Thank you to Kisbydog08 and Duskwatcher2153 for the beta. You are so appreciated.

As my cell alarm rang somewhere in the distance, I was vaguely aware of a dull pounding in the front of my head. I could feel my pulse throb in my brain and in my eyelids, and I was terrified to actually open my eyes for fear the pain would be ten times worse.

My alarm went to snooze, and I was grateful for the silence. My mouth and throat were as dry as a Cabernet, and I decided in my haze that I wanted a drink—of anything—and hash browns. I dozed for several more minutes before the alarm went off again. I had no clue how many times it had already gone off.

Groaning, I opened my eyes hesitantly and then promptly closed them tight when the harsh daylight hit my retinas, making the headache intensify. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes and peered through the gap in my fingers.

On my nightstand, next to the glowing alarm clock I never used, were a bottle of water and my bottle of pain relievers. Did I put them there? It seemed unlikely. Yesterday evening I walked off a crime scene, went to the bar, and rode home with Edward Cullen.

EDWARD CULLEN.

I sat up abruptly, and the room began to spin violently. I closed my eyes as my bedroom seemed to tilt and turn counter-clockwise. "Oh Christ," I lamented, clutching my head, willing the vertigo to pass.

Okay, okay, I needed to think. What in the hell happened last night? Was I alone?

I eased back down onto the mattress and committed to lying perfectly still for the next few minutes, alarm be damned. I slid my hand across the bed and felt the coldness of the sheets. I thought I was alone, that was a good sign. Okay, I needed to fill in the details my brain was so obviously forgetting. I remembered sitting in The Dive and seeing Edward walk in. Things were coming back to me slowly but surely.

We talked, really talked, and I opened up to him—as much as I could tolerate anyway. I couldn't say why I felt so compelled to share the intimate workings of my life with him, but he seemed trustworthy somehow. Interested. It turned out we had more in common than I would have previously thought. We'd both experienced huge losses in our lives, and it seemed like both of us struggled to find someone who understood.

And for the first time, I felt like maybe someone did. At least on some level.

I leaned up against the headboard, snagged the bottle of pain killers and popped off the child-resistant cap. I tipped the bottle up and tapped my finger on the rim. The two pills I expected to tumble out of the container were followed by three more, so I took all five of them.

The pills dissolved on my tongue, causing me to shudder as I struggled to break the seal on my generic brand bottle of water. Cool relief finally met my tongue and washed away the bitter, metallic taste of the pills and quenched my dry mouth and throat that was courtesy of last night's drinking.

I sat up, more slowly this time, and rested on the edge of my bed. I definitely remembered Edward bringing me home. I remembered the feeling of his hands on my hips as he tried to relieve me of my gun belt; the feeling was beyond dangerous—and titillating. I dug my toes into the carpet and exhaled slowly, willing myself to forget the sensation. I still couldn't rule Edward out as a suspect. But God, it felt so amazing every time we touched. His skin was cold and firm, but I seemed to feel a jolt from him with every hint of contact. He hummed with static electricity, and I wondered what it would feel like over other areas of my body. I thought about the strength of his arms beneath me as he carried me upstairs. The intensity in his gaze dovetailed with the intensity of his touch.

I remembered saying goodnight at the door, watching him stand in the hallway with his hands tucked in his pockets in a fucking adorable gesture. He seemed… different last night. Dr. Jekyll had returned again, but how long would it be before Edward Hyde revisited?

My alarm chose that moment to ring once again. My knees wobbled as I rose to my feet and clutched at the nightstand for support. I shuffled down the hall, ghosting my hand over the wall to balance myself. I blinked against the early morning light and realized how thirsty I was once again. I'd sell a kidney for a giant iced tea with a lemon.

My cell was on the couch where Edward had laid me down after carrying me in last night.

Oh Jesus, he carried me in!

I grabbed my phone and silenced the annoying alarm before slumping down on the couch. It was 6:15 a.m. and I had no work-related texts—which was a blessing and curse. No texts probably meant there was nothing worth pursuing at the crime scene.

Crime scene. God, my neighbor was dead.

I didn't care what Mike suggested about me being too close to the crime, I was going to pursue this. What danger did he think I could be in? If the murderer was targeting me somehow, random people across Rochester didn't need to die. He would specifically pick off people closer to me and take me out at the end. Mike was looking for trouble where it didn't exist.

I brewed some tea while I got dressed and gathered my hair into a ponytail. I was going to plead my case to the chief and ask him to let me stay on the case—before Mike got to work.

