he loved me, and then he left. I thought we were going to be together forever and that was stupid. He probably knew the whole time that Forks was just a pit-stop and his family would get bored of this small town and move on to something better. He's probably forgotten about me. He should. I did. I'm moving on."
The tears pin-pricking my vision were enough to make Tanner frown. Mason gave me another pitying look and then seemed to give his partner a shaming glance. How dare you make this small-town teenager cry about her boyfriend? Dad huffed and said that we'd answered enough questions—especially about people who weren't even in town or the country when Mrs. Bernard was murdered. Tanner tried to get to the bottom of a location as to where 'out of the country' was, but since I honestly didn't know, Mason agreed to let us go. Tanner scowled—finally some big emotion from her—but didn't object.
It was a relief to leave, even with a tear-stain on my cheek. I rubbed it away. Dad muttered the whole way home. Apparently, Mason and Tanner had promised him that they wouldn't be too hard on me. It was a promise that Dad believed they had broken. We didn't talk about the questions asked or my answers. Dad didn't say anything except to complain about how long we'd been questioned, how nosy Tanner was, or how slow their process was. He hadn't been allowed to clean up his office until they gave the okay.
Dad and I spent the afternoon wandering like ghosts in our own house. The TV was on. Dad made dinner. I ate a little. I sat on the couch with him for minutes at a time and then felt the urge to wander. I read a little, but found myself reading the same sentences over and over again. I tried to do a little internet browse on Agents Mason and Tanner. Mason was older than I thought—a year younger than my dad. Tanner was younger than I thought—seven years older than me. A couple articles on a missing girl with the same last name came up, but I quickly clicked away from those, not wanting to add more sadness to my growing pile. Tanner had been born in L.A., which was a weird connection. Had she ever attended the Pirouette studio? Had we ever walked down the same street at the same time? Probably not. But it made the world small for a moment. Too small. I joined Dad on the couch again. He put his arm around me and we watched the news. They mentioned the murder of Mrs. Bernard and Dad switched to sports.
We stayed like that, observing but not absorbing, for hours. I only knew it was dusk when the doorbell rang. Dad answered the door and let Angie and Jessica inside. Dad closed the curtains. Angie, Jessica, and I went to my room. Jessica quizzed me, but not harshly. Angie brought movies as distractions. The three of us watched movies and barely talked until after midnight. Dad drove them home around two AM—and they were happy to take advantage. No one wanted to be out in the dark when there could be a murderer in Forks. Whether it was the relaxing, easy movie-watching or exhaustion from the emotional assault Tanner and Mason had dealt, I fell asleep quickly after my friends had gone.
Two dreams visited me. The first was simple. I was being interrogated by Tanner and Mason, but I was alone. I tried to leave, but the door was locked. At one point I tried leaving through the floor, which worked until the floor became another door. It was an endless search for an exit. I was silent during the dream, but I had a strange feeling that I'd said something wrong.
The second was less easy to understand. I was in the dance studio. The mirrors were there, but they were fogged over. I couldn't see. I tried to wipe them clean. Sometimes I got close, almost being able to see my reflection, but it was wrong. It wasn't me. When I tried to squint or move closer, the mirrors fogged more. Sometimes the mirrors leapt away and I had to chase after them. Over my shoulder, close by, someone kept whispering promises, "Your happiness matters more to me than anything in this world or the next."
When I turned to look, there was no one there. My dream-self was certain who it was. So certain that after several attempts to catch the eye of that person, I decided enough was enough. I closed my eyes, waited for the whisper.
"I promise," the voice said. I reached back, touching skin. "To protect your happiness…"
I grinned and turned. "Jake!"
But it wasn't him. My dream-self's certainty shattered. Cold, pale hands touched my cheek, held my hand. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the inside of my palm. His lips moved over my skin, finding my scar.
"Forget every bad thing I let happen to you," he said. "Please be happy, Bella."
"Why are you back?" I asked.
His eyes were dark. Hungry. His fingers hovered over my neck, tracing a vein. His mouth moved closer. "Goodbye, Bella."
I woke then. For a minute I held my hand to my throat, my heart pounding. I couldn't remember why. The dream was gone.