Author's Notes (October 17, 2010): Thank you to everyone who's reading, reviewing and recommending SotPM. I'm glad you're enjoying the journey with me. That so many of you read and review is sincerely appreciated!

Special thanks go out to my beta duskwatcher2153 and pre-reader Aleeab4u. Rachael1042 was also kind enough to pre-read this chapter, because it really needed more eyes on it. Finally, thanks should also be given to Frenchy ladies mellyfrisco6 and nowforruin.

Edward's house: bit(dot)ly/edwards-house

Chapter trailer: bit(dot)ly/sotpm-trailer (No pic this time, but a trailer.)

Chapter music: bit(dot)ly/sotpm12-music

"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN"
CHAPTER 12: SKELETONS IN OUR CLOSETS

"Memories are forever."

From "The Giver" by Lois Lowry

ISABELLA SWAN
I had been running up a rocky hillside for what felt like hours. Something was behind me, right at my heels as it chased me, but I didn't know what. I was too afraid to look back. I was by myself, defenseless. It snarled and growled like a feral beast, and at times I felt its breath on the back of my neck—cold, ice cold—and forever closing in. I was inches from death.

The steep incline made it hard to run. I was too slow. The creature neared, and the closer it got, the colder I felt. Just when I believed it was going to reach out and grab me, the terrain warped and wobbled beneath my feet, but I managed to stay upright by flinging my arms outward. I came upon a plateau and pressed onward. The beast hissed in dismay and continued its close pursuit. Neither one of us was willing to give up this fight or flight.

In the way that all plateaus eventually do, the ground began to tilt downward. My legs buckled and shook as they tried to accommodate the abrupt and odd angles which met my feet.

A loud cracking clap sounded behind me, and I knew instinctively that it was the sound of teeth as the beast snapped its jaws. It was hungry, I knew. For me.

I had to move faster if I had any hope of surviving. "Keep running. Don't stop," became my mantra. "Don't stop."

I made to stretch out into a longer jump down the hillside, but I miscalculated my landing. Loose rocks rolled beneath the sneakered foot I'd aimed to land on, and I again flung my arms outward in an attempt to regain balance. It was too late, though. I fell forward, sliding on my hands and knees, which were sliced open by the slippery pebbles on the hillside. A metallic smell hit my nose. Blood. I held my breath against the scent.

Another growl sounded behind me, its octave so low that it seemed to vibrate and come up from the earth, to push through my scraped skin and rattle my bones. Knowing there was nowhere left to run, no means for me to fight, I scrambled around on my hands and knees to look into the face of Death…

I woke with a ragged gasp.

"Bella?"

Disoriented, I flinched at the sound of the voice. It took time, but my eyes slowly gained focus. I saw light first—hazy and gray from a window. Then I noticed the navy sweats on a long set of crossed legs beside me, the pale bare feet at the end of my bed. I was in my room, in Port Angeles. I was safe.

"Bella?"

I blinked and looked up as my vision fully adjusted. "Edward?" Shirtless and criminally beautiful as ever, he was sitting up in bed, his glasses propped up on his nose, a folded newspaper in his lap. My brain felt thick at the sight of him. How could someone look so good in the morning?

Gazing down at me in concern, he brought a hand to my face and brushed his thumb across my cheek. His cool touch soothed my warm and sweaty skin. I sighed and closed my eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Well, not looking at him made my thoughts clearer, at least. I let out a shaky breath and nodded. "It was just a dream—a nightmare, I guess." Understatement. My heart was still racing.

"You were quiet, for the most part. I didn't realize you were having a nightmare or I would have woken you," he said very seriously, as if he felt responsible for all the tricks my brain might play on me while sleeping. "Care to talk about it?"

"I wouldn't know where to start," I said with a hollow laugh. "My dreams are weird these days. To say the least." These days… Today's Sunday. My eyes snapped open then, and I bolted upright.

Edward's eyes were wide in alarm. "What—"

My nightmare was forgotten as I turned to him, leaning up on my knees in the middle of the narrow bed. A giant grin was on my face. "I just remembered it's Sunday." I sounded insane. "You're taking me to your place today!"

A smile lit up his face as he laughed and removed his glasses. He set them with the newspaper on my bedside table. It seemed Mr. Smarty Pants had been doing a crossword puzzle—seemed to know all the answers, too. "I promise my place isn't that thrilling," he said. "Lots of furniture—that's covered in dog hair, come to think of it." He grimaced.

"Whatever," I countered with a roll of my eyes as I slinked up to him on my knees—or, well, kind of gracelessly tumbled forward. He pulled me to him, and I smiled and rested my head in the crook of his neck as he wrapped an arm around me. I loved that there was less hesitation when he held me now.

This was my third morning with Edward, and though I'd not found the key to his elusive chastity belt—or really even had the courage to go looking for the key or the belt, to be honest—mornings with him were very good. It just felt right to wake up with him beside me. We were close. We were good together—right together.

But I still knew so little about him—nothing of consequence.

I grinned against his neck. "I'm going to figure you out today, you know." Though my voice had a teasing quality to it, I was only half joking. Aside from maybe finding a cure for Charlie's cancer, there was nothing I wanted more than to understand Edward Masen.