I poured my steeped tea into a travel thermos with ice and set about gathering my things. I grabbed the long-overdue RSVP for the Policeman's Ball and sighed. I really ought to turn that in. I'd remember to drop it off if I put it in my bag. I looked around; my briefcase was leaning against the table leg. When I swung it over my shoulder I was met with an incredibly sweet, addicting smell—like caramel or candied pecans. Edward. My mind lurched forward, flashing with an excess of missing memories from last night: his hands on my body as he carried me upstairs to my apartment, his hand on my hip as he attempted to remove my holster and a caress to my hair—no, that must have been a dream.

I need to get out of here.

I grabbed my drink, my briefcase, my purse, and stopped at the door to get my gun down from the shelf. I fastened it around my waist and fished my keys out of my purse as I opened the door. On the other side of the threshold was a small box wrapped in brown paper.

I stopped cold, dropping my bags and keys.

Was Mike right? Was I a target?

I forced myself to swallow, and I could feel my heart thundering in my chest. What would it be then—a bomb? A plume of white powder? God only knows what might be inside that box.

Slowly, I stooped to a crouch and peered down at the square box without touching it. My name was printed on the package with a black marker, but there was no return address. Instead, the package bore the logo of a local home improvement store with a sticker that said "Sorry we missed you."

The store was owned by a local family, and it was obviously hand-delivered since there was no postage on the box. Was it safe? Was I being stupid? Maybe it was a promotional item. Maybe I had ordered something and forgotten about it.

I leaned out and looked down the hall in both directions to see if anyone else had a package on their doorstep too, but there was nothing.

This certainly didn't fit the method of operation that the killer had used in the past.

Before I knew it, I grabbed the package and tore off the brown paper wrapping. Inside was a note taped to a light timer.

A light timer?

Oh God, a bomb?

I gingerly unfolded the yellow legal paper as my heart began to race and noticed the penmanship was in stark contrast to that on the wrapping. It wasn't a long note, but I couldn't resist; I looked to the bottom of the page and saw Edward Cullen's perfect signature.

Bella,

You of all people should know what lurks in the dark. Do a guy a favor and leave a light on, will you?

Yours,

Edward

He was trying to tell me I needed a light in my apartment? I came home to a dark place every night. No biggie.

It was kind of sweet that he cared, though.

I gathered up my bags again and locked up before hurrying downstairs to the car. I tossed my bags inside and sat down, realizing how far away from the pedals and steering wheel I was. What the hell?

Oh yeah, Edward Cullen.

I sighed, adjusted the seat, and hurried into the office.

..::..

Third shift was just finishing up as the elevator doors opened and I raced through the department, nodding and waving at my fellow officers.

"Hey, Bella, what are you doing here so early?"

I threw my stuff into my cubicle and turned to see who was addressing me.

"Oh, hey, Steve, just getting a head start today. Any news on the crime scene Newton and Crowley were at last night?"

Steve McMillan was a nice enough guy. Too nice for me. He'd made a pass at me a few times, but I always tried to let him down gently.

"Nah, not yet. Tech Unit worked on it all night."

I stood by my earlier guess; it probably wasn't good news. "Ah well. Chief in?"

Steve shook his head. "No, he called in last night. His daughter had an emergency appendectomy last night. He isn't coming in today."

Fucking jackpot!

I tried to contain my smile as I ducked into my cubicle and booted up my computer. "That's too bad. Hey, have a nice day, Steve. I've got some shit to do."

I didn't watch him walk away. Instead, I began researching my neighbor, Morgan Parker.

A simple Google search gave me a nudge in the right direction. I was correct in identifying him as a Seneca, and it turned out he was very involved with the tribe as a historian. A tribal website featured photos of him at various events in the area.

This was good. He was involved with society, not like Saffire, who only had connections with people who didn't want to talk.

I printed off some addresses to different tribal places and checked with Steve to make sure Morgan's next of kin had been notified. When he confirmed they had, I hurried out of the building via the stairwell to bypass Mike. Climbing back into my car, I set off for the reservation.

It was about a two hour drive from the station, which afforded me some time to think about the last twenty-four hours.

I didn't know what to do with this new Edward Cullen I'd met. He was considerate, polite, and he seemed interested in me as a person. While I'm sure plenty of serial killers had similar M.O.'s, he knew where I lived and we had been alone. Serial killers took delight in playing games with their victims, but most would take advantage of an opening if one arose. The man just didn't seem to mesh with my notion of a serial killer anymore. Maybe I was getting too close to my suspect. Or maybe he wasn't my suspect at all. Maybe I had just been looking for a way to bring him into my life.

Getting involved wouldn't do me any good either. I wasn't the type to get involved because guys didn't stay. Guys got turned off by the odd hours, preoccupation with strange cases—murders, missing people, and stories with sad outcomes—and then there was me and my preoccupation with my own sad story. Edward Cullen wouldn't stick around.

I saw the sign for Exit 20 and followed the directions to the Seneca Museum. There were only a few cars outside, but a bus from a school in Olean was out front and letting off a group of high school students.

