As Edward's car roars ferociously out of the drive, I collapse to the floor, my back against the kitchen cabinet. My lungs won't fill properly with air, and the only sound in the house is my ragged, uncontrollable breathing.

I feel numb. I feel like the ground is shifting beneath me.

In retrospect, it seems obvious. Of course Edward blames himself.

It should make a difference. It should matter that he didn't leave because he hated me, or because he didn't want to be with me when I was no longer human. It should feel like something: an explanation; a release. But it doesn't. Now all I have is the fresh pain of seeing him, his face more flawless, more incomprehensible than I had ever understood when I was alive. How foolish I had been, to hope for a future with such a creature, to try and clutch at the divine.

I have no idea how much time passes, sitting frozen on the floor with the linoleum gluing itself to my palms. I'm eventually broken out of my stupor by the jarring ring of my cellphone. Trying to decline Alice's call, I dig it from my pocket and I'm surprised to see that it's Carlisle.

"Alice told us what happened."

I say nothing. What is there to say? Your son is a fucking moron? You're all idiots for trying to keep it from me?

He sighs.

"Bella, I'm so sorry. We've all tried to reason with Rosalie at various times, tried to get her to leave this alone."

"I thought he didn't want me, Carlisle. I thought that's why he left."

"We were only trying to protect you. Edward...was not in a good place."

"And now?"

Carlisle is quiet for what seems like an age. I think briefly about disconnecting the call.

"I haven't seen or heard from my son in a long time, Bella. I don't know what he's thinking now. But you...if you need anything. Anything. You let us know, and we'll be there."

"Don't call. Any of you." My voice sounds strangled, foreign. "I need...God, Carlisle, I just need some space." I hang up before he can say anything else.

The clock on the phone makes me realize it will be dawn soon. I've been sitting here all night. I get up and stretch my limbs. I need to hunt. I need to clear my head.

I leave all the windows open to try and clear Edward's scent from my house.

When I arrive at work a few hours later, Mrs Ainsley clucks around me in concern. It's the most empathy she has shown since I arrived in Hollis, and I know it has everything to do with Edward.

"I'm absolutely fine. Dr Masen was right, it was just dehydration." I pluck a water bottle out of my handbag and wave it at her. "I promise I won't let it happen again."

I try to busy myself, unpacking and cataloging new acquisitions, covering books with clear plastic and adhering colored stickers to the spines. But the work is methodical, straightforward. Not nearly distracting enough.

I use a box cutter to slice open the last carton of deliveries addressed to me and stop short. This isn't copies of 'Llama Llama Mad at Mama'. It's filled with leather-bound journals, and some of them look very, very old. I pull one out of the packing peanuts, and open it. The date on the page is 1952, and I would recognise Edward's flowing script anywhere. I snap the book closed with a start, and there is a crunching noise as I realize I'm gripping the workbench too hard. I slide the journal back into the box and slam the flaps shut, taping it closed with unnecessary force. Scribbling my name and address out with a Sharpie, I scrawl "EDWARD MASEN, c/- SOUTHERN NH MEDICAL CENTER, NASHUA NH" in tight, angry letters. I toss the box in the outgoing mail tray, where it lands with a heavy thud.

I don't want to read his fanciful tales of self-loathing. He owes me more than that.

Over the next few days I slip into a mindnumbing routine, trying not to think at all about Edward or what he said, or where he went. I hunt at night, ranging further and further afield. I order everything on my Amazon wishlist at once, and read until morning. On warm days I get to Gerald's bakery before the sun comes up, and let myself into the library just as dawn peels over the horizon. In the low orange light of late evening, it's easier to keep in the shadows on the way home.

Days pass, or weeks, I am not sure. It's a Monday morning, and I am sorting the mail into piles for Mrs Ainsley to consider. In the middle of the stack is a small padded envelope addressed to me with a typewritten label. I pull the tab, and the contents fall out on the desk, wrapped in tissue. There is no note or card. Inside is a pendant, made of cool, hard stone, hung on a leather cord. Carved into the stone is a primitive depiction of what looks like a bird. The design feels familiar but I don't know why. I smooth my thumb over the stone surface, and turn it in my palm, but there is no indication of where it was made.

That night I search Google relentlessly for several hours, using all kinds of crazy combinations of terms. I look at pictures of cave paintings and totem poles and hieroglyphs. Finally I find it. This is one of the Nazca lines in Peru: the Hummingbird.

I rub at the polished stone, twisting the cord around my fingers, but it remains indecipherable. I leave it on my bedside table, and in the morning when I dress each day, I tuck it into my pocket and try not to think too hard about why.

