A/N Twilight series and all recognisable characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer. I just love messing with them.

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers! Please please click the button at the end and let me know how you think I'm doing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Previous (BPOV)

Nothing was said for long minutes, then, softly, "It will get better you know."

Will it? "I know."

Rosalie scoffed, but gripped her hand fully around mine and squeezed. "Liar," she murmured, kissing my forehead and pulling me tight to her.

We lay together in the garden, transfixed with the sea of diamonds above us until the city's power returned and the stars disappeared.

~ * ~

BPOV

The next day I awoke feeling...lighter? As if the air in my room was clearer and my breath came more freely. I stretched in bed and the soft cotton sheets hugged my legs as I stared up at the ceiling, trying to analyse my emotions and state of mind. The usual sense of dread - of loss - that usually struck me within five seconds of waking was strangely absent today. Huh.

I showered and dressed with an abstracted frame of mind, almost sleep-walking through the motions, so that when I found myself fully groomed for the day and sitting at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee I was a little surprised.

A flash of my dream from last night occupied me as I sipped coffee and munched on an apple. The details were fuzzy and distant, like a view through stained glass rippled with age. I could remember the smell of rain and tobacco, the rushing cadence of traffic on a wet road and that I felt like I was floating. It reminded me of childhood memories of being carried as if I weighed less than air.

The only detail was stood out, that wasn't distorted by the confusion of waking, was a pair of mossy green eyes. Dark and intense, so bright that they almost seemed inhuman - more like the eyes of a feline than a person. A man. Despite the lack of detail I was sure the eyes belonged to a male.

A finger of guilt poked at me then. Jake's eyes were a very dark brown, almost beetle-black and usually glimmered with laughter and warmth. These eyes were different - tortured yet elated, guilty, pained - beautiful. A cacophony of contradictions. What were they doing in my dreams?

The silence in the apartment told me that Rosalie had already departed for work. The conference her company was involved in was scheduled for tomorrow and I didn't expect to see much of her until the event was over with. She'd left our newspaper discarded on the table, the crossword puzzle half-completed in Rose's sharp writing. I picked up the pen she'd left and studied the gaps, losing myself in the familiar challenge.

Four down: a source of respite and consolation, six letters. I absently chewed on the pen, then wrote in the answer: solace.

Eleven across: an intense earnest need or melancholic desire, seven letters. I rolled the pen between my fingers like a miniature baton, thinking, then scrawled the word into the small boxes: longing.

Then a flash of brooding green eyes pierced me, and I threw the pen down onto the crossword in disgust, the harmless morning ritual not as calming as it once was. I opened the paper and flicked through the pages, noting nothing out of the usual in the news - generic city crime, bland political scandal, a human interest piece about the Seattle Fire Department rescuing a record number of cats from trees this year.

I skipped forward until I reached the employment pages and paused, recalling my conversation with Rose earlier in the week and Dr. Bitch's urgings that I find myself some busy-work. Not really expecting to find anything I traced the page until I got to the miscellaneous section that would house the scant photography offerings. Freelance positions were scarce and they were heavily competed for, so I didn't expect to find anything.

A predictably ambiguous ad in small print asked for 'Open-minded and adventurous photographer sought for private sessions, bring own equipment. Females preferred.' I crinkled my nose at that one, shuddering slightly as I recalled the one time I'd answered a similar advertisement - young and far too naive, the images of sweaty middle-aged men in leather corsets still haunted me now. Ew.

The box below that one was a women and childrens' shelter seeking a photographer to take some snaps of its buildings and residents as part of a publicity campaign to raise money. I circled that one; the position was stated to be on a voluntary-basis, but Heidi's marketing of my pictures ensured me a tidy nest egg to fall back on. I was by no means a well-known or high-end artist, but my gallery exhibitions always found a modest audience and the remainder of my pieces scattered the walls of offices throughout Seattle.

I had always liked photographing children - there was something so adorably innocent about the way they'd react to the camera. Some would throw themselves before the lens, eager to see their faces captured on film, while others would hesitate and hedge, shy as natives scared that the camera would steal their souls. Since Jake's death I'd avoided photographing people, children in particular; I felt that Dr. Bitch would be proud of me for pushing outside my comfort zone.

The next advertisement was even smaller type than the others, just two lines of text with a simple black border: 'Cullen Private Detectives' Agency requires part-time associate with experience of photography. Confidentiality and discretion essential.'

Hmm. I don't know why, but a curl of intrigue rose within me. A private detective agency? For a moment I was overwhelmed with 1920s film noir and men stalking through dark streets with the swirl of cigarette smoke, dressed in a trench coat and fedora. Then I smiled as my mind jumped to reruns of Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased) that I used to watch with my dad and the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books that Rosalie was briefly obsessed with last year.

I eyed the phone number printed below the small mysterious ad and circled it decisively, determined to at least call and satisfy my curiosity. If they were a bunch of crazy people who expected me to do nothing but photograph cheating spouses fornicating in cheap motel rooms, then I could always politely decline.