He sighed and squeezed my shoulder. I felt his lips brushing along my hair as he spoke. "Some mysteries are better left unsolved, Nancy Drew."

When Charlie called on Friday to say that he and Carlisle had their own plans for today, I'd been surprised, but really happy. He'd sounded good, stronger than I'd heard him in a while. It was shocking that he felt good enough to do anything. Last month, there'd hardly been any time with him; even when I was visiting him in Forks, he was often resting, his body completely spent between pain medication and chemotherapy drugs.

I tried not to stupidly, irrationally get my hopes up now, just because he was spending a day with our family doctor and close friend. Logically, I knew Charlie was only experiencing a little energy boost since ending the chemo. He still coughed and wheezed and needed pain medication; he just wasn't as tired now, when he went through all of that. I knew the time would come, though—and sooner than I wanted to imagine—when he'd not feel well at all anymore, when we'd go from pain pills to morphine, from the recliner to a hospital bed. But for now, for this very tiny, hole-ridden pocket of time, everything was… Well, it wasn't perfect, but it was okay.

"So we'll go to your father's around six for dinner?" Edward asked as he pulled out onto Highway 101, as if he was aware I was thinking of Charlie. My face probably gave me away.

"Yeah, that works. Sure you don't mind coming? I don't know what we're having for dinner."

"It doesn't matter what we have," he said. He was driving with one hand, his other arm stretched out along the back of my seat. He tugged on a lock of my hair playfully. "I just like spending time with you, you know, and Charlie's nice. I'd like for him to get to know me better. There still might be a few things he didn't learn last weekend—even if he did interrogate me just short of a polygraph." He grinned.

I groaned and rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes, as if trying to hide myself. If I just dig into my eyeballs hard enough… "Yeah… Still sorry about that. He really shouldn't have behaved that badly."

"It's fine, Bella. I'd expect nothing less from a former policeman, particularly one who just wants to make sure his daughter is safe and happy." Edward was smiling as he tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. I wondered if he was tapping out half of a melody. He looked over at me. His voice was serious when he spoke. "I know things aren't ideal for you right now, but are you happy—with me?" He looked at me steadily.

I grabbed hold of the sides of my seat. "Yes, I am," I said hastily and was rewarded with his brilliant smile. "But I'd be a lot happier if you'd watch where you're going."

His face cleared then as he chuckled and turned straight. "And yet you don't complain about the speed," he mused.

I glanced at the speedometer. We were flying at just over a hundred, but in this absurdly expensive car, it didn't feel like that at all. You didn't drive this sort of car down a road; you fucking glided. Though I knew nothing about cars, I could appreciate that, considering I'd been feeling some mysterious, not-so-good vibrations in the Honda for two months now. It was past due for its little vehicular checkup. "Well, I am hoping we don't get pulled over, but otherwise I like it. I would have hated this in the past, but after motorcycling, I don't mind speed as much."

"Motorcycling?" He sounded alarmed. "You don't seem the type."

I grinned. "Oh? And what type am I?"

"The book reading type," he answered. "Not the speed demon type."

I shrugged. "I haven't done it in a while."

Edward's tapping fingers stilled suddenly as he gripped the steering wheel. "Please tell me you always wore a helmet." His jaw was tight.

I lied, "Of course." As in, yes, of course, once a Dr. Carlisle Cullen talked some sense into Jacob and me after stitching up my fucking eighteen-year-old head. I didn't mention that part. It always made me sound like an idiot.

His fingers went back to their tapping, as if all was right with the world. "Good, good."

Using controls on the steering wheel, he switched on the stereo, and some song I was unfamiliar with began playing. Of course, he'd have to be a music snob, right? Did he even own any music I was familiar with?

A husky, female voice sang out in French as we traveled in companionable silence, and try as I might to divine secrets out of the lyrics, it was hopeless. I'd only taken Spanish in high school, and even that had been a chore that suggested I was destined to be one of those Americans who traveled to English-speaking countries only—if even that. At least I could order at Taco Bell.

"Can you understand what she's saying?" I asked, finally giving up.

"Oui," he said, and he was so smug that I would have wanted to smack him, if not for that pretty, lopsided grin. Why does he have to be so handsome? And know French—really? Jesus. What does he see in me?

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You're so frustrating," I said with a laugh. "Tell me what she's saying."

"It's a love song, I suppose. The woman in it feels she's been told all her life that everything is pointless, because life is fleeting; it withers just like roses do. She's been told that fate plays with us carelessly, enjoying our heartache; that we often foolishly believe happiness is within our grasp, when we shouldn't—"

"You know this is a depressing love song, right?"

"Mm, most are," he commented. "This one has a silver lining, though."

"Do tell."

"The woman has been told all these decidedly cynical things by many people, but someone else pulls her aside and tells her a secret—that he still loves her. She doesn't even remember who told her this secret, but the memory that she's been told at all gives her hope. She finds meaning, in learning the secret."

I folded my arms across my chest and frowned. "That's really depressing," I muttered.

"Hmm? How so?" He sounded genuinely surprised to hear I could find it anything but all flowers and puppies and lovely.

