Disclaimer: It's still not ours. Stephenie Meyer owns it all.

Thanks to Bri for being an amazing Beta, thanks to everyone who reviewed or put us on alert and special thanks to darcy13 and edaddict3254 for pointing out the different titles we gave Detective Black. Sorry for the confusion!

Chapter 4 – It's Only Your Life

and I'm banging on your door

so come on and let me in!

need a place to hide

I need a place to hide before the storm begins

(White Lies - A Place To Hide)

Edward Cullen

"Do you want some mashed potatoes?" my mother asked, holding the pot over the table to present me with a mouthwatering look on its contents. With a simple nod I confirmed her question and stopped eating until she finished putting the potatoes next to the salad on my plate.

She smiled at my appetite, her face illuminated by the small light over the kitchen table.

"You will stay here tonight, won't you?"

I nodded again. It was the third time she had asked me that question during the last hour. I hated the fact that I was causing her so much trouble and worry. And with a murder casting its shadows over our company everything got so much worse.

With concerned eyes she kept on surveying me across the table, while she patted my free hand with her own.

Esme's desire to nurture the family had always been the most prominent of all, but all of her anxieties only increased with the death of Carlisle, her overprotective side winning over completely.

But I wouldn't complain. The certainty with which she believed in me was more than I could have asked for. She hadn't questioned me once and I wouldn't even blame her if she had. I was eternally grateful for her trust in me.

When I finished my plate, I laid the fork neatly onto the china, interrupting the thick silence with the quiet clink.

"I'm tired, Mom. I guess, I better go upstairs."

I pulled my left hand from hers and rubbed my eyes just to underline my desire to go to sleep.

"Of course! You must be exhausted," she replied, an understanding look on her face. "I already put fresh linens on your bed."

She smiled at me, her eyes so full of warmth I couldn't help but hug her as we both stood up .

"Thank you, for everything you did today. It means a lot to me," I whispered.

"It was nothing, Edward. I hope everything will figure itself out soon enough," she whispered back, hugging her arms tightly around me as if afraid she might lose me any second.

She reluctantly let go and I excused myself with a reassuring smile.

Upstairs, I found my room exactly as I left it a couple of years ago. Only the sheets were new; she had obviously changed them recently. I had moved back in for a couple of weeks after Carlisle passed away to make it more bearable for her so I had the necessities, but most of my personal things were in my apartment downtown. Only a couple of CDs were left and quite a large number of books, that were stored alphabetically in the cupboards.

Out of habit I walked straight to the stereo, switched it on and pressed the play button. An impulsive piece of Haydn, which seemed to fit my mood perfectly, fluttered through the room.

Fully clothed I let myself fall onto my bed, crossed my arms behind my back and stared unfocused at the ceiling. Staying with Esme had been a good idea so far. I didn't know what I would do without her support, but the problems I had, wouldn't figure themselves out. Now that I was alone the thoughts overwhelmed me again.

I had to try a rational approach.

Of course just because the police had let me go today, didn't mean that I was off the hook. Detective Black had made perfectly clear that I was still their prime suspect and unfortunately I couldn't really blame them for believing so. Nonetheless I was left with the definite knowledge that I didn't do it, which left one main question towering over every other one:

Who did it? Who killed Claire?

Even in my darker hours Claire had always been supportive, nice and overly friendly. Not only towards me, but towards everyone, as far as I knew. And I could only imagine what a challenge that must have been from time to time. Being my secretary probably wasn't the most appreciated work.

We weren't close by any means, but she did a good job, even when I didn't. And thinking about her in past tense was a weird thing to do; the constant images of her bleeding body still caused a nauseous feeling in the depth of my gut.

I came to one conclusion: To solve the riddle about whom, the question of why had to be answered first. It seemed like no rape or such thing was involved in this mess, so this was ruled out as a reason. I didn't imagine her to be especially rich either. If she came from a rich family, she probably wouldn't have worked as a secretary. Although it was a possibility that she inherited a small fortune or won the lottery recently. Money couldn't be ruled out as a reason entirely, even though it seemed unlikely for her heir to sneak into my office of all places and murder her in such a brutal manner.