The feeling of lightness I'd awoken with increased slightly at my decision and for once I was looking forward to something, not merely trudging through my existence unchanged and uncaring. When I left the apartment to go for my morning bagel I could see the look of surprise on the doorman's face as I flashed him a brief smile before exiting the building, my feet tapping along the pavement. For the first time in a long time I didn't feel as if I was sinking feet-first into the damp asphalt.

~ * ~

I had a mid-afternoon therapy session with Dr. Bitch, so I spent the rest of the morning browsing in my favourite bookstore. It was a hidden underground dimly-lit shop that looked like it had been directly transplanted from the 1950s. The proprietor, Beatrice, was a small hunched woman with skin wrinkled like brown paper who had a reverse philosophy to most shop-owners. She would give disapproving glares to those who dared buy anything from her musty treasure-trove, but bizarrely approved of shoppers who bought nothing and instead spent hours there browsing and reading her books.

I learnt long ago to limit my purchases to the absolute minimum and instead spent as much time as possible lost in between the shelves, trailing fingertips over dusty hardbacks and rare first editions that were thrown haphazardly among the rest as if they had no worth. Beatrice and I never spoke, but often when I'd regretfully have to leave midway through a new novel I'd return a few days later to find that Beatrice had put the book aside for me, my page marked carefully with an antique brass bookmark.

I trailed one finger over the books spines on the shelf, stopping when at a small hardback copy of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre that I couldn't help but pick up. It was barely larger than the span of my hand, designed to fit in a lady's purse, its type tiny and the dark blue cover battered and scuffed. It felt well-read and loved; I could almost feel other hands opening and re-reading it, the spine cracked long ago and a few of the pages stained and slightly torn.

I turned the hard cover and smiled at the slightly-faded handwritten dedication penned there in elegant script. To my dearest Eleanor on your nineteenth birthday. Your presence rescues me from myself each day. Our love is a many-repaired thing, but for as long as our two souls whisper wordlessly to each other across the hall we will endure. All my love, now and forever, your Alexander.

The message brought a single tear to my eye, and I caressed the spine of the book and wondered about the boy who'd wrote his heart here. I wondered if their love had endured. I went to replace the book on the shelf but found I could not bring myself to put it among the faceless tomes, lost and forgotten. The cover was battered and broken and not pretty - it would stay here forever, unnoticed and unloved.

Gripping the book tightly in my hands I decided to dare the wrath of Beatrice and purchase it. Oddly enough when I brought it to the counter and offered my five dollar bill, she didn't scowl at all; rather, she looked a little pleased and ever-so-slightly amused.

~ * ~

I was early for my appointment with Dr. Bitch. I flicked through bland magazines while I waited, thinking about the private detectives' job I'd seen advertised. My curiosity had only increased over the day and I wondered what it would entail, preoccupied with Mission Impossible-like scenarios of me climbing trees in a black ski-mask to capture case-breaking pictures with a long-lens camera. I snorted and shook my head - my one tree-climbing adventure with Jake when we were thirteen had ended up with me in the ER with a broken arm and Jake being yelled at by both our fathers for half an hour.

Eventually, the receptionist called me. "Ms. Swan? Dr. Clearwater is ready for you now."

Leah was sitting behind the over-large mahogany desk as usual, pen in hand and my case notes spread out before her. The sight of the handwritten record of my sessions always made me a little uncomfortable and I was sure that was part of the reason why Dr. Bitch always made sure to have them clearly on display. She liked me to see the reminder of how much we'd covered, how far we'd come.

She tapped her pen on the table, laser eyes burning into mine over the rims of her square steel-grey glasses as I saw down. Silence reigned for a few moments, as always. I just watched her, and waited.

"How are you today, Bella?"

"Fine." It was my standard answer, but with a small curl of my lips I realised that for once it might not to be too far from the truth.

Leah arched a brow at me and wrote something in the Moleskine. "Either you've improved your skills of deception, or something has happened." She smirked slightly. "You're a crappy actress so I seriously doubt the first is possible. Spill."

I frowned. My mind ping-ponged between the phone call from Detective Parker that led to the one-woman drunken binge party; the possibility that a strange man with a clothes-drying fetish was in my apartment; and the hysterical crying in Rosalie's arms on the roof. I decided to go with the safest option.

"The detectives working on the case called me a few days ago, told me they ID'd our assailant that night and he later passed in the hospital. His name was Laurent Vandir. He was in a car accident."

"That's a very neat summary, Bella," she said, suspicious at the lack of anguish in my voice. "Where were you when you got the call?"

I shifted a little at that; Dr. Bitch read far too much into my visits to that place. "At the cathedral."

Her eyes narrowed. "How many times have you been this week?"

"Um." I was surprised, realising that I hadn't been back since the night I got the call from Dt. Parker. Odd; I would sometimes go every day on a bad week. "Only once, actually."