"Well, it just goes along with what everyone else has told her—that fate's just playing with her, giving her false hope." I added, "If she can't even remember who told her that he still loved her, maybe no one even did. Maybe she's just stupidly convinced herself that he loves her." Am I doing that, too?

"That's…a very different way of looking at it. I'm fairly certain you operate on a different wavelength to the rest of us."

I sunk down in my seat. "I've been told that a few times."

"It can be taken as a compliment, you know."

Edward frowned with me, and a second later the track was changed at the push of a button. Pulling his hand away from the back of my seat, he rubbed his thumb along the middle of my brow, easing the tightly wrinkled tension there.

"There. That's better," he remarked, giving me an encouraging smile. "It's only a song." His own brow was still furrowed, though.

I grinned and shook my head before deciding to mimic his action. I put my fingers to his brow, careful not to obstruct his vision of the road, and rubbed away the tension; it was difficult on his hard skin. He laughed with me, and the depressing song was forgotten. His musical laughter was a natural high for me—a hit of oxytocin that left me addicted.

As it turned out, Edward didn't live very far away—even closer, it felt, going as fast as we were. We were nearly there in fifteen minutes, as he told me once we'd turned onto a dirt road off of the 112. It was difficult to see this road, actually, nestled as it was in a deeply-shaded tangle of damp forest and fern.

"Wow. You're kidnapping me and taking me out to the woods, aren't you?" I joked.

He flashed a sideways grin. "Don't tempt me."

For some reason, I thought it was a tempting scenario, too. That couldn't be healthy.

I had no idea what sort of house Edward would live in. I could imagine it being simple and cottage-like or something fancy and ridiculous to match his car—something like the Bat Cave. Maybe even Alfred would be there.

That his home was so far off the beaten path didn't surprise me at all, though. In the little time we'd known each other, I'd already figured out that he was a bit of a recluse. I'd been surprised when he willingly met Angela and Lauren without me. He never mentioned friends, only his music and a select few of the musicians he corresponded with via email. Despite being very charismatic when he wanted to be, he was a loner, even more than I was. I suspected he might be a troubled genius of sorts, but I wasn't about to poke around for that information. It'd only draw his attention to the fact that he was hanging out with a college dropout who was just as troubled in her own right.

We made one final turn before Edward's house came into view.

Holy shit.

"That's your house—really?" I asked incredulously. I forced my mouth to close when I realized it had inelegantly dropped open.

"Uh, yes."

"It's amazing," I said, and Edward beamed, seemingly delighted that I approved of his not-so-humble abode.

The house, which was fucking massive for a bachelor, was an interesting mix of industrial-style concrete blocks, earthen woods and tall, clear glass windows. Rectangular structure met rectangular structure, connecting along itself like linked up building blocks. A flat roof topped it all off. The slate color of the concrete and rich, red-brown woods made the house somehow blend in and stand out all at once in the forest.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked. The house looked very new, at least.

He shrugged and answered, "Not very long." He parked the car in the connecting garage and turned off the ignition. I watched as he fidgeted and quickly ran his hands through his hair.

He's nervous, I thought with a smile, and my heart swelled with those unmentionable feelings that still scared the hell out of me.

Ever the gentleman, Edward rushed around to my side and opened my door. "You know I can get it myself," I said with a laugh, though quietly, on the inside, I liked his quirky, old school manners. They were endearing, if nothing else. "You don't have to break your neck running to my side."

He grabbed my hand with his cold one. "Humor me. Besides, I'm just looking out for you. I'm not the clumsy one, after all," he said with that damned crooked smile. "It could very well be dangerous to leave you to your own devices with a heavy door. Who knows what trouble you could get up to?"

I held back a laugh. "Shut up. I manage just fine when we're apart." But even as I said it, I stumbled forward a little, because life's fucking ironic like that and air's apparently very bumpy. Chuckling, he caught me around my waist. He always did.

We entered the house through a door in the garage. It led into the kitchen, which was all mottled, dark-honey granite, hardwood and stainless steel. It was spotless. Well, at least I could tick off slob from the list of possible secrets my reclusive Edward might have.

I heard the scraping and scratching of dog nails as Lucky rushed along the hardwood flooring of another room and laughed as he skidded around the corner into the kitchen.

The scruffy dog came bounding up to me, tail wagging so fiercely that his whole backend was twisting every which way as his paws slid along the floor. He hopped up on his hind legs and put his front paws on my stomach so unexpectedly that I would have lost my balance if not for Edward's fast reflexes, which he used to steady me against the onslaught of wet doggy kisses.

"Whoa, hey there!" I said through my laughter, cradling the dog's face in my hands.

But Edward was displeased with the behavior of his pet. Beside me, he looked down at Lucky and let out a strange, low sound from his throat; it sounded a lot like a growl to me. Lucky immediately dropped down and sat. He let out a keening whimper.

Jaw slack, I stared at the yellow-haired dog, whose eyes were locked on Edward's face, his attention rapt. "Did you just growl at your dog?" I was pretty sure that shit wasn't taught at training schools.

"No," Edward said, just a little too quickly—guiltily.

I shook my head at him and laughed, as drawn and confused by his weirdness as ever. "You so did. I'm adding dog whisperer to your growing list of oddities." Because, what the hell else could I do with that? I laughed some more.

He scowled.

