Chapter 34

~Bella~

I was crouched behind the grocery store, beside a dumpster, waiting for Mrs. Ashbury to walk by when he caught me.

I'd been doing this a lot lately, sneaking off to town while Edward painted his house. He seemed to work better alone, always lost so deep in his head. I wasn't much different, perfectly content to lose myself in the quiet solitude of his cameras. Pressing lenses up against the clover, through the grass, into the trees, fiddling until my exposures caught hidden gems of life: pinprick flowers and tiny insects, herds of cattle, that big gaping skyline—everything a reminder that the wide open prairie wasn't as dead as it felt. The silent whisper wasn't so quiet anymore and the ground not so unyielding—the sun dampening from painful burn to unpleasant warmth—and I felt like I was finally stepping free from a long and frigid bout of winter.

I'd hung a snapshot on the refrigerator that I'd taken of Edward high up on his ladder, shirtless in the sunshine and framed by the peaked eaves. Another one, tucked into the bathroom mirror, of a midsummer violet, its sprawling field of companions blurred into a purple haze behind it. A shot of the sunset, the sky blazing, and our two houses squatting, shadowed and dark, as if squaring off for a fight in the hallway where Millie's photos used to hang. Edward materializing through the gloom as he walked toward the camera, taped to the wallpaper right there by the anniversary photo in the living room.

Papering his home in better memories than the ones hidden in his attic.

Life, as seen through a camera lens.

A cop car rolled up right in front of me.

Jacob rolled his window down, squinting at me in confusion. "What in the hell are you doin'?" He eyed me suspiciously, and I stood, shuffling my feet. I knew what this looked like, but I'd come to find that stealth was my best tool if I wanted to capture people the way I saw them. Outside the box of awareness, in their natural environment, unassuming and completely fucking bonkers as usual.

Case in point: Mrs. Ashbury wore polyester pantsuits, bought hairspray in bulk, and hauled her small, yappy dog around in a baby carrier strapped to her chest.

"Taking photos."

"Of what?"

I shrugged. He shook his head, eyes falling to the camera hanging around my neck. The Leica MP. Beautiful black and polished silver, I liked the weight of it best out of that entire box of cameras. I liked the purr it made as it wound film and the audible click of the shutter. I liked the photos it took, something about the colors and the way the light stood still for this camera.

"Where'd you get that?"

"My neighbor."

I steeled my face, but right there under the surface was the thrill I still got when I thought about slipping that eyepatch off. When he rolled over in the morning and blinked at me and smiled that smile of his. Kissing his eyelids and letting him undress me with one momentary look. My heart was jumping up and down right beneath my skin, glowing something that felt like lust and adoration, all head over heels.

It showed, and I knew it.

"Your neighbor, huh? You steal it?" Jacob cracked a grin at me, the boy in him sparking to life for a fleeting moment. We both knew that, between us, he'd been the childhood thief.

"Fuck you, Jake," I laughed, "he gave it to me."

"Heard he's been helping you out."

I glared at him. "Imagine that. Wonder who told you. My leg still isn't amputated, either."

"Glad someone's doing something," he scoffed. "I worry about you a fair bit, way out there, all alone."

I wanted to blurt out that I wasn't actually alone at all, between the fawn and Edward, I was never alone. "I'm tough," I said, even though I really didn't feel tough at all.

"You can be tough as you want, chick, but I see you." He finally took off those sunglasses, and we were both back there, like something in the fabric of time had pinched together, launching us from an alleyway to a hallway, all carpet and blood and death rites. My stunted explanations and his advice to play stupid: an accident—you didn't see it; you found her; you know nothing. I clutched my arms around myself, trying to keep everything contained.

"I think I'm in shock."

"I think you have PTSD, but that's just me." Jacob fisted the steering wheel, huffing heavily. "Listen, Bells." He motioned me closer, lowering his voice, and my jumpy heart ratcheted up a few hundred knocks per second as he continued. "They're coming back to the house. They want to find the gun."

That bullet was a burning supernova in my pocket.

"You told me you'd hold them off."

Jacob clicked his tongue, sounding unhappy. "I'm not saying you have the gun, Bells, but if you do—you'd better get rid of it."

"It's gone," I exhaled.

"Good." He nodded squinting down the building toward the parking lot. "They can't do much without a weapon, but they'll tear apart the house to find it, Bells."

I flew home.

The shortcut through old Roy Eppich's field was the scenic route, all flox and black-eyed Susans, but I didn't see any of it. Couldn't feel anything. The camera bounced against me as I hurtled through the flowers, my breath lost somewhere far behind me.

They were coming. And I had no explanation. None. Gun, buried. Bullet, pocketed. Her room in ruins from my hissy fit. Belongings scattered in the grass. The tattered shambles that made up the rest of the house. Everything teetering on the verge of collapse and me right there in the middle of the rubble.