I parked at the very end of the lot and prepped myself before going in. I reorganized some paperwork, turned my cell to silent—ignoring the unread texts—and took a gulp of my now lukewarm iced tea. I climbed out of the car with my briefcase under my arm and began the short walk up to the building. It was likely that these people didn't know that poor Morgan was dead yet, but hopefully they could shed some light on the quiet, polite man who'd lived next door to me.

When I entered the museum, I easily found the gift shop and front desk where a young woman sat texting, proudly declaring her heritage by wearing a Turtle Clan hoodie. It was an interesting picture of ancient history and modernity.

I produced my badge from the lanyard around my neck and showed it to the girl. "I'm Detective Swan from the Rochester Police Department. Would anyone be available to speak regarding Morgan Parker?"

From the moment I introduced myself, she seemed to know what I would say. Her eyes pooled with tears, and she said something softly in a language I didn't understand. I saw she bore a beautifully beaded name tag, not unlike Morgan's bracelet, that read "Michelle." She must have already heard the news.

"Keith Blackbird worked with Morgan on tribal histories. He's leading a tour through the museum right now."

I dug a five dollar bill out from my pocket. "Could I tag along and listen?"

She nodded, waving away my money. "Of course."

I looked at her face, wanting to remember her. Today was a day that changed her life, it would never be the same. Though I had sympathy for the victims, death no longer saddened me in that same way. It was merely a statistic. It was unavoidable. This girl, however, must have known Morgan and truly felt the loss, the absence of him.

"I'm truly sorry," I offered, temporarily pocketing the money and giving her a sympathetic smile.

I left her in peace, dropping my money in the "Future Projects" donation box near the gift shop entrance and slipped into the museum behind the tour group.

No one questioned my presence as I hovered at the edge of the group. Perhaps the students thought I was an employee of the museum, perhaps Keith Blackbird thought I was a tardy chaperone. Like the students, I listened with rapt attention to the presentation about early Seneca history: origin stories, how clans were inspired by the animals, the cultural arts, and the longhouse exhibit and what life was like during the fall harvest.

Near the end of the tour, the students filed into a small, semi-circular auditorium for lectures and films. I took a seat at the very back. It was a beautiful room, not unlike sitting around a campfire. Fake trees and branches formed a canopy and the ceiling was alight with twinkling stars and shooting comets. Hidden speakers played sounds of crickets chirping, loons calling, and a fire crackling and popping. Other props adorned the walls—fur pelts, baskets, and intricately beaded belts in white and purple, among other things. My eyes drifted around the room in wonder until Keith Blackbird began to speak.

"Our community is very in tune with the seasons and telling stories is how we've passed our history from generation to generation. But we take our cues from Anglo culture too. Your holiday of Halloween, which is in a couple weeks, is a time for scary stories. The Seneca too have stories that involve monsters that can be shared around a campfire."

Keith stood before his audience, relaxed, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up exposing his forearms. He wore a Seneca Nation T-shirt beneath the flannel. His hair was shorter but feathered against his collar, and his eyes were a warm reddish-brown.

The students snickered or scoffed and settled in as Keith began to recount the story of two brothers who hunted and built a house together.

"One day the elder brother demanded they partition the house and each live in their own half. Neither brother would enter the home of the other."

"Ooh, scary!" one of the boys mocked, causing a round of laughter. Keith Blackbird smiled too.

"The elder brother said 'You can hunt birds and animals, but I will hunt people.'"

I felt inexplicably cold suddenly and my spine shuddered with a shiver.

"'Neither of us will marry or bring a woman into the house. If I do, you must try to kill me. If you do, I will kill you.'"

Keith took on the voice of his character; his tone bore a hint of malice. His brow furrowed and his lip sneered. The students were quiet now, their attention piqued and focused on the man before them.

"The men lived for some time, abiding by the rule. One day while the men were out hunting, a woman came to the younger brother's part of the house. The elder brother returned first, tracked the woman down, caught her, and ate her." Keith smirked and licked his lips.

My palms were clammy. His storytelling was so convincing. I actually felt nervous, scared, like prey. Even though I was in a room full of people, it was so easy to get caught up in the moment.

The kids gasped as well; their eyes were wide and their mouths hung open.

Keith was an excellent storyteller. He paused at all the right places and put tonal inflection on the right words.

"It happened many times. The younger brother warned the next woman who visited never to open the door to anyone.

"One day, while the woman visited, the elder brother knocked on the door asking for spare arrows to shoot a bear. The woman did not move from her place by the fire despite his urging. He eventually left, and the younger brother returned. The woman whispered, telling the younger brother what happened. The older brother overheard them and hollered out 'Who are you whispering to? Do you have a woman in there?'