"Don't worry." I patted his arm. "That's a pretty neat trick." Wish I'd known it when Lucky was humping my leg.

I bent and sat on the floor in front of the dog, proceeding to scratch behind his ears. His eyes finally left Edward's, and he licked at my wrist with his warm, wet tongue. Having never had a pet of this nature or any experience with those that weren't yippy or snippy, I couldn't decide if that sort of affection was sweet or disgusting, but I went with it. He made cute grunting noises as I rubbed a spot along his jaw. "I love this dog," I said with a smile, watching in amusement as Lucky tilted his head sideways to give me a better angle.

"So do I," Edward said softly.

I looked up at him. "How old is he?"

"I'm not sure. I…rescued him, I suppose." He snorted. "I think he's four, maybe five years." His eyes became sad for some reason.

With a sigh, Lucky plopped down on the floor, his front legs sprawling at odd angles. I stopped petting him and got up with the help of Edward's hand on my elbow.

"So, what would you like to do?" Edward asked. "I can show you around, but I didn't plan for anything." He grinned slightly. "You told me not to."

I was looking at his disheveled hair. We can fool around on your couch. "We can do whatever, really," I said, but I did have plans. Namely, I was determined to learn at least one new, important detail about Edward today. At least one.

"All right, well, let's take the grand tour, shall we?" He glanced between Lucky and me, his nose turned up. "After you thoroughly wash your hands."

Edward's taste in décor was surprisingly good, or at least I thought so—not that I knew much about that sort of thing, having lived with a flighty mother of changing taste and a bachelor father of no taste. The furniture and walls were clean and sleek and neutrally colored. Potted plants stood in corners; art hung on walls, drawing one's attention with bright color; copper wire sculptures in interesting, somewhat leafy, organic shapes complemented the art. Each room had a general theme that was so subtle that it was almost difficult to place. And it all felt very…familiar.

We came to a stop in his living room. Dull autumnal light flowed through the floor-to-ceiling window that made up the north-facing wall. I narrowed my eyes in thought and nodded to myself, now confident in my theory. "Esme Cullen designed this, didn't she? She's Alice's mother." I'd only been in the Cullens' home once or twice, but this was very similar, and I knew Esme had a few architectural projects she handled at any given time. I didn't know how she did so much. God, it was like all of the Cullens never slept.

"You are frighteningly observant." Edward's lips bowed downward. "And, yes, she probably did design everything. I bought the house from her, but I never met her." He stared at a spot on the floor. "I was definitely surprised to meet a Cullen at Charlie's. Alice was very…interesting."

Huh. So the tense introductions hadn't just been a figment of my imagination. Still, they'd seemed to get along in the end. "Small world," I said. Port Angeles and Forks were tiny places; that we met in Seattle, instead of in these smaller towns, was really sort of strange, but I supposed stranger things had happened. "I've known Esme for a while now. Maybe you and I have narrowly missed meeting several times."

He breathed out a half laugh. "Possibly."

I looked at the open, wooden-slat staircase we'd stopped beside. "Upstairs now?" I asked, my foot lifting to begin the climb.

"There's nothing to see, really. It's only my room."

His bedroom… Because his house was unknown territory, a place where Edward might keep all his secrets, it somehow seemed naughtier than my room, where we'd been innocently sleeping the past few nights. What might he have up there? "Oh. Okay." I bit my lip. Think cool thoughts. Don't blush. Don't blush.

Edward had gone into his state of awkward, rigid stillness. Maybe the thought of our being in his room felt different to him, too. "Would you like something to eat or drink?" he asked. "I recently went grocery shopping." At that, his body loosened a little, and his eyes crinkled at their corners, as if he found something funny.

I glanced down at myself. I looked normal enough and didn't think he was laughing at me. "Uh, just water would be great."

"I have hot chocolate," he said in his smooth, tempting voice. "I thought you might like that."

"Why didn't you say so the first time?" I teased.

Smiling, he began to walk back toward the kitchen, but not before pausing to turn on the large sound system in the room. Mildly electronic chillout music flowed out of the surround sound speakers, and I wondered if there was any style of music he didn't like. "Make yourself at home," he said, leaving the room.

In my head, I heard, Feel free to snoop a little.

So, while Edward moved about the kitchen, I went to a bookcase that was near the magnificent ebony, concert grand piano in one corner of the room. The bottom three shelves of the bookcase held an odd assortment of books. Science books were settled against Mark Twain, Paul Laurence Dunbar and—I frowned—Shakespeare.

I found the black, one-inch-thick binders that filled all four of the top shelves to be more interesting. On the spine of each, Edward had written a number in lovely, old-world penmanship; they went from one, to sixty-six. I noticed that the forty-third binder was missing from the collection, its empty space glaringly obvious among the tightly-stuffed shelves.

Mysterious as these binders were on their own, I wanted to find out what was inside them. The devil was always in the details, after all. I reached up my hand, going for the forty-forth binder beside the empty space.

"I hope this is all right… Bella?"

I jumped and distanced myself from the bookcase. "Oh!" I breathed, holding a hand over my rapidly beating heart. "You surprised me." And caught me red-handed. And red-faced.