Edward was almost done—the paint job he'd begun weeks ago close to completion and so bright, shiny, and new in the sunshine. The house looked so happy after being sad for so long. He was standing in the driveway inspecting his work as I ran up, his warpaint and his sunburns and his grin hanging sideways at my flushed face and my tangled hair and my wild eyes. He probably thought I was excited about some shot I had taken when the reality of me was so much worse, and I hadn't even taken a single photo all day.

I barreled into him, clambering up into his arms and putting my mouth anywhere I could reach, kissing him instead of screaming out loud. I clutched him closer, dragging my nails across his shoulders, my teeth in his neck, my thorns hooking him close enough to bleed. Close enough to crawl inside of him.

I worked out of his grip, my vision starting to wobble, head gone light and heart so, so heavy, I could feel it throbbing in the soles of my feet. I fumbled with his belt buckle, numb fingers because I couldn't breathe to save myself. Numb mouth because I'd put everything I had into not screaming the whole run home. Numb brain because there was way too much going on inside of me to even begin to sort out the tangled mess.

Edward grabbed my hands and took one step back, with his belt flopping undone between us.

"What's going on?" He glared at me, asking again—too smart, too aware, too used to evasive tactics to allow me to slip anything by him. I ignored him, closing the gap between us in a full body rub, like maybe I could sandpaper hard enough to smooth us both back out. He gripped my wrists and pinned me like a butterfly, dagger eyes and snake fangs. "Bella. What happened?"

"I just need to not think for a while," I hedged, squirming in his grip. Avoiding his gaze. Burning up from the inside. Desperate for a distraction, any distraction, him especially, and give it to me now.

Turn me off, on, up, down—I didn't know—just do something to me.

I lunged for him.

"I'm not your fucking play toy," he barked, flinging me away. I stumbled, but he caught me by the elbow before I fell, right back where'd he'd been before I even had a chance to feel hurt by it. He snatched me up close enough to breathe on my face. "Don't shut down on me. Not now."

I could hear him in my head, breathe breathe breathe, and I took a giant, shaking ribcage full of air.

"What. Happened." He said it again, clipped and demanding.

"They're coming to the house," I stammered. "They want the gun."

Edward's brows pinched. "Who is? The cops?"

I nodded, my eyes brimming an entire salty ocean, throat closing up, and everything was shaking. My legs, my head, my anxious, skittering heart. His eyes zipped straight to the flagpole, his mouth set in a hard line. He studied it for a long time before looking back to me.

"How do you even still have that thing? Didn't they ask for it… before?" He faltered, looking conflicted about his question, needing to know so much more to even begin to understand my fear.

"They looked. But it got lodged under the fridge. It took me six days to find it, the day before the storm… the day before—" I gulped, staring up at him. "The day before you came."

Edward's eyes widened. "It's only been that long? All of that?" He gestured toward the peaked roofline of my house, encompassing so much in that sweep of his hand. I nodded, feeling something start to wrench down the middle of my breastbone, an ache that left me breathless.

"Oh, Bella." He sighed my name, hands around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I let him hold me upright.

"Best thing to do about it is dig it up. Wipe it. Hide it somewhere they'll be bound to find it. Put an end to it all."

"We can't just do that." My words clattered through me, wheels undone from their tracks, and my heart so high up in my throat I could taste it. "It's not that simple."

"Why not? They come; they find it; they go."

"If they want the gun, they're going to want the bullet." I pulled the shiny metal from my pocket, always oddly cool to the touch. "And if they have those things, they're going to want me."

His face went blank.

He stared at me, hard.

Something in his face had changed as though his bones had softened, or some of his demons had finally clawed themselves free, now that the patch was gone. I couldn't help looking left. I'd seen so much of his right, but his left eye… it looked deeper, bottomless—struck through with a shade of blue I hadn't found in his other eye, not even after all of this time. He was working it out, there behind the blue, and I could see the moment the truth hit him. Such a small detail for such monstrous, terrifying consequences.

"She didn't—"

"No."

He swallowed. "You."

I nodded, closing my eyes, sure that I'd never be able to forget what it looks like to stare down the barrel of a gun. "I thought she was going to break my wrist when we fought. She shot at me, and I tried to get it away, but she fought me so hard I was sure she was going to win. I was sure whatever monster had taken up inside of her was finally going to win. She was going to break me somehow—my arm or my heart or my life. We fell over, and I got a grip on the gun. I meant to throw it, but I pulled the trigger instead."

I'd never be able to forget what it felt like to shoot. To force that gun into action. To pull the trigger.

"Sounds like an accident to me."

"Maybe, but not really."

"A wise person once told me that we do selfish things we regret. In this case, I'd say it was survival." He clutched my face, holding me between his palms. "If the choice was your life or hers, I'm glad you picked yourself."

One o'clock in the morning.

Edward and the fawn were curled up in bed, all gangly limbs and snoring. His hand rising and falling with the gentle push of her ribs. Her ears twitching in her dreams. Stolen covers and pilfered pillows.