"The younger brother knew a life and death struggle was coming. He told the woman they would battle and asked her for help. Knowing the elder brother would make himself look like the younger brother, the younger brother urged the woman to strike if she could. The woman tied a piece of squash shell to the younger brother's hair in hopes of differentiating the two men."

Keith Blackbird began to move around the room as he spoke, making eye contact with the kids. "In the morning, the two brothers met and began to fight with clubs and knives and eventually wrestling and grappling on the ground." Keith punctuated his words with bashing and stabbing motions making several of the kids lean back away from him.

"Both men urged the woman to strike the other. Unsure whom to strike because they looked identical, she finally spied the squash shell hidden in her man's hair and hit the elder brother over the head, killing him." Keith clutched at an invisible rock, sneaking up on one of the students who was busy texting and pretended to bash her over the head with the rock.

"Then, they burned the body on a pyre and scattered the ashes."

"Whoa!" a boy exclaimed as several of the girls cringed and shrieked "Ew!"

Keith shook his finger at the students. "But our story isn't over. The younger brother knew his brother would come back to life so the young man turned his woman into a cattail and shot her like an arrow with his bow." He stood behind one of the spotlights and drew his arm back as though he was drawing a bow.

"The young brother ran ahead and found where the cattail landed. He turned it back into the woman and they ran off. The next morning they heard the elder brother call out. The young brother transformed the woman into a tree stump, while he bewitched his moccasins to run ahead and lead the elder brother on the wrong path. They fooled him for one day before he turned back realizing he'd been tricked. He followed the real footprints." Keith feigned tracking imaginary footprints and pursued them around the room, in and amongst the students.

"The elder brother continued to chase his younger brother and the woman, but each time he got close, the younger brother outwitted him.

"Finally, the younger brother came upon his own family, the Frost and Great Cold People, and they vowed to stop the elder brother. When the older brother arrived, they beat him to death with turtle rattles, hammering flesh from bone."

At this, Keith Blackbird grabbed one of the many props around the room, a turtle shell fashioned like a maraca, and began to dance, rattling the turtle shell to keep tempo.

"The young man was reunited with his mother who said the elder brother stole the younger brother away as a boy. The younger brother and his wife stayed with his family and lived a happy life."

The students clapped when Keith finished and took a bow. It was an amazing presentation. One that gave me chills for sure.

"Any questions?"

Several hands shot up immediately, and Keith pointed at one of the girls.

"So, they were like, vampires or something?"

"No, dummy, they were cannibals!"

Keith sighed. "It is true that sometimes people of the Iroquois Confederacy did eat human flesh. Sometimes it was religious, sometimes they ate a ritualistic piece of their enemy to absorb their spirit, and sometimes they were just hungry. However, it was not prevalent. Anglo myths and legends contain people building houses out of gingerbread, carriages from pumpkins, or witches that ate children. Should we assume that is the norm?"

The students seemed to understand, nodding and shrugging.

"So what is the point of the story, Mr. Blackbird?" one girl asked.

"Some of it is entertainment value, and some is a lesson, just like your myths and legends. Don't open the door to strangers, think ahead, and use what you have. Sometimes, they just needed a story to explain the world they saw around them. Or, who knows, maybe it's true!" He laughed heartily, and some of the kids laughed with him, while others weren't so sure he was being funny.

With the lecture finished, the teacher escorted her students out of the auditorium and told them they could have thirty minutes in the gift shop. I hung back, waiting, as Keith put away his turtle shell and tidied up behind the students.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blackbird?"

"Oh! Hi, did you have a question?"

He had a friendly smile and stood boyishly, tucking a hand in his jeans pocket as he waited for me to approach.

"No, well, yes, sort of. I'm Isabella Swan from the Rochester Police Department. I wondered if we could speak regarding Morgan Parker."

The easy smile on his handsome face faded into a somber sigh. "Oh, Morgan," he lamented. "Sure, we can talk. Mind if we talk outside?"

I shrugged. "That's fine."

We walked back through the lobby, watching the students buying bracelets, T-shirts, and books in the gift shop. I was glad they had been exposed to some local culture.

We exited through the main doors and to the right, around the side of the building where a garden was planted in an elaborate Seneca design. Keith sad down on a marble bench, and I followed suit.

"I'm sorry to be here today under these circumstances. It's beautiful," I said, shielding my eyes with my hand and looking out at the garden.

"You've never been here before?" he asked interestedly.

"No, I'm from Washington State. I spent some time on the Quileute Reservation when I was little."

Keith nodded. "Come in spring. I'd like to plant an oak here for Morgan."

I liked the idea of that. Of living on. Becoming a part of the landscape. Growing tall, proud, powerful. "That would be nice," I offered before sighing. "Is there anyone in Morgan's life who might want to harm him? Is there anyone else the PD should contact?"