"I can see that. I'm sorry." I watched his jaw twitch as he ground his teeth. Was he angry, embarrassed? He had enough of a poker face that I could never quite tell.

"I have your hot chocolate," he said after a moment.

"Thank you," I whispered. We met each other halfway in the living room, and I took the mug from him. He'd wrapped it in a dishcloth to protect me from the scalding heat. I smiled my thanks.

We moved to sit on the khaki-colored sofa in the room. It was a long sofa, and we sat in the middle, our legs touching. I sipped my drink with slightly unsteady hands, and Edward sat stiff and straight. This silence wasn't like the silence we'd shared in the car. This was uncomfortable. It felt like a thick blanket was covering my mouth and nose, hindering my breathing.

It looked like I was going to have to start. "Sorry I was snooping," I said. "Or about to snoop."

He shrugged. "It's sheet music," he said.

"Oh. Really?" I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was looking at the floor.

"Mostly." He sighed. "How is it?"

"What?"

He looked back at me then and nodded toward the mug in my hands. "The hot chocolate."

"Oh. Oh, it's good." I smiled. I noted his empty hands. "You didn't want any?"

"I thought it best if I refrained today. I have to be mindful of what I eat and drink at times."

"I've noticed."

"I'm sure you have," he said wryly.

We were silent for several long moments again. It wasn't as suffocating now, but it still wasn't comfortable, either. Lucky wandered into the room and hopped up on the sofa, putting his head in Edward's lap, where he promptly fell asleep. The music changed into something slower, sadder.

"Why did you want to come here today?" Edward asked, his fingers running over his dog's head, back and forth, rhythmically.

I sighed and placed my half-empty mug on the glass coffee table. "I just want to get to know you better." I looked at him sideways, feeling shy. "I know the basics, like your favorite color and stuff, but I don't feel like I really know you. Particularly when it comes to your past." I didn't say that I thought that was maybe his intention. I also didn't express how conflicting this made me feel—to have such strong feelings for him, yet understand so little about his past or even his present.

He took a deep breath, one that seemed to say he accepted the fact that I wasn't going to let go of this. "What do you want to know?"

We started out easy, with more discussion of our interests.

"I like baseball," he said after a little prompting. Actually, it was a lot of prompting.

"Come on," I whined. "You have to give me more than that. Tell me a story."

He nodded, but he looked like I was telling him to walk the plank. "My father used to take me to games."

"In Chicago?"

He nodded again. "I can't tell you much of a story, I don't think. I don't remember many details about going," he said with a frown, "but I think it's what made me like baseball—the atmosphere, everyone's excitement." His nose wrinkled. "I think I liked eating Cracker Jack."

I bit my lip to hold back a grin before asking, "Because of 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame?'"

Edward snorted. "Probably. Marketing and propaganda worked quite well on me when I was a boy."

I wondered if Edward had any old photo albums. Perhaps there were pictures of him as a kid, all geared up for a game, junk food and father-son bonding time. I could just imagine him in a baseball cap, unruly tufts of hair sticking out along its edges. The thought made me smile.

"Did you ever play baseball in high school or anything?" I imagined Edward positioning himself at the batter's box, his legs bent at the knees as he made a warm-up swing.

"No," he answered, shattering my fantasies, "I ran track and field."

The fantasies returned tenfold. Now I had a vision of him in shorts, his long, muscular legs—not that I'd seen them to know for sure—stretching out beneath him as he ran in some silly, oval-shaped ring. Would I ever get to see his legs? I'd settle for sweaty in a t-shirt.

Ha, only in a t-shirt? Really?

Maybe…

"You're blushing, Bella." Edward grinned mischievously, as if he knew exactly why I'd turned into a tomato. He nudged Lucky awake and gently shoved him off the sofa before turning toward me and leaning in close. "What are you thinking?"

"Just…stuff," I whispered, wishing I could come up with more brilliant lies.

On some level, I was aware that Edward was trying to distract me, trying to redirect the conversation, but with him invading my personal space, I was helpless before his charms. I stared at his eyes, which were a golden brown today, because I had nowhere else to look—nowhere else I wanted to look.

Whenever he did this, I felt electric, like every inch of skin, every blood cell of my body was burning and standing to attention, moving toward him—waiting, wanting—wanting so fucking much, always more than he'd give me. He breathed across my mouth, and my eyes fluttered closed. It was completely unfair how good this man smelled; he smelled good even in the mornings, when he should need a shower and toothbrush like all normal people.

I felt a little dizzy, drinking in his scent. Could I get high this way? It felt like it. "What stuff?" he asked. If there was such a thing as sin, he held it in his voice.

I licked my lips, fully prepared to answer him in this dazed state, but we were so close that my tongue touched his mouth accidentally. He breathed out in a rush, dizzying me further, and to my surprise, he quickly bridged the gap, pressing his cold mouth to mine. I laughed into the kiss before happily diving in.

This wasn't like the kisses we shared at night before sleeping, when I was tired from work. This was deeper, wilder, almost frenzied. I pressed my tongue against his closed lips, wanting, needing to consume him. He groaned in his chest and pushed me down on the sofa, his hands cradling my waist, as his tongue pushed mine back, back, back until we were both in my mouth, until he was consuming me.