The reason was to be found elsewhere. Everything came down to my office being the site of crime. I had to start there, looking for reasons or people that made this murder a reality. I just had to prove my innocence somehow. I mentally skipped through all of my employees. Jessica came to my mind first of course. After all, she was the one I found at the crime scene. But with her, it was fairly easy. She was a little dense sometimes, but I knew her since high school and my insight into human nature couldn't fool me that much. She had been broken that morning, representing a shadow of herself. Nobody could act that well. And don't they say women kill with poison? Okay that was probably stupid reasoning, because whoever did this was mentally ill; no matter if woman or man.

Anyway, Jessica wasn't capable of such brutality. Period.

Beside Jessica, there were the accountant guys. While Claire did lots of my paperwork and served our guests and partially me, there wasn't enough work for a full-time position in my office. So whenever she had free time, she headed over to the accountant department to help out. Apparently they had always enough to do over there to keep her busy.

Obviously these were the guys she had been closest to.

I closed my eyes to picture everyone who worked there. The first face that appeared in front of my inner eye was James Barth, head of the accountant compartment and my least favourite pain in the ass during the last couple of days.

He was acting so odd lately, it was a wonder I hadn't thought about him earlier. I felt my fist clench around the sheets in anger, the murder itself for a minute forgotten. If this idiot managed to go out with Bella Swan the other night, I needed to find out and tell him his place. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. I forcefully unclenched my right fist just to pull my hair quite hard and get my thoughts back to the topic at hand.

James.

Just as Claire, he never acted out of the ordinary. That creepy smile firstly annoyed me one day ago, when he pursued Bella. And after he pulled that stunt, he went on and told the police I had a thing for Claire - whatever that was supposed to mean.

The questions only doubled from there on. Did Claire say something to him? Did I make the impression? Why did James care? There was something terribly wrong with him and the longer I thought about it, the more aware I became of that. But of course accusing him due to my subjective observations would be as wrong as the police suspecting me.

I stopped tugging at my hair and slammed my palm flat against the mattress.

I was getting nowhere with those musings. I needed to do something. The police would just try to prove me guilty and the accomplishment of that seemed more likely than anything else. I couldn't expect any help from them, so I finally came to the conclusion that I needed to get back to the place of crime itself. Maybe I would be able to find something that would lead me to the killer. With a plan forming slowly in my head I got up again, switched the stereo off with the remote and left my room towards the hallway.

Without waking Esme, I more or less snuck out of the house and drove back to Gateshead. I had no idea what exactly I was looking for, but the culprit must've left traces, clues, anything. I was basically going to search for anything unusual or out of the ordinary.

I drove down into the dimly lit garage after opening the doors with the remote and parked in my usual spot near the elevator. The green-lighted button for "up" was tempting me, but I settled for the stairs, not in the mood for the loud bumbling noises of the cabin. I took two stairs at a time as quietly as possible, although it didn't really matter how much noise I was making. I had decided against a security system a couple of years ago and only a guard patrolled the building two times a night these days. I briefly wondered if they had questioned him about this mess.

The whole building was dead silent and I felt like breaking and entering into my own company as I snuck through the corridors that late at night.

Up at the third floor, where not only my, but also Claire's office was located, I exited the stairway and headed towards the crime scene itself. Even from afar I saw the neon tape, blocking my office from intruders. The door was closed and sealed, making any investigation on my part impossible. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. There wasn't anything of interest in there anyway. The body should have been removed by now, but the blood was probably still there, being a reminder of this morning I didn't need.

As a consequence I walked past my door and towards Claire's right next to it. Surprisingly this one wasn't sealed. Apparently the police didn't find it necessary to search her office for evidence. That, or they had already finished looking through her things this afternoon.

I silently opened the door, slid inside and closed it behind me. It wasn't like I did something against the law, but it still felt strange to walk around the dark and deserted building being the murder suspect that I was.

I strolled over to her desk and looked at the stuff she had worked on the day before. Since Claire hadn't done lots of work for me during the last couple of days, she had done some paperwork for the accountants as it seemed. Lots of bills and calculations were clattered around her desk in what seemed like an uncoordinated mess. I picked up a couple of pages and looked them over superficially. Nothing seemed strange to me. Travel expense records, bills for our office supplies and a couple of calculations I didn't understand. Everything seemed fine. I laid the papers back onto the desk and turned on her computer to look through her e-mails. Maybe I could find any answers in them. While it booted up I clicked through the last calls on her phone. The only outgoing calls I found, were the ones I made her do a few days go. I guess the accountants weren't that much into communication. No out of the ordinary incoming calls on that list either.