I opened my briefcase and took out a yellow legal pad, waiting for Keith's response.

"I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt Morgan. He was a good man. Morgan was an only child. His dad died when he was just a little kid. His mom worked really hard at one of the furniture factories nearby. She had an unexpected stroke on Morgan's sixteenth birthday. He dropped out of school, and he and his aunt took care of his mom. He kept studying at night and graduated just a couple months behind the rest of us. Morgan got a job at the casino, and we also consulted him about compiling some tribe history. His mom died six months ago, and he moved to Rochester for a change of pace and to have access to the library there to do some tribal research."

I scribbled some notes on my legal pad as Keith cracked his knuckles. "So no one was, maybe, jealous of Morgan's role in the community as a historian or angry that he left the area? Was there any inheritance to be split? Was he dating anyone?"

Keith shook his head. "Nah. Morgan's family didn't have any money, no insurance money to split up. Morgan didn't have time for a girlfriend either. He devoted his life to his mom and making her life better. Despite that, he was well liked and everyone was really understanding."

I doubted there was any connection between Morgan and the other victims, but I gave it a try. I flipped through my folder, carefully avoiding the grisly crime scene photos. I found the collage the department made up of all our victims from the photos obtained from the families.

"Do any of these people look familiar?" I questioned, handing him the photos.

He dutifully studied the pictures for a moment and shook his head. "Not at all."

I could have predicted that. I just couldn't make all of these people fit the modus operandi of the killer.

"Was Morgan the latest victim of the serial killer?" Keith's expression bore the pain and fear he felt. His brown was furrowed, his teeth worried at his lip, and he wrung his hands nervously.

"I'm strictly speaking off the record, but yes. Please know that we're taking this seriously. Our tech unit is working 24/7, and our detectives are following any and every lead."

Keith nodded glumly. "I know."

I sat poised with my pen over the paper, waiting. "Is there any names of friends or acquaintances that you want to give me? Any places that Morgan visited frequently? Anything can be the key."

We talked for a few more minutes, and he gave me the names of a couple contacts. The problem was that until six months ago, Morgan was nearly a recluse. He stayed home, taking care of his mother. My gut told me that none of Keith's leads would pan out. Our killer seemed to pick people at random, that was the mode of operation. Maybe he stood on the street corner and just picked people out and asked them the time. When they answered, he began plotting their death. But HOW?

Keith walked me back around the front of the building where the students were boarding their bus. "That was some story you told them," I said, watching them wave goodbye to Keith.

"Yeah, our people have some great stories for this time of year," he said, waving back at them. "Certainly gives you something to think about, huh?"

I nodded. "Yes! And you tell them so well. I had the chills sitting there listening, watching you act out the scenes. I definitely felt the need to turn around and look behind me to make sure no one was there."

He chuckled lightly. "Good, you had the reaction I was going for then."

He said goodbye, and I promised to return in the spring, and if I had any news regarding Morgan or the case. I liked it here. It was beautiful, peaceful. You didn't feel like life just ended after we died, but we became a part of something. I didn't know if I believed in heaven or hell, but I liked knowing that we wouldn't be forgotten after we were gone.

Back in my car, I turned on my cell phone and found I had sixteen missed messages.

Great.

Most were from Mike and Tyler asking where I was or issuing veiled threats if I 'meddled in the Parker case.' Pft. I wasn't scared of them. It wasn't until I got a text from the Deputy Commissioner on duty that I began to worry just a little. His text was a little more direct, gruffer.

'Swan, my office ASAP.'

Oops. Probably didn't look good that I'd ignored that one. I'd have to spend my afternoon playing a little kiss ass and using some naiveté.

I clicked to the last message and found an unknown sender.

Fr. Unknown Caller

Did you receive my gift?

I stopped cold.

Edward?

I felt my heart try to restart, for surely it had stopped. It stuttered several times, thumping loudly against my ribcage, nearly taking my breath away as I panicked.

I momentarily wondered where he got my number, but I remembered I gave the family several business cards.

I was shocked, nervous, exhilarated.

In a rush of emotion, I found myself typing a reply.

To: Unknown Caller

Edward?

I set my phone down on the seat and started the engine. Before I could get my seatbelt buckled I heard the chime telling me I had a new text.

Fr: Unknown Caller

Of course, Detective. Are you receiving gifts from any other strange men?

I smiled, adding him to my contact list.

To: Edward Cullen

No, just you. Thank you. And thank you for seeing me home last night.

I tucked my folder back into my briefcase and waited to see if he would—

A reply!

Fr: Edward Cullen

Bella, I'd be happy to see you home any night.

My God, what was I doing? What the fuck was wrong with me?

My fingers itched to reply, but what would I say? I knew what I wanted to say—How about tonight?

But I couldn't let myself.