I loved it. I thirsted for his taste and grabbed hold of his hair, putting everything I was into our kiss, into holding him to me. But I wanted more, because with Edward, I always wanted more. A kiss never felt like enough, even though I tried to tell myself it was. I wanted more, and I was brazen in my want. I wanted to see the mad black eyes from the first time we'd met. If I just pushed him over the edge…

Mouth moving with mine, he was hovering over me, but a polite distance was still between our bodies. Screw that. I lifted a leg and tried to wrap it around his waist. My knee made it to his hip, my ankle to the back of his thigh, before everything fell apart.

It was like I'd thrown cold water on him.

Edward pulled away with a gasp, and my leg fell back to the side of the sofa, the rubber sole of my sneaker clapping against the floor so loudly that the sound echoed twice in the spacious living room. "Wait," Edward breathed. "We should— We need to stop. I know we need to stop. I should stop."

"I'm not telling you to," I argued. If he wanted everything on this sofa, right now, I go along with it—very happily. Because… Well, I knew why. My heart new why as much as my body did.

"We should stop," he said again. He sounded as agonized as I felt, but I didn't know whether to believe that or not. He was rejecting me—probably just letting me down easy.

He moved to the other end of the sofa, while I stayed where I was on my back, an arm now flung across my forehead in combined sexual frustration and embarrassment. His breathing seemed to even out so easily, while I lay there for much longer, still trying to catch my breath and clear my head. My heart felt like it'd give any minute now—from crazy, overwhelming passion I'd never dreamed of feeling and the familiar ache of rejection.

He doesn't want me that way.

Of course he doesn't want you that way.

"You wanted to ask me questions," he said, his voice tight. Now he was prompting me.

And, boy, did it feel like I was walking my own sort of plank.

It hurt like hell to know he'd rather play a game of twenty questions than make out with me. So much for being a more-than-girlfriend. I sighed and sat up, sitting as far away from him as possible, nursing the bitter sting. I held my knees to my chest, and we tried talking again.

I found some solace in the fact that I did get to know Edward better as the day went on. He'd been an only child, a boy once fascinated with soldiers and war, much to his mother Elizabeth's dismay. He said he'd been too young for him to remember and know for sure, but he thought perhaps she taught him to play the piano, just so he'd stop spending so much time playing "Cowboys and Indians" and other potentially violent children's games. Everything he knew about the piano came from his mother and his own intuition; he'd had no formal training.

Yep, a genius.

Edward Masen Sr. had been a lawyer. Edward wouldn't say what happened directly after his parents' deaths, or when they'd died, but he did tell me he'd lived in Portland before coming to Port Angeles.

A few hours passed as we talked, and then my stomach growled loudly enough that we both knew it was past lunchtime. Edward returned to the kitchen to make us cold cut sandwiches, and, as he didn't want help, I stayed seated on the sofa with my mixed feelings about the day. I'd thought today would go differently. After how well the last three days had gone at my house and when Edward visited me during my lunch breaks—as he still did—I'd thought we were mostly over some of the more evasive pushing and pulling.

I sighed. Apparently we weren't quite over that hump.

My eyes wandered the room as I deeply contemplated how life could sometimes suck and be great, all at once, and soon my gaze settled on the bookcase again. My curiosity was sparked, and with it my sullenness improved.

I wanted to see Edward's music. It didn't matter that I couldn't read sheet music very well or that seeing the notes still wouldn't reveal the intensely secret histories behind them. I just wanted to see his work, just as I had listened to it that one night at the bed and breakfast. I was drawn to it, just as I was drawn to him.

I suspected Edward might freak if he saw me looking in these binders, so knowing he'd be occupied for a little longer, I rose and quietly went toward the shelves. I stopped at the piano, though, as one binder—number forty-three, it would seem—was lying on the piano bench. Maybe this is how Edward had felt when he found my journal on my desk. It was like God himself had invited me to sneak a peek.

Don't mind if I do.

I quietly and carefully opened the binder to the first page, which appeared to be a table of contents. Edward had handwritten it in his elegant script.

January 12 – Louisa Sanders

February 12 – Richard M.

March 12 – Olivia ? – "Passenger on a Train" – Finished

March 23 – Jolene Fischer

March 27 – Abigail ?

March 30 - ? – "Unknown, Never Forgotten" – Finished

April 3 – Mark Vaughn – "Rosso Overture" – Finished

April 10 – Mary June Baker Henderson

April 12 – Dottie T. Watson – "Peach Tree Valley Waltz"

May 12 – Caroline K. Hawthorne

The dates went on and on and on, until the final one in this table of contents, for December 12th and a woman named Peggy Macdonald.

I read and re-read.

Dates and names?

His music was about specific people? I looked at the bookcase. There were sixty-six of these things up there. Wow.

I turned back to the binder and flipped past the table of contents, coming upon a plastic-sleeve insert that held handwritten sheet music. "Passenger on a Train" looked very complex, with its prominent, black music notes and smaller red notes that I'd never seen in music. The red notes were often found between the larger black ones.

"Like I said, it's mostly sheet music."

I started with a flinch. "Sorry." I refused to look up from the folder.

"I never said you couldn't look at them. Honestly, Bella, if I had any fear of your seeing my music, I don't think I'd just have it on bookshelves out in the open."

