Charlie put the phone back into its cradle. Then he put the bottle of beer he was holding, very carefully, onto the table beside it.

It wouldn't do to start throwing things.

Much as he wanted to.

Jacob Black had hurt his daughter.

No, Jacob Black had raped his daughter.

Jacob'd admitted to it, Sam'd said, but then uttered words that had made the blood swim to Charlie's face: "He took off, Charlie, I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, 'took off'?" Charlie had asked.

"He literally bolted. In the car, gone, before I could stop him."

Charlie was wondering how he could finangle a state-wide alert for Jacob's car, without breaking too many rules.

He hadn't found one yet, and knew he likely wouldn't.

"You get the license plate?" he'd asked. It wasn't like he could ask Billy.

Oh God, Billy, his heart clenched.

"Does BIlly know?" had been the next question.

"Yeah," Sam said, voice subdued. "Council's meeting tonight."

Council? Charlie thought. Why?

Sam had started talking again, almost babbling, like he'd said something he shouldn't have. When he hit the "I'm sorry's", Charlie was listening again.

"I'm so sorry, Charlie. I had no idea—"

"You're sorry?" Charlie asked, blowing out a beery breath. "Nothing from this sticks to you kid," he sighed. "This is on me."

Sam had paused for a moment, before saying quietly, "it's on Jacob."

Yes, Charlie thought, it was most definitely on him, but he was next on that list.

"You didn't force her to go see him, Sam," he'd choked out, voice coming apart in pieces.

Sam had been quiet for a moment. "No," he said, "but she asked not to be left alone with him, and none of us listened to her," he sighed, "it's on us too."

The us had a strange emphasis to it that made no sense to Charlie, but he chalked it up to his own general distress, and the effects of the beer in his hand.

He'd come home, shell-shocked, after the hospital, at loose ends, not sure what to do with himself.

The weight of the guilt he felt made his chest ache. Literally.

Hence the beer.

There was nothing he could do. He had no official complaint, and no jurisdiction on the reserve if he did.

He had no daughter.

No, the voice in his head said. It was running freer than usual, thanks to the alcohol. No, you're the idiot that stuck her in the back of your squad car and made her go see her rapist.

Then you accused the man she loves of hurting her.

Jesus.

He picked up the beer again, taking a long swig.

He wondered, for the hundredth time, if she was OK, if she was getting help. Those worries were a constant thrum, running through him in an anxious buzz.

He'd lost track of how many times he'd picked up the phone, wanting to call, to talk to her, but putting it down, before he could finish punching in the number.

What would he say?—that he was sorry?

He snorted, then spluttered, trying to keep the beer from flying out of his nose.

Beneath his worry, his guilt, his anxiety for Bella, was something deeper: the foundation-shifting knowledge that he'd been so prejudiced, that he couldn't see straight. Wouldn't listen to his own daughter.

He'd screwed up cases before, missed things, but not like this.

His angry prejudice against Edward had been the stew he'd swum in for so long, that he'd ignored his own child. Thought he knew better than what she spoke from her own mouth.

He'd meant so well, that he'd paved the road to Hell for her with his good intentions.

Setting down the empty bottle, he pulled a full one from the fridge, cracking it open, and took another long drink.