I felt a strange dichotomy of safety and danger in his presence—the good kind of danger: intense, all-consuming, reckless, and if my dreams were any indication, passionate.

But was he a suspect? Should he be?

I opted for polite, restrained.

To: Edward Cullen

Thanks.

I began my drive back to Rochester and went straight to the station. Mike and Tyler were engaged in deep conversation when I stopped off at my cubicle. They dropped their voices, but their narrowed eyes let me know I was the topic of conversation.

My visit to the Deputy Chief's office went nearly as well. He agreed with Mike that I was not only too close to the Morgan Parker case, but that I could be a target too. I presented my notes from my discussion with Keith to back up the randomness of the crimes and to sell myself as the best investigator on the team. The Deputy Chief couldn't argue that. I took action and got results.

He wanted to put me in protective custody or in a safe house, which I absolutely vetoed. I eventually relented to let patrols check on me when they went by. He accepted my offer but threatened me with protective custody if I followed up on Morgan's case again. I had to turn over my notes too. It was beyond disappointing.

Since I was working exclusively on the serial killings, I spent the rest of the day tying up some loose ends, calling some contacts, and did some more research. At six p.m., I called it a day.

When I arrived home, I opened the door to a dark apartment. How did I never realize just how murky and potentially dangerous it could be? I always kept the blinds shut and even had light blocking curtains to keep the light out. My hours were all over the place, so I liked to keep things dark to help me sleep. Maybe a part of me just didn't care if it was dangerous.

I entered the apartment, turned on the lights, and saw Edward's gift where I had left it that morning. I couldn't help but smile.

After settling in and hanging my gun belt on the shelf by the door, I set the timer to come on in the early evening.

The night passed in a blur of channel surfing, a frozen pot pie, and repeatedly checking my cell for texts from…strange men.

At eleven, I turned on the news; Morgan's death was the lead story. Newton gave an interview. The idiot really had no idea how to use the media. I nodded off on the couch for twenty minutes before Edward's light timer clicked off and I was immersed in darkness.

I dragged myself off the couch, exhausted. My feet were heavy, and I stumbled down the hall to my room. I shimmied out of my pants, tore off my shirt, and unhooked my bra. I left everything exactly where it fell. I didn't care; no one ever came over anyway. Pulling back the comforter and sheet, I slid into bed wearing only my boyshorts. The blades of the fan whirring overhead helped lull me back to sleep and the breeze flitted over my skin, cooling me. I began to drift off immediately.

I was warm despite the fall day. The sun was peeking through the clouds, heating the interior of my grandpa's old aluminum boat. I could hear the gentle lapping sound of the water against the hull.

"Hungry, Isabella?"

I leaned over and looked over at the gunny sack floating in the water, tethered to the boat, full of salmon. I was starving.

"Yes, daddy. Can we go back now?" I whined, dipping the tip of my finger in the rushing water. "Where's mom?"

The reel clicked as dad turned it, fighting another silver salmon.

"At the beach. She'll be there when we get back and have the fire going, I hope. We'll eat lunch on the shore."

The boat drifted under a Sitka spruce, and I shivered as we entered the shade. Dad cranked the reel again, and I saw the rod arc and bend with tension. "Soon, B—"

There was a sudden bang, and the boat rocked violently, almost tipping me out over the port side. I grabbed onto the strut that held the seat to the wall of the boat. I looked over my shoulder to find a man standing in the boat behind my dad. There was another loud thud behind me as another person dropped out of the tree above us, rocking the boat again.

I couldn't, didn't want to, see their faces. Scared, startled, I drew my knees up, wrapped my arms around them tight, and buried my head in my lap.

"W-who are you?" I heard my father's voice break, and I knew he was worried. He was a cop; he was strong. I'd never heard fear in my dad's voice—not unless he was afraid mom or I was hurt.

The person behind me, a woman, spoke. Her voice was falsely-sweet. "Well, we were just watching you and Isabella fish here."

At the sound of my name, I heard dad's fishing pole drop to the bottom of the boat and scrape across the floor. I heard the splash as it went over, and I briefly wondered if the fish could get loose or if it would die.

The man spoke up. His voice was raspy, sharp, and bitter. "We've just run out of bait, you see, but then we stumbled upon you. Wanna share?"

It was then that I heard the most awful sound I'd ever heard or would ever hear.

The scuffle was violent; I could tell even though I didn't look. I could hear my dad's feet flailing and clunking as he kicked the floor of the boat with his hiking boots.

I lifted my head ever so slightly in the midst of the struggle when I heard a strange gurgling sound. In the brief moment that I peeked over my knees, I saw the man bent down over my dad, holding him down. I could see my dad's face and his expression was burned forever in my mind. His eyes were wide, frozen, and his mouth hung open, slack.