The next week I'm thankfully distracted by Mr Bell's fourth grade class, who come in each afternoon to learn about research. The children's questions are exactly what I need, and I get them busy with Wikipedia, dictionaries, and old-fashioned copies of Britannica. I begin to notice one pale little boy with ginger hair and freckles who likes to tuck himself away behind some shelves, his nose in a book.

"Hello."

He looks up, startled by my silent approach.

"I'm Isobel."

His eyes are wide. I wonder if I wasn't careful enough with my makeup this morning, if I look a little too predatory.

"I'm Scott," he manages, finally.

"Do you need some help with your topic?" I aim for sounding kindly, crouching down to his level but keeping a reasonable distance. He looks jittery, but he shakes his head. "I've done my research," he says defensively, pushing some notepaper toward me.

"Your topic is baseball?" I grin. "I love baseball. My older brother taught me all about it."

"Me, too," he smiles shyly.

"My brother likes the Cubs, but they never win."

"We never win either, but we have a new coach, and he's really good. He gave me this book to read, and it's awesome." He shows me the cover, and I'm impressed. It's a paperback copy of Sluggers, perfect for a baseball-mad nine year old. The new coach must be a dad. "He said there are more in the series, and I should ask Isobel at the library for them. So I guess that's you."

My throat constricts a little, and I swallow hard.

"Who's your new coach, Scott?"

I know the answer already, of course.

"The new doctor. Dr Masen. He's really good at baseball."

Yes, he is. And he's also clearly not leaving town.

I show Scott where to find the books and go back to my desk. I have an email from Alice that I delete without reading.

Scott starts to spend the afternoons when he doesn't have little league in the library. He's an avid reader, and after finishing off the Sluggers series I get him started on the Baseball Card Adventures. Just before closing time he carefully packs his books away in his backpack, and sits at the counter opposite me to wait for his dad.

"It's getting warmer now. Don't you want to spend some time outside after school?"

He swings his legs, tapping one of his hands on the counter and picking at the strap on his bag. "Dad likes me to wait here. That way he knows I'm safe."

Scott's father hurries in to the library just as the clock ticks to six.

"I'm sorry I'm late! I know you're not a babysitting service, I promise."

I smile at his rumpled appearance. His shirt is untucked, glasses slightly askew, and his curly sandy-colored hair is all over the place. According to Scott, his dad is a science teacher at the high school, and he certainly has a young, mad professor vibe about him. He's clutching a pile of books to his chest which threaten to slip and escape at any moment, and his brown leather satchel has seen better days.

"That's quite all right," I assure him, stacking the last of the books I was checking, and turning to log off my computer. Mrs Ainsley headed home early with a headache, and I wonder if she's angling for a reason to go to the doctor. She's been out of sorts all week.

"I'm Julian Taylor."

I turn back to find him still standing there, offering his hand for me to shake. I take it reluctantly. "Isobel Whitlock, I'm the ..."

"Children's librarian, I know. Scott talks about you non-stop. Your hands are freezing!"

I yank my arm back quickly and stuff my hands awkwardly in the pockets of my jacket. My knuckle knocks against the pendant, and I automatically take it into my fist.

"Sorry, God! That was rude," he stutters. Scott has slid down off his chair and is tugging at his father's shirt. "Yes, right. Um. Look, this is really forward and whatever, but I'm taking Scott across the street for dinner, and well, he'd really like it if you joined us..."

I blink in surprise. My stomach pitches and I hesitate a little too long.

"No, of course," he bumbles on, his face flushing in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. We'll...ah...we'll get out of your way..." He turns quickly to hustle Scott out of the library and instantly loses his perilous grip on the stack of texts. They crash to the counter and the floor and he groans.

"Here, let me help." I gather the books on the counter closest to me. Julian's heart is racing and he is blushing fiercely, and I have to hold my breath for a moment to get myself under control. I let it out slowly to speak. "I'm on a crazy diet at the moment," I manage with what I hope is a self-deprecating smile, "so I can't come for dinner." Julian is nodding, clearly desperate to escape the situation with a shred of dignity intact. I run my thumb over the carved surface of the pendant in my pocket. His scent is too close, too warm, too human. But at the same time he seems sweet, and genuine. Uncomplicated. "But, you know...another time might be nice?"

He breaks into a wide grin and nods. "I'll take you up on that."

As he leaves I turn back to finish logging off the computer. There are two more emails from Alice, but I delete them both.