Jacob had turned into a ghost.

At least, to Charlie it seemed that way.

His car had been found in Wenatchee, a good day's drive away. The broken windows spoke of how long it'd been there, before anyone phoned it in.

But no sign of Jacob himself.

The bulletin he'd put out had returned nothing. He'd phoned every faint contact he'd ever made across the state, and nothing.

It had only been days, but still. There should be something.

Charlie huffed out a frustrated breath, staring at the file on his desk. Bella's file.

Bella Cullen's file, a little voice in his head reminded him.

Beside it was the release she'd signed, faxed in from a psychologist's office in Port Angeles.

At least she was seeing someone, he told himself. That was good.

He'd phoned her just the once since she'd come in, just wanting to talk. To hear her voice. Edward had answered, almost like he knew to expect him. Charlie had sat on the other end, his stomach all knots, wondering if she would take it, listening to their murmured voices, when suddenly it was hers in his ear.

She'd been curt, and he'd melted into a mumbling jumble, asking how she was, not sure how to continue beyond the most basic questions.

Now he stared at her file.

Mike had seen him, and shaken his head before going out on a call. "Don't put yourself through that," he'd said to Charlie, "I'll send it in later."

But Charlie didn't want it to wait, and if anything, he needed to light a fire under his own ass to get something—anything done, with this case that was going nowhere.

So he opened the file, and began reading.

The impression Jacob Black's fist left was anything but ghostly, and the creature on its receiving end roared, swinging back an arm in defense.

He didn't break it, but caught it instead, flipping the man around and stuffing his bleeding face into the alley's receptive brick wall.

"Think she said no," Jacob said again, flicking his gaze back at the woman some ways to his left. She was stepping backwards, wondering if this intervenor was better or worse than what she'd been dealing with.

"She's a whore, idiot!" the squashed face said, then grunted as the pressure renewed itself.

Jacob looked back at the woman again, "you wanna deal with this guy?"

She shook her head, still taking steps away.

Jacob could hear other footsteps though, and despite his strength, knew the number of footfalls he was hearing were beyond what he could manage alone.

"Leave her be," he said to the creature he was holding, releasing him.

With a vicious curse, the man spat, then wisely turned and disappeared around the corner.

The new footsteps were behind Jacob, circling around the woman.

There was a man there, hand on her cheek, turning her face as though to inspect it, like one would check a peach for bruises. "He hurt you?" he asked, voice all business.

She shook her head.

"You're good then, off you go."

She nodded, retreating, the click of her shoes fast, gait curtailed by the tight stricture of her small skirt.

"Thanks," this newcomer said evenly, eyeing Jacob. The man with him stood, arms loose, feet spread apart. Ready, Jacob recognized.

He shrugged. He understood what he'd interrupted. Payment didn't ugly it less.

"I could use someone with your skills," the man went on.

Jacob snorted. Skills.

"I pay well."

This tugged, in a way he wished it didn't. He needed money, if he was going to accomplish what he needed to. Short of stealing it—

The man started throwing out jobs and numbers. They straddled opposite extremes in and morals and remuneration.

"No one gets hurt?" Jacob asked.

"'Course not," the man smiled. "Least no one who doesn't ask for it."

"Sure," Jacob said, extending a hand, letting his grip demonstrate what the man already suspected.

Charlie wiped his hand across his face again.

He was not crying.

He wanted to lose himself in all the anger he could find, and then use it to locate Jacob Black.

Then he'd deal with the guilt that was ravaging him.

He'd assaulted her multiple times.

Mul-ti-ple times.

Because of what he'd done.

When Mike and the receptionist had returned from lunch, he'd told them to head right back out again while he cleaned up the mess he'd made.

It was time for a new coffee maker anyway.

And the carpet was due to be cleaned, too.

"Back in half an hour boss," Marjorie had said, guiding Mike outside by the arm.

What the heck had he been thinking, reading his daughter's file?

Lighting a fire under my ass, for sure. Nearly burned the whole damn place down.

He pounded on the desk again.

Sweeping up the worst of the mess he'd made, he shuffled the paperwork into order, and pounded in the fax number for Bella's psychologist.

It was likely the most useful thing he could do that day, but tomorrow was a whole different ball game.