"You don't want to see this, little bird," the woman said, pushing my head back down.

I couldn't cry. I was too scared.

I tried to ignore the sounds—choking, gurgling, and struggling. I could hear the squeak of my dad's boot across the metal deck of the boat, and I could hear a different lapping sound; not the sound of water cresting against the hull. My eyes squeezed closed, and I clapped my hands over my ears. I began to sing the song my dad always hummed to me when I'd call him into my room in the middle of the night.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine; you make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you…"

As I neared the end of the chorus, I heard one final loud gasp. I looked up over my knees and saw my dad's body go slack.

"Please don't take my sunshine away."

I heard a wet ripping sound and felt the boat rock a little, but I buried my head back down in my lap.

I heard the clunk of shoes and could see unfamiliar boots when I parted my knees and looked down at the floor.

"Isabella?" I knew I should look up when addressed, but I couldn't.

I felt a cold hand, colder than I could ever imagine, reach into my personal space and lift my chin. His skin didn't feel normal; it was hard, lifeless, like a porcelain doll. He raised my face and stroked my cheek. I wanted to shrink away from his icy-cold skin. If I was scared before, I was terrified now. My heart raced, and my mouth was dry.

The sun had come back out and was hovering over the man's right shoulder, rendering me nearly blind. The woman behind me stroked my hair once before holding my face between her hands, immobilizing me. The man began to lean down, and I blinked my eyes to block out the sun, I could see nothing as I gazed up into the bright sunlight. I thought it odd that it was so sunny because I swore I heard thunder in the distance.

The sound began to grow, and it seemed like the ground was shaking. I strained to keep my watering eyes open.

Suddenly there was something large and tawny-grey sailing through the air, knocking the man into the water.

A gigantic dog, no, a wolf, was standing in the water at the port side of the boat. It was between me and the man, and it was nearly twice as tall as a person. It was the biggest thing I had ever seen. He let out a growl causing me to wince and cover my ears.

I felt the boat rock again, and I looked over my shoulder to find the woman gone, scrabbling up into a tree. The only detail I noticed was her red hair twisted into a thick braid.

The wolf took a step forward, lunging toward the man, causing a swell of water to crash into the boat. I felt us begin to drift downstream once again.

It was then that I looked over at my dad. His body was limp, legs splayed out at wrong angles, and one arm hung over the starboard side. His eyes were fixed open, the twinkle in them gone. Blood seeped from a gaping hole in his neck near his shoulder. His throat was ripped apart, his shirt soaked with blood. The body looked deflated, emaciated.

I vomited, my body retching uncomfortably. The tears flowed freely now.

We were still far too close to the wolf and the man who was now growling just as loudly. I didn't want to see anymore. I climbed under the seat at the bow. Before I closed my eyes, I reached out and grabbed the cuff of my dad's pant leg. I felt the boat drift along.

I didn't open my eyes again until I heard my name being called.

I was surprised it was dark now. I'd known we'd run ashore some time ago, but I couldn't open my eyes, couldn't cry out, couldn't move.

I heard splashing as people came toward the boat. I heard familiar-sounding voices.

"Bella?"

"Oh Jesus! Charlie!"

"Bella! Bella! Are you okay?"

I felt a set of hands grab my arms, dragging me out from beneath the seat.

"Is she—?"

The arms drew me in to a warm body. I could smell the tobacco on his flannel, and I knew who it had to be.

"Bella? It's Billy. Can you hear me?" His voice was breaking with emotion. I could feel the tears dropping from his chin to my face.

I couldn't answer; I was shivering with cold and damp. I was afraid to open my eyes because I knew what I would see, and I didn't want to see it again.

Billy drew me in close and wrapped his flannel shirt around me. I clung tighter to him.

"I think she's in shock."

I rode in another boat back to the boat launch. Billy never let me go. I had closed my eyes again, but I could hear some of my dad's other friends from the reservation—Old Mr. Quil and Harry Clearwater among them—as we brought my dad's body back.

Billy's voice was low and somber but I heard him whisper in my ear. "What did you see, Bella?"

I gasped as the memory resurfaced. I couldn't really see the mystery man or his face, but I remembered the way he crouched over my dad, the gaping hole in his neck. I remembered the gigantic wolf-dog and how the man and woman seemed afraid of it, and yet it didn't seem to want to hurt me.

I tried to open my mouth and tell Billy what I'd seen, but I couldn't. Nonsensical noise came out and nothing more.

"It's okay, honey. Were there other people on the boat with you?"

I nodded against his shoulder.

"Okay, good girl. How many? One…two…"

I nodded again, more vehemently this time.

"Two? Did you see anything else?" he hedged, his voice wary.