He had a point.

Finally, I glanced back at him. I expected to see anger or discomfort in his face. I don't know why I expected that. I just did. But there was no anger or discomfort. Edward had gone into lockdown mode, and his face was an eerily expressionless mask. He didn't have to be expressive for me to know this was new, uncharted territory for us, though. I was edging into a place where he held secrets, even if the general evidence of them lay out in the open.

There was a single plate on the coffee table, a sandwich on it. I hadn't even heard him bring it in. "You're not eating? You didn't even have breakfast…"

"I'm not hungry."

I nodded and made my way back to the sofa. Edward came to sit beside me. There was some sort of rock music playing on the stereo now, and he muted it. Silence fell over the room.

As I took a bite of my turkey sandwich, I bolstered myself. Okay, you're a Swan. You can talk about this with him. I sucked in a deep breath, and then asked my question. "Who're those people in that binder?"

Though Edward's head was bent as he seemed to examine the fists he had rested on his thighs, he was tall enough that I could still clearly see his face from the angle I sat. I'd seen darkness cloud his eyes before, most clearly on our first date, but even that time didn't hold a candle to the angry sadness that seemed to hover all around him now. It was a subtle thing, but I felt its presence. His eyes seemed old and tired, belying his strong, youngish features. He didn't answer me for a long time.

"Those are all the people I've ever—" He hesitated.

"All the people you've ever what?"

He swallowed hard enough that it was audible. "Wronged."

"How's that even possible? If your other binders are anything like that one, you've got to have a thousand names listed."

He winced. "It's possible, believe me."

Carefully, as if I was reaching out to a spooked animal, I brought my hand to his forearm. As hard as his skin and muscles always were, I could still feel extra tension now. I tried to massage his skin, but it was useless. It was like trying to knead a granite countertop. "Edward," I whispered, trying so hard to be soothing, "you didn't do anything to these people." I just couldn't believe that, not after he'd been nothing but kind to me.

"You don't know that."

"Then can you maybe explain it to me?"

"No," he whispered, his voice catching on the simple word. "I can never tell you."

"How come?"

He snorted. "It's not even safe for you to be here now, with me. It would be even less safe for you if you knew everything."

What the hell do I do with that?

As we sat, I listened to his breathing change. It was a subtle difference, one I only picked up on because of my fascination with his usual calmness. His breathing became more ragged, as if he was on the verge of crying.

My heart ached for him, and I leaned in closer, stretching my arms around him. I tried to rock his body with mine, and I think he let me do this, because I couldn't imagine moving his solid form otherwise. He leaned into me, resting his face on the top of my head, and made quiet, gasping breaths along my hair.

He hadn't done anything to all those people. For him to believe that was just ridiculous. I knew some thought that all brilliant minds were a little mad; that losing a little sanity was the cost of ingeniousness. Was this Edward's particular brand of delusion?

Could I handle it, maybe even help him?

A week ago, I would have said absolutely not. There was Charlie to think of, and while I was experiencing a slight reprieve from his costs now, there would be high costs toward the end of his life and for the subsequent funeral. My life was still insane in its own way.

But as I held Edward, I knew there was nothing I wouldn't do for him. Though secrets lay between us, though he might be a little crazy himself, I wanted nothing more than to be there for him.

I frowned as I thought of the forlorn melodies that had made me cry in The Rosebud's dark hallway. "I'm sure whatever you think you did to all those people isn't that bad. They probably don't even know that you feel guilty. I bet they—"

"Don't," he snapped as he pulled away from me. He turned hard, dark eyes onto my face. "You don't know anything."

This argument again. It was exhausting.

Though his words stung and his stare was intimidating, I held my ground. I felt indignant. "Only because you won't tell me. I'm going on guesses here."

"Oh, that's rich, Bella. As if you've been baring your soul to me since the moment we met."

"What?" How the fuck is this about me now?

"You're stubborn, and you hide as much as I do," he growled.

"I do not."

He reached up and flicked a lock of hair away from my face. An icy finger tapped against my scar, and I flinched away. "Don't you?" he taunted. He put his hand back on his lap, and I watched his fingers curl inward until he'd made a fist. "The real you is in Forks, with Charlie, and yet I don't think I would have even known about him or that part of your life if I'd not called at the right time last week. Don't accuse me of being secretive and evasive when you, yourself are."

"So we're both keeping secrets, then. Is that it?" I mumbled.

"Looks like."

We were quiet, and I looked away from him. He was right. I'd never had any intention of revealing so much to him. When Charlie had become ill, I'd put a separator between my life in Forks and the one I had in Port Angeles. It was the only way to stay sane.

I'd planned to keep it that way, too, but since that Saturday, when all my hopes for my father were dashed into nothingness, Edward was in both my worlds, bringing with him elation and great disturbance.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "It's just easier to try to lead a normal life in Port Angeles."

"I understand that. Why do you think I don't want to venture into my past with you? My past isn't good. I want a fresh start."

"I don't want to be lied to," I replied.

"And I don't want to lie to you," he whispered, "but if you knew everything… You'd never be able to accept me."

"Can't you let me make that decision for myself?"