Her computer was finally ready to use and I started the mail-program. Maybe it wasn't right to look through someone else's e-mails, but these weren't supposed to be private and oh well, it's not like she would ever find out.

The e-mails were a big disappointment anyway. I didn't know what exactly I was looking for, but there definitely wasn't anyone openly threatening her. Without any real hope it would help the matter I opened her browser and checked her last visited websites as well as her favourites, but as expected: nothing interesting was to be found there. She had been on the website of our main bank and on some websites of investors and affiliates, but nothing was wrong with that. I couldn't find anything odd in her things. She didn't even visit non-work-related websites. Maybe that was a little odd after all.

I shut the computer down and leaned back in the comfortable leather chair. What now? My brilliant idea didn't turn out to be so brilliant after all. No progress whatsoever. I tried to reason. There needed to be something behind the surface, something big enough to justify murder. Perhaps I had to look for secrets. Of course the evidence wouldn't be found this easily. I pinched the bridge of my nose while I thought about places to hide confidential material.

Now that notion felt like a déjà vu. The desk drawer was the first thing that came to my mind. I reached out and opened it and instead of some stupid red umbrella, there was just more paperwork in a disarranged state. I shook my head at the untidy state of everything. How was it even possible to work in this environment? I grabbed everything with both of my hands and spread it out onto the floor, because the desk was already a mess as it was. Lots of little yellow post-it notes and other mostly handwritten things fluttered around. One note written in blue ink got my attention, because all of the other ones were written with a black ball-pen, which had to belong to Claire, while the blue one probably didn't.

Of the massive amount of notes this was the only one that seemed at least slightly promising. While the others only held phone numbers, reminders of deadlines or times for appointments and the like, this one was dated with yesterday's day and had an account number, a pretty big amount of money and a few cryptic notes on it. "Call back Mr. Henderson of Nat. West" it said; "to Fagur Alit, Iceland" was written right under the line of numbers; lots of question marks artistically drawn around it. Definitely Claire's handwriting. I suppose I could call this Mr. Henderson as requested on the note, but a swift glance at my watch told me that this was not the right time to call some bank clerk. It was already nearing midnight, my options of taking any action were almost zero.

But maybe I could find out, to whom the account number belonged. I let the note disappear in my pocket and tried to tidy up the mess I had made on the floor while shoving everything back into the desk drawer, turned the computer off and exited the room to head over to the accountants. There had to be records of transfers our company did and maybe I could locate that number somewhere.

The most recent bills and financial statements were stored in the offices, while older ones were kept downstairs in the archives. I hoped this was a recent issue, so I tried James' office first. When I entered his bureau and spotted the large walls packed with folders, I had to force myself not to turn around and give up right then and there. There was no way I would be able to find anything in there. I strolled past the shelves to read the inscriptions on the back of the folders and only got more discouraged. At the end of the row were a few folders labelled with "Monthly statement of account" and I decided I would try a single one and if this didn't offer any new information, I would just go home and take a good nights rest. The police would find out that I was innocent eventually, wouldn't they?

I picked the most recent one and walked over to James' desk to place the heavy thing on top of it. Page by page I strolled through the thick folder. Everything was listed there. Outgoing transfers for suppliers, employees and insurances. The list was endless and the impossibility to find a single number in those spreadsheets was screaming right in my face. And there was even the possibility it wasn't there at all.

I was about to close the folder defeated when my eyes fell on the unusual name:

"Fagur Alit".

And right next to it was a number very similar to the one on the note. I skipped through the pages one more time and found more entries with the same name. With every entry lots of money had been transferred to a foreign account at the Central Bank of Iceland.

This was strange indeed.

As far as I knew we didn't have any partners, suppliers or customers in Iceland. Wind energy isn't exactly in their centre of attention with all the geothermal energy they've got up there.

I wrote the correct number on a different post-it, put both notes back into my pocket and closed the folder to shove it back into its place on the shelf. After all, there was no need to let anyone know I had been there and did some research. A sudden worry about fingerprints crossed my mind and I grabbed the folder back out of the shelf, wiping it with the end of my sleeves, just to salve my conscience. It was a stupid thing to do, since it was my company and I should be allowed to leave fingerprints everywhere, but instincts I didn't know I had were kicking in.

I switched the light off and headed back to Claire's office, since mine was still sealed. Again, I turned her computer on and tapped my fingers on the desk until it was finally up and running.