I swallowed and stammered. The sound of my voice seemed too loud to my brain even over the sound of the motor attached to the boat. "A-a d-dog," I whispered back. I didn't want to admit it was a wolf. It had saved me, and I didn't want to see it hunted.

Billy said no more.

The boat moved up river toward the jetty. I think I fell asleep. The next thing I remembered was Billy patting my back.

"Bella, open your eyes now. We need to get out of the boat."

I cracked open my right eye and peeked through my lashes, fearful of what I might see. We were stopped at the end of the long pier at the boat launch. The parking lot was alive with emergency personnel and emergency vehicles. I opened both eyes and began to look around. It wasn't just Forks Police here, but tribal police, and Clallam County too.

In and amongst the chaos was my mother. Her face was illuminated by the bright work lights the police had set up. She was bent at the waist, one arm wrapped around her stomach, one hand pressed to her mouth to hold in the screams. She shook with sobs.

I felt instantly guilty. When she waved goodbye at the pier earlier that morning she'd hollered out "Take care of each other!"

My dad upheld his part of the bargain.

I had not.

I hung my head and watched the red, white, and blue lights from the police cars and ambulances flicker over the dark water. I wanted my mom, but she was in no shape to console me; she had lost her high school sweetheart. As some of our friends from the reservation tried to help my mom, I was whisked away to the police officers on scene.

I was still in shocked as I sat on the hood of a squad car and tried to tell them what had happened.

But what did happen? I had seen a man and a woman jump out of a tree onto our boat. The man had bent low over my dad as though he was whispering to him. I'd seen the big wolf-dog, but I hadn't really seen what happened to my dad. I just knew the outcome.

I didn't want to think of it anymore. I could see his shirt dyed red and smell the blood.

I stuttered and stammered to the Clallam County cop until Billy came over to help. The policeman asked if I'd seen an animal, and I nodded. I knew it was wrong to lie to a police officer. He and Billy talked a lot about bears, mountain lions, and wolves. Billy said he'd seen attacks from all three animals before.

I didn't say anything else.

Not only did I not want to relive the moments, but I didn't want to talk about the man and the woman. What if they came back? I began to consciously make an effort to push the memories away, to forget. I didn't want to remember that the woman had red hair, or that the man had on a knit hat, so I didn't.

My last memory of the day was my dad's deputy handing me a plastic police badge and thanking me for being brave. I didn't care; my mother was climbing into the back of an ambulance with my dad. I was alone, scared, and I desperately wanted a hug.

I stayed with the Blacks on the reservation that night.

I didn't awake with a start.

The dream didn't scare me anymore, I'd made an effort to forget what I could, but sometimes it left me feeling unsettled. I could feel the ache in my chest at the loss all over again. No doubt the dream had been rekindled by the scary stories I'd heard at the cultural center earlier that day.

Months and years of therapy couldn't get me to recall anything with more precise detail. Gentle probing in my mind by a psychologist made me all the more insistent that the memories were perfectly safe right where they were—in the dark, deep recesses of my mind. My father's case was closed; his death chalked up to a random animal attack. I vowed then and there that if I could solve my father's murder, I would. I wanted to solve other murders too; I never wanted anyone to feel as awful as I felt standing alone on that pier.

Only two people really knew the truth about the man and the woman in the boat that day: me and Billy. Though I stayed with the Blacks for the rest of the week; no one said anything. I didn't see the mystery man and woman's faces, or I had blocked it out, but I remembered the sound of his voice; the alluring tone, and the way his skin felt on mine: hard, cold, solid.

I rubbed my hands over my face and sighed. The dream hadn't been this vivid in years. I remember the feeling of the man's hands stroking my face.

I sat up abruptly.

I realized I had felt that touch one other time. Much more recently.

Edward.

I was panting. I felt cold, faint.

It was the same feel, yet different. The cold, the firmness, was the same, but the intent was different. Edward's touch hummed with an electric current that jolted me to the core.

My mind was racing, scrambled. I couldn't make sense of the jumble of thoughts and emotions rattling inside me.

Who was Edward Cullen?

Why did Edward remind me of the man who killed my father?

My dad's murderer was never caught, and I knew it wasn't a wolf. I couldn't and didn't want to see what the strange man had done to my dad, but it caused his death.

Why, of all people, did Edward remind me of a murderer?

Furthermore, what was he?

Author's Note: No disrespect is meant toward the Seneca Nation. I took some liberties with the description of the Cultural Center. The real center can be found here: www (dot) senecamuseum (dot) org (slash) and I melded it with the museum on my own tribe's reservation.

The Seneca legend was true. It was collected by Mr. Jeremiah Curtain in 1922. You can read more Seneca legends here: www (dot) sacred-texts (dot)com (slash)nam (slash) iro (slash) sim (slash) sim61 (dot) htm

I will also link both on my profile page.

Thank you, as always, for reading.