Leah brow lifted a little at the unexpected answer and she made a note in the margin. "You sound surprised."

I just shrugged.

"So have you been working, been busy?"

"Not really," I murmured. "Nothing beyond the usual." I decided to keep my intention to apply to the Cullen Agency to myself for now; I wasn't sure what to make of it yet, and I didn't want Dr. Bitch to get her claws into my motives.

"Then how is it that you forgot to get your 'fix'?" she asked wryly. "You usually obsess over your visits to the cathedral - and don't deny it!" she snapped, cutting off my planned interruption to do just that. "I know you've been visiting more than you admit in these sessions. What happened this week that made you overlook the cathedral?"

I just shrugged. I really didn't know what to say. Why hadn't I been back yet? I hadn't even lit a candle this week - Dt. Parker's call had come before I had a chance to go through my little ritual. How long had it been since I'd gone this long without it?

"What did you do after Dt. Parker called?"

Shit. I'd been really hoping she wouldn't ask that, wouldn't find out about my vacation from common sense, as futile as the hope might be. "I was a little...upset."

She rolled her eyes at me. "You don't pay me two hundred dollars an hour to bullshit me, Bella. What did you do?"

I looked down at my feet and caught a glimpse of the blue corner of Jane Eyre sticking out of the corner of my purse. "I went to a bar."

"And how many Xanex did you take before you went to said bar?"

I scowled at her, angry at myself for being so predictable and furious with her for never relenting. "A few."

"And how much did you drink?"

"A little."

Dr. Bitch snorted at that and wrote a mini-essay in the notebook. "Did anything else happen at the bar?" I shook my head. "Is that a 'no, nothing happened' or a 'no, I can't remember if anything happened because I was too inebriated'?"

I spoke carefully. "No, nothing happened at the bar."

"What about after the bar?"

Bitch! "For that, I'd have to take option two."

"So you don't remember getting home?"

I shook my head.

Leah sighed and took off her glasses, placing them carefully on the desk. "I won't bore you with a lecture on the evils of mixing prescription meds with alcohol, because despite recent behaviour you're not an idiot. Besides, I know that's not your poison and in all likelihood this was a one-off. But I'm pretty sure something happened to you after you left the bar, and I'm guessing that for some reason that's what caused the change today."

I was puzzled. "What change?"

Leah steepled her fingertips and gazed at me intently. "You walked in here like you wanted to be here; you usually skulk in the doorway for a few minutes and scowl at me and my office. Particularly the painting for some reason. You didn't fidget and look around - you made eye-contact with me straight away and seemed more at ease. You also haven't yet threatened to quit therapy, or called me a lesbian or a bitch." She smirked then. "Well, at least not aloud anyway."

Her words surprised me, but didn't make me want to share the information on the strange man. The man who I'm guessing had inspired my recent green-eyed dreams. I had an inkling that Leah's reaction would be similar to Rose's, except I wouldn't be able to talk Dr. Bitch out of calling the police or possibly even hitting me over the head with a chair.

So I decided to edit.

"I don't remember much after leaving the bar, my memory is a little hazy, but I do know that a good Samaritan helped me get home." I floundered a little, and offered a watered-down version of the truth. "I guess I feel better knowing that there are still good people out there. It made me feel...safe."

Dr. Bitch started with the pen-tapping and the laser glare, but I carefully schooled my expression and didn't break. Eventually she sighed in exasperation and said, "You're definitely hiding something, Ms. Swan, but I'm not going to push it today. You haven't pushed the bullshit meter too much this session so I'll give you a break - but I know that's not the whole explanation and don't think you're getting away with this. Okay?"

I folded my arms and frowned, before realising I looked like a pouting child and deliberately put my hands back into my lap. "Okay."

Leah slipped her glasses back on and flipped the page to see what she'd written earlier. "When you mentioned the phone call from Dt. Parker earlier, you were much calmer than I'd expect. Have you already discussed the news about Laurent Vandir with Rosalie?"

I nodded, my eyes softening as I recalled Rose's care and willingness to listen and hold me as I bawled on the roof with a tenderness that was so out of character for the bitchy ice queen. "Yeah, we talked it out." I smiled at Dr. Bitch, knowing she'd like my next words. "I cried like a baby for nearly an hour."

Leah grinned at me with genuine approval. I was shocked by the change it brought to her face, the warmth and affection that brought her eyes to life. In that moment I realised this was the expression that coaxed such a look of sappy-eyed love from the guy in the photo frame she always kept on her desk.

"Forgive the cliche question from psyche 101, but how did it make you feel?"

I smiled at her, the lightness that had begun this morning and built over the day drifting above me like a helium cloud.

"It felt good."

~ * ~

A/N Thank you again to all my reviewers!! Please please leave me some feedback because these take ages to write :)

Up next - more EPOV. Do you think he should feel guilty or happy over his visit into Bella's apartment?