As the browser popped up, I opened google and typed "Fagur Alit" into the search box, before pressing enter.

There went nothing.

A few music sites and other stuff in a language I identified as Icelandic came up and that was about it. At least I found a dictionary that translated the two words into "beautiful view". That didn't make any sense either. Both of my hands went into my hair out of frustration. I had a feeling in my gut that something was very wrong with this, but I had no idea what and how to proceed. Was this name supposed to be a person or a company? And what was all the money for that had been transferred to said account?

My only form of research was to type something into google and as I just figured, that got me nowhere. If I was better at this and had more options and more time on my hands, maybe I would be able to find something out about this. But of course I wasn't.

But I knew one person who was.

Isabella Swan.

I remembered her very detailed and well-researched articles clearly. She didn't let herself fool into anything and I bet she would know exactly what to do. I stared at the screen blankly while the letters began to dance in front of my eyes. I hated where my thoughts were heading. This was wrong on so many levels. I imagined her at a mahogany desk in her home office, writing an article about me and how I was the murderer of Claire, about how my company was a total failure and about what an unlimited idiot I was. And the worst of it was that the word idiot didn't even cover the extent of my stupidity.

I shut down Claire's computer after I cleared the browsers history of all evidence and felt uncharacteristically smart doing so. Then I switched off all the lights and silently snuck back down the stairs and into the garage, where my car waited faithfully in the darkness.

I sank down behind the wheel and stared out of the windscreen into the barely lit garage, putting the key into the ignition, without turning it yet. Probably, the wise thing would be to head back to my mother's house, before she realised I had gone out and panicked. But the little paper-note weighed heavily in my back pocket and the decision had been made before I even knew it.

For the most different reasons I would pay Bella Swan a visit.

First and foremost I wanted her to help me with my research. Of course I had no idea if she was willing to do so, which led me to the second reason: I needed to ask her why she told the police about my little argument with Claire. Somehow it was essentially important to me that she knew I was innocent. The look she gave me as I was escorted by the police in the morning was something I wouldn't forget too soon.

The decision was made. I turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the garage before I realised that I had no idea where Bella lived. This was a problem I hadn't considered, but a plan was already forming in my head.

I drove two blocks down and double-parked on the street, jumped out of the car and ran to one of the few remaining phone booths in town I knew of. I could only hope she was listed in the telephone directory. I slipped into the box and grabbed the worn down book. My eyes scanned through the names. There were four Swans, but only one with an added 'I.' as the shortcut of a given name. That had to be her!

I followed the line of her address with my finger and read it aloud. The name of the street sounded familiar. It was somewhere a little north of town. To not risk and forget the house number, I ripped the page out of the book, folded it and stuffed it beside the notes into my pocket.

The street was easily found, the low traffic at this time of the day making my search even easier. As soon as I saw the right street sign in a middle-class neighbourhood, I found a decent parking spot behind some old car, which caught my attention because of the varnish that already crumbled off the trunk, leaving funny patterns of rust.

The house Bella lived in seemed old, but it was freshly painted and overall in a good shape. The front door was irresponsibly left wide open so I ignored the bell and went right into the hall, closing the door behind me for security reasons. I fumbled for a light switch and eventually found one that illuminated the staircase in too flashy light, making me blink a few times until my eyes adjusted to the strong contrast.

I went up the stairs and stopped at every door to look at the plates beside each bell, which indicated the apartments occupant. The second one on the third floor was finally hers. Isabella Swan was engraved in plain letters into the plate. It was really her.

I eyed the door curiously. No light was shining through the peep-hole or under her door and no sounds came from inside.

Suddenly I had second thoughts about this whole venture. Bella was probably sound asleep, enjoying a good nights rest. So much for journalists being up all night and writing genius articles to win the Pulitzer price their whole life. But I couldn't back out now. I had come so far already and I had to talk to her now. I inhaled deeply, raised my fist to knock on her door, while my other hand found its way into the pocket of my jacket. I knocked softly at first but when nothing happened I tried a little louder. I listened closely, but no sounds were coming from inside. Still, nothing happened. Maybe she wasn't even home. Maybe she went out with James again and stayed with him over night. Those maybes were going to kill me one of these days. I needed her to be home. Alone.

With a new desperation I fisted my hand once again and knocked it to her door one more time. Someone cursed. Hushed whispers were audible through the wooden door now. She was home. A little weight left my body. I leaned closer to her voice and whisper-yelled her name through the closed door.