"Maybe one day, but I'm not ready for that, Bella."

I nodded, and we stared at each other in silence before Edward's expression turned thoughtful. "What is it?" I asked.

"I know it's hypocritical, given all that's been said, but would you tell me about your scar? Please?"

Please? He'd pulled out the big guns now.

I sighed and decided I could give him this. It was only fair. He'd given me insight into his music, after all.

"The official story is that I skidded on black ice on the 101 and had a wreck," I said.

"Official story?"

I nodded. "The truth is I don't really know what caused the wreck. It happened just after I moved here. I was driving to school, and I could have sworn something ran in front of me on the road. I thought it was a woman. She was moving so fast, though—faster than I've ever seen a person run. All I could really make out was her hair. It was so red." I shook my head at the memory. Even after all these years, I'd not forgotten the red brilliance that was her hair. "I swerved to miss her, and that's how I ended up in the ditch. I was lucky I was wearing my seatbelt. The truck flipped upside down."

Edward rested his fingers along my neck. "I'm glad you were all right." He frowned, then, clearly thinking over my words. "Did you find out who she was?"

I snorted. "No, but then, I don't guess she was real. I was so convinced she was, though. I told everyone what happened. I thought maybe someone would know who she was, so I'd then know I wasn't crazy." I laughed in embarrassment.

"And no one knew anyone like her?"

"No," I said, sounding a little bitter. Not long after I'd started asking around about the woman I'd thought I'd seen, Mike Newton—thinking he was being cute and flirtatious—started calling me "Batty Bella." Shy as I was, I didn't much appreciate that, particularly when it stuck for my whole, goddamn junior year.

I continued my story. "My jaw and about a quarter of the right side of my face was pretty much shattered from the accident." I rolled my eyes. "It's so stupid. I always thought that my truck would save me from anything. It was this ancient, steel-bodied Chevy… Well, I get why cars have crumple zones now. The Chevy came out of it all just fine. I was a mess, though.

"That's how I got to know Carlisle and Esme so well. Carlisle handled all my surgeries, and Esme was always bringing Charlie and me food since I couldn't do much of anything for a month." I laughed. "I was so coked up on pain meds. I was lucky that Forks was a little behind Phoenix's curriculum schedule, or I never would have been able to finish that first semester normally, even with doing all the work at home."

Edward trailed his fingers up and ran them across my disfigured flesh. I didn't look him in the eye, but I didn't move away this time, either. "So you thought you saw something." He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not uncommon, particularly when driving in the mornings or late at night. Your eyes play tricks on you, and you were probably just tired. Why are you so embarrassed about this?" he asked. "It's not a very significant scar for such considerable injuries. It's healed well." His brow furrowed. "Carlisle did well."

"It's not the scar that embarrasses me. I mean, I wish it looked better. I just—" I struggled to find the right words. "I hate being asked about it, because then I have to lie."

"Lie? How so?"

"About the redheaded woman. Carlisle's told me that I probably had some sort of hallucination before I passed out, and that my brain most likely screwed up the order of its information, and so the redhead I dreamed up into being is—in my head—what caused the accident. False information."

"But you don't believe him?" His question was more of a statement.

I frowned. "I don't know what I believe about that day. All I know is that the more I tried to find out about it, the more people thought I was nuts." I grinned a little. "It's kind of shit to be the crazy girl in a small town."

"You aren't crazy."

I shrugged and looked down at my shoes. "Maybe not, but logically I know Carlisle's probably right. And yet, still there's this huge part of me that thinks there was a woman there. When people ask me about it, I don't want to lie and say I just had an accident, because I'm not sure I really believe that. But then, if I tell the truth… I don't want people thinking I'm a whack job, either."

Edward wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer into his side. "You aren't crazy, Bella."

Hopefully neither of us is, I thought.

I felt Edward's cold fingertips on my scar again. He ran them down along my jaw until he held my chin. He tilted my face upward and leaned in, pressing a deep, slow kiss onto my mouth. I sighed as he pulled away.

"Do you really want me?" I asked quietly. I hated needing all of these reassurances, but it was in my personality to ask. "I know you said you did on Thursday, but then today…"

Edward squeezed my shoulder. "I definitely want you. You sometimes overwhelm me, is all."

Compliment or insult? I buried my face against his neck as I felt the flame of a blush.

"We should be leaving now, if we're going to make it to your father's by six," he said, giving me another squeeze before releasing me.

I nodded and kissed his neck. "Thank you for today."

He got up from the sofa and offered me his hand to help me up. "I'm just glad you aren't running away from me, screaming as you go."

Perhaps I should be, I thought. There were a lot of weird things about Edward, a lot of things he wouldn't go into detail about, either because the reality of them truly was awful or because he wrongfully believed that. But I was drawn in; I wasn't going anywhere. I could only hope he'd tell me the truth in time, however he saw it. I knew pushing him was hopeless. He'd just pull away, and I knew I didn't want that.

"I'm pretty stubborn," I said to him as he pulled me up from the sofa. "I think it'd take a lot for me to do that." It was stupid and frightening, but I didn't think anything he could possibly tell me would get me to run away.

"Maybe." He smiled softly and kissed my forehead with one of his barely-there touches. "Come on, let's go see your father."