"Bella? It's Edward. Edward Cullen. Could you please open your door? I need to talk to you."

Silence hit me again.

It seemed like hours passed and I was about to knock again when I heard the key turning in the lock of her door. It slowly opened a little. Just enough for me to see her beautiful face. A little crease formed on her forehead as she looked up at me with her big brown innocent eyes.

"What do you want?" she asked in a silent sleepy voice.

"I need to talk to you. I... I might need your help," I answered, stuttering the words and pleading with my eyes that she would let me in.

She looked at me for a moment and obviously came to a conclusion right then. The door opened wide enough and she stepped aside in an inviting gesture to let me walk into her apartment.

"Thank you," I whispered, grateful for the trust she showed towards me, although she couldn't know if I was even worth of it. And I probably wasn't.

As soon as I was in her hall and she had closed the door behind me, I searched for her eyes again. They were bright and clear and in contrary to her messy hair they didn't look like I woke her from a deep sleep.

My eyes wandered over her whole form, because I just couldn't stop myself. She was wearing comfortable looking dark blue pyjamas that were probably a number too big for her. She seemed so frail and delicate, mesmerizing and mostly beautiful in it, that I couldn't help but just stare at her for an undefined amount of time. The moment felt much more intimate than it should and it was probably for the best that she suddenly turned bright red and headed back into her bedroom alone.

Bella Swan

I spent the whole afternoon going through my notes, thinking and considering various possibilities.

Why was Claire McNamara murdered? And by whom?

There were so many questions and I was desperate for some answers. In the end, I came up with nothing. All I had was a waste-basket full of crumpled paper, diverse chewed pencils and a stomach full of pickles.

I figured I should go back to Gateshead once more, talk to the staff, do some more research. Maybe I could even visit the police station and charm some more information out of Jacob and camouflage my visit with the confirmation of my statement I had to make anyway.

Eric was calling his goodbyes from the door, leaving me alone in the quiet office, interrupting my thoughts. I sighed, I was looking forward to the cosiness of my home and decided to call it a day too. I collected my notes, shoved them in my bag and hesitated shortly before also taking the prints Ryan had passed me earlier.

Of course those pictures were in our database, but Ryan was so happy with two of his shots that he had printed them and showed them off to the boss. Ben was nearly jumping up and down in excitement about this being such a big story. Honestly, I tried not to listen to both of them that much since their enthusiasm about the arresting of Mr. Cullen discomfited me even more so.

After gushing all about it while standing at my desk, they left the prints with me nonetheless. Finally by myself I took a closer look and instantly wished I hadn't. The first shot was a close up on Mr. Cullen's face. He was looking down, eyes to the ground. The expression read remorseful. I had been there and he hadn't looked that way, but still it seemed almost like guilt in the picture. See, why I sometimes despise journalism?

I shuddered slightly. This wasn't right. I couldn't write this article. Not the one Ben wanted me to write anyway. I didn't want gossip or suspicions, I wanted the truth and nothing else.

The other photo showed Edward Cullen, as he was shoved into the police cruiser, the hand of the officer on his shoulder, pushing him to get in there. It's one thing to read that someone has been to a questioning at the police station or maybe even arrested, but it's another thing to see a picture showing that moment. People tend to memorize images a lot better than words. And nobody should memorize this.

An hour later, I was home, lying in my bed at last. Not that I did any sleeping. Although I was so desperate to forget about the whole mess, I kept tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, my head still filled with thoughts about the day I had.

My fantasy was so vivid sometimes, I even imagined someone knocking on my door. But then it knocked again and I wasn't so sure anymore, if I was only making things up in my mind. A quick glance to the clock told me it was half past one in the morning. Who could be knocking at my door at that time? Did something happen - again?

I got up silently and stumbled through my dark apartment, stood in front of the door and listened carefully. This was one of the rare moments I wished I'd still live with my dad; Charlie would know how to handle a situation like this. As there were no suspicious sounds, I took a deep breath and braced myself before looking through the peep-hole.

My heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Edward Cullen was my nightly visitor. Or should I say, Mr. Cullen as in Edward Cullen, the murder suspect? It is odd how somebody gets instantly very suspicious by standing outside your apartment in the middle of the night. Goosebumps creeped their way onto my skin. He wasn't a murderer, right? He would already be arrested if he was, wouldn't he?

I backed away from the door panicked, confused and while I was quickly going backwards I stumbled over something and hit my foot while crashing it into a wall. The pain came as expected; damn that bloody pair of shoes lying around here! My hand shot up to my mouth. I had just cursed aloud. Had he heard that? I froze, holding my breath, waiting.

"Bella? It's Edward. Edward Cullen. Could you please open your door? I need to talk to you."

Okay, so obviously now he knew I was here. Stupid Shoes. What should I do? Think, Bella, think!

His distressed voice sounded authentic. Like he actually was distressed.

I hated how that affected me. It woke the absurd desire in me to ease his despair. What were my choices anyway?

I could keep pretending I was not home. - No. I wasn't fake like that.

I could call the police. - No. Just -- no.

I could ask him to leave. - That seemed like a good choice. But then I'd never find out what exactly he was here for.

I bit my lip, already knowing that I was going to do something stupid. Forgive me Charlie, but I'm too curious for my own good.

I picked choice number four: Listen to what he has to say and then ask him to leave.

Decision made, I unlocked the door and opened it just as far as I had to to get a good look at the beaten and desperate figure that was standing in the faint light of the hallway.

I got straight to the point: "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. I... I might need your help."

He actually stammered. That was the moment I entirely gave up all precautions. He needed help and was desperate enough to ask me of all people. Yeah well, and I was stupid enough to step aside and let him in.

He murmured a "Thank you" and seemed somewhat relieved that I let him talk to me. Didn't anybody else? Was there nobody in his life he could trust? My mind was racing and as I got my attention back to the here and now Edward was staring at me. Oh boy, I was in my pyjamas. I felt my face getting red with embarrassment.

"I'll be right back," I mumbled and rushed off to my bedroom to find something else to wear. Hastily I put a sweater on and decided to keep the pyjama trousers. It seemed ridiculous to change into jeans in your own apartment at this time of day. I tried to recollect myself a bit and put my hair into a ponytail. This was the best I could do without using the bathroom. When I peeked back into the hallway he was gone. Where had he gone? Wasn't it some kind of rule to not leave a murder suspect alone in your hallway? Stupid Bella! Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But when I entered my living room, I found him intensely staring at my CD rack. I stood in the door frame and watched him, while he obviously judged my musical taste. I couldn't imagine him finding anything that he liked in there, well except for Oasis of course. His expression didn't reveal any approval or dislike, maybe he was just keeping himself busy, not really noticing any of my music at all. As he noticed me watching him, he turned towards me and smiled his beautiful crooked smile. His eyes were still sad and tired, but his smile offered a warmness to melt the poles.

The intimacy of the moment and the blood rushing to my cheeks were too much to bear for me. Other issues of more importance had to be dealt with right now, so I tried to ignore his beauty as well as I could and stabled myself against the door frame.

"So, did you do it?" I asked him. I needed him to deny it out loud before I could talk to him about anything else.

A dozen emotions flickered through his face, until he finally shrugged and sank down on the sofa.

"Of course not," he stated simply.

Conclusively relief washed over me. "I thought so."

His head shot up and his eyes searched mine once again.

"You did?"

What should I reply? That I thought he was an arrogant bastard, but not capable of something like murder? I couldn't do that to him right now. He already seemed devastated enough. So I just nodded instead. Time to change the subject again.

"Coffee?" I asked, about to make some anyway.

"Why?" he asked, clearly not referring to my offer.

"Does the whole concept of caffeine sound familiar to you?" I avoided answering his question.

"Bella."

He just said my name and craved with his eyes. I knew I had lost then and sighed.

"You simply aren't capable of something like that. For heaven's sake, she was stabbed! Now, do you want some coffee or not?"

He still didn't respond to me, so I decided I'd get him some anyway.

Coming back to the living room with the cups in my hand I didn't know where to put them, and where to seat myself. This was ridiculous, I felt awkward in my own home. Edward, or Mr. Cullen or whatever I was supposed to call him, was stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed. I went for the old arm chair with sunken cushions I barely sat in, put his mug down on the table and made myself comfortable with mine. I decided I could give him a minute of rest, since he had looked so completely exhausted earlier. And I had to admit to myself that I enjoyed watching him immensely. His left arm was lying relaxed beside him, while the right hand covered his stomach. The hair was a sweet mess and a strand fell over his eyes. When the caffeine cleared out my last bit of sleepiness, and thankfully suppressed the impulse to stroke the hair out of his face, I finally spoke to him again.

"So, what do you need my help for?"

I saw his chest rise and fall with the deep breath he took.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up and I don't want to scare you and I don't want to steal your time, but I don't know anybody else, who might be of any help with this," he apologised and turned his head a little while opening his eyes. He looked at me for a second just to make sure I was okay with him being there on my sofa. When I didn't say anything he closed his eyes again and relaxed his head on the cushions. Finally he continued: "I need to find the one who did it."

"Don't you think, that's what the police is for?"

"Well, here's the thing with the police. They are pretty convinced I did it!" He sat up again and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, before he ran one hand through his messy hair. "I think there's something else behind all of this. Something bigger."

He got my interest there. I was always one for a good conspiracy theory. He eyed his coffee with a bit of disgust, but finally took a sip anyway. Silently I waited for him to continue.

"I found something I think Claire was working on before --," he trailed off in a husky voice. I nodded. Even for me it was hard to talk about her death, I couldn't even imagine how it had affected him. "Then I looked a little further into it and now I think there is something unusual going on in accounting."

I didn't understand. Was this about Claire and her death? What had this to do with accounting of all things? If it was his goal to get me interested – congratulations, mission: accomplished. But this obviously wasn't about playing games. Not even for him. The journalist's natural instinct of curiosity kicked in: I needed more information on this. "What do you mean? Unusual?"

"I don't know," he said, his hands firmly gripping the still almost full mug. "I went back to the office tonight. You know, looking for something to prove my innocence at the crime scene. This may sound weird, but that's what they do in those TV shows and I didn't know any better."

He sounded like a young boy saying that and I had to smile a little. He probably learned how to cook from TV shows as well. But my short internal rant came to a close when I thought about the meaning of his words and the police daughter in me resurfaced while my smile faded into a frown.

"You went back to the office? Why did you do that?" I said a little too loud. "You didn't break any seals right? You can get arrested for just that. You really should leave all of this to the police!"

"No, please chill. I didn't break anything. I went in, looked around and went out again. No big deal. Can I please just continue my story? I might really need your help here."

I just nodded, not really satisfied with what he gave me so far.

"Alright then. I went to the third floor and my office was sealed, so I went past it." He pointedly glared at me. "But Claire's wasn't, so I went inside and looked around. Checked her e-mails and her desk, when I finally found this little note."

I was about to interrupt him again, because I thought he was being nosey with reading her e-mails and stuff, but I managed to hold back. Meanwhile he placed his mug back onto the table, reached for the back-pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little yellow paper. He held it in his hand and looked briefly at it, before he stretched his arm over the table in my direction to hand it over to me. I mirrored his actions and after putting my mug on the table, reached for the note in his hand.

Our fingers only touched for the smallest moment but just like that my heart skipped a beat. The atmosphere shimmered with energy. Heat rushed through me and I quickly took my hand away and stared at the note. In fact, I wanted to stare at Edward, but I assured myself that the note was the way better choice.

He eyed me warily while I began reading, though there really wasn't much to read. A few numbers and the plea to call someone back. That was basically it and I still didn't understand. He sensed my confused state and continued his story.

"I didn't know what to make out of this note and because there was nothing else to do, I tried to find out which account this number belongs to."

He gestured towards the yellow paper and told me about his findings in James Barth's office, about a weird Icelandic name and constant transfers to the mentioned account. "Something must have gone wrong with the last transfer so the bank called and Claire wrote this information down," he finished and suddenly this reminded me of my first encounter with Claire.

"I was there," I whispered remembering.

Mr. Cullen raised his head to look at me properly. "You've been where?"

"When Claire received the call. I was there," I repeated and paused for a few seconds. Not so much for dramatic effect, but because it was so strange to remember Claire alive when she was now brutally killed, leaving behind a fiancé and a happy life.

"I got lost in your building when I was there to get my umbrella. I happened to end up in Mr. Barth's office, where she was talking on the phone. She seemed confused about something, checked the computer and finally wrote a note. Before she hung up, she said Mr. Barth would call back as soon as possible. I can't be sure, but I'm almost certain it's the same note we're talking about here. But I still don't understand. Why is this of so much importance? Isn't this normal? Secretaries answering phones, transfers being made, although the recipients name sounds a little odd? And you still haven't answered my question, what do you need my help for?" I was rambling and I knew it, but I was so confused by the blank face Mr. Cullen had by now. It seemed like he wasn't even listening to me anymore. Without acknowledging my questions he asked one himself:

"James' office, you said?"

I silently waited for him to tell me the thoughts he was obviously forming in his head. He simply stood up then and for a second I was afraid he would leave without telling me anything else, but he only walked towards the door and back, looking on the floor the whole time. Back and forth, back and forth. Again and again. And I just watched him. He creased his forehead as if deeply in thought, ran a hand or even both through his hair from time to time and paced in long strides through my tiny living room. After about ten minutes I decided I gave him enough time. I needed to know what was going on behind those pretty eyes.

"You know, you should really tell me something before I throw you out."

He came to a dead stop. "Sorry. It's just utterly confusing. I had to think."

I tapped my foot impatiently and he finally sat down again.

"I need your help to research something. I tried myself but I figured you'd be much better at it."

Research? He was here for research?

"Alright? I can try. What are you looking for?"

"The Icelandic transactions. Do you think you could locate this company or whatever it is? Fagur Alit?"

I picked one of the many notepads I had lying around and handed it to Mr. Cullen. "Could you write down the name and any other information you have about them, please. I'll be right back."

I headed to the bedroom for my computer. It was decent enough for my demands but still it took forever to boot it. So I pressed the button, made a little space on the desk and as I was about to get back to the living room he was walking in.

"Edw--," I mentally slapped myself, "uhm, Mr. Cullen!"

He didn't seem uncomfortable in the slightest.

"Here, I've got the information you asked for, Bella," he said casually, emphasising my first name. I guess it's Edward then from now on.

It was kind of intimidating for me to have this insanely gorgeous man in my bedroom. "S-s-s-ure, thanks," I stuttered out, taking the information from him, careful not to touch his hand again. I glanced at his handwriting and admired the perfectly steady letters for a moment, before his eyes fell on my computer.

"Wait a minute? So all my hopes depend on that crappy --," he made a little pause, obviously searching for the right term, "-- thing?" He walked past me, not disturbed in any way that he was invading my privacy. As he had examined my computer a little, he turned back at me.

"This is actually worse than your non-existent tape recorder. What is this? It looks more like a time-machine than a computer."

"I'm afraid the time-machine broke last month. Otherwise we could go back and prevent anything from happening."

His face fell and I hated myself a little for saying that. It wasn't his fault.

"Sorry," I muttered apologetically and sat in front of the computer. Edward stood behind me, observing my every step.

"I'll try a few databases," I informed him and then concentrated on the screen. I got a little lost in my research and after a while I absently noted that Edward had pulled the stool, which I kept next to my closet to reach the top shelf, next to me. I was glad he didn't disturb me, because I really had to focus. I couldn't come up with anything about the firm on the usual databases, so I decided to look into a few other ones I barely used.

I tried everything I could think of and still came to the same conclusion. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Like it doesn't even exist," I mumbled to myself, thinking. That must have gotten Edwards attention.

"What do you mean with that? It doesn't exist?"

"I can't find anything on this. Maybe the spelling is wrong or I don't know. Perhaps this is a person, not a company. Nearly every company is in the news at least once in its existence. Do you have any employees with an Icelandic bank account? I'm running out of options. I could do another at work tomorrow. They've got more opportunities there. Archives that are not in those electronic databases yet. But they are old and only consist of our paper of course and it's not likely that there's anything about some Icelandic business in there. Maybe I could call a newspaper in Reykjavik and ask them to look for this term, --"

"Wait a minute there," Edward interrupted, "so you're saying that you can't find anything either, right?"

"Yes, that's basically it."

"Alright then. Well, thank you very much. I need to apologise again for disturbing your night, but I better go now." He stood up and I quickly blocked the door back to my hallway.

"You can't be serious, can you? I burn the midnight oil here and you just decide to leave without giving me more information?" I didn't like that he had used me to get some information; he couldn't just let me in on his story, gain my curiosity and then shut me out again. And I could see it in his eyes - he had a plan. And I wanted to be in on that plan.

"Really Bella, it's late already and I have kept you up long enough. Just go to sleep again. I'm really sorry for having disturbed you for ages already."

"Don't be sorry and just tell me what you know. You have a plan and I want to know it!"

He sighed and his arms hung limply at his sides. I had convinced him.

He would tell me everything.

Chapter End Notes:

Would you invite Edward Cullen into your apartment in the middle of the night?