There was no sleep left for me in that bed.

I was in the attic.

The moon was enormous, full to bursting and pressing its face down against the sky like it could kiss the prairie—everything burnished silver under its glow. The grass pooled and eddied in the nighttime breeze, a mercurial ocean with the crumpled boat of my home casting the only shadow. I stared at it for a long while through the window, wondering when everything had gone so sideways. How I'd been flung so far out to sea and had lasted so long swarmed by sharks. Looking at it now, from Edward's house, felt like climbing aboard a life raft.

I swear the house sunk a little further into to the grass.

The digital camera had been banished up here after I found Emmett. A box in the shadows—it gave me a chill just pulling it free, goosebumps up my arms. It was the only camera I'd want to take such a sad, haunted photo on anyway. Fitting that the ghost of my house lived forever with the ghost in that camera. The camo jacket was crumpled haphazardly beneath the digital, and I wrapped myself in the uncertain safety of it to snap my shot.

The efficient click of the shutter, the stillness—no gears or film to wind—set my teeth on edge.

There was a new box, one not yet covered in dust, and a fresh set of footprints leading to and away from it. The return address was from somewhere in New York, and it was marked with several urgent stickers, glaring red warnings that had gone unheeded.

I was beyond the point of feeling guilty about all of my snooping.

I pulled out a letter.

Dear Mr. Cullen,

We are pleased to announce that you are the 2018 recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography, an honor we give in the face of tremendous personal tragedy. Your compelling photo series, originally published in the New York Times, demonstrates a level of skill and bravery while documenting the unfolding crisis in the Middle East with unflinching realism. Each image is provocative, impeccably composed, and we commend your dedication to producing such memorable work under extreme hazard.

We intend to dedicate this year's award in the memory of your late brother. His sacrifice and your poignant portrayal of the realities of war faced by our service members, despite your personal connection, has touched the hearts and minds of many. Please join us in celebrating his life, as well as your career achievements, on October 13th, 2018.

Sincerely yours,

Pulitzer Prize Board

2018

In the same envelope was a certificate, fancy embossed gold, and his name written in large, elegant script. An invitation to the ceremony dinner, a blank RSVP card, and an unmailed return envelope.

A check.

Uncashed.

Fifteen thousand dollars to his name.

He was famous. More so than I'd ever imagined. I knelt in the dust before one of those countless stacks of photographs, all of them leaning face-first into the walls as though they were holding up the roof. The digital sat in my lap, strap limp against my knees, as I inspected Edward's art, looking at them through a whole new lens.

A desert, caught up full bloom in a wash of golden flowers. A girl holding a pinwheel in the air as she ran pell-mell down a dirty, rubble-strewn street, a bit of bright barreling through a scene of recent devastation. Women sunbathing on bright towels, the pale soles of their feet and a harsh, jutting city scraping the sky behind them. A cat, thin and hungry, sitting in the windows of a long-forgotten building, the roof caved in, half-consumed by a ravenous jungle.

The up and down was almost too much. The beauty smashed between the wreckage, butterflies between bomb shelters, just enough of the good to keep me looking through the bad. Every photo sent a thrill through my heart, studying the way the light moved, the colors breathed, and the shots framed themselves—some of it unbelievable. The things he had done, the way he had done them, capturing the impossible moments of nature, the improbable moments of humanity...

I thought I knew how to coax a camera, how to make it sing, but Edward spoke a secret language only those tiny black boxes could hear. He could whisper promises into them, and they would lay themselves open in a way I doubted they would for anyone else. Some kind of magic embedded in his fingers, his eye. The digital hummed under my touch as though it agreed.

An elephant dusted in red clay. A boat upturned on top of a car. A tree-lined street, anywhere in the world. A man scowling into the face mask of riot-geared police officer. A glacier floating solemn and unhurried through a vast stretch of water.

And there was that blue. The one in his eye, matched shade for shade by a solid piece of ancient ice, the deepest indigo clutched in the center like a heartbeat.

He'd seen such wonderful things. Terrible sometimes, but wonderful still. His world growing bigger and bigger with every photograph, even as mine felt smaller and smaller. I couldn't for the life of me understand why he'd banished himself here. To the flatlands, the sorrowful Midwest.

To me.

I wrestled my hands down into the pockets of the jacket, freezing, and caught so deep in the blue of that glacier that nothing felt real. The left pocket clunked hard against my knuckle, and I fumbled my fingers around something cool to the touch.

The zippo.

Engraved with E.C. in fancy script.

I stood, the digital in the dust by my feet, and held it out at an arm's length, flipping it open and striking the wheel with my thumb. The little flame sputtered to life, dancing a bit before it settled tall and straight, brightening the rafters above me. I blinked, once, twice, the dark fading.

Edward had spent so long with only half of his vision, all of the work falling to his right eye. His good eye. I squinted my own, the attic around me warping to the left as my vision shifted. My faraway house sat hunched in the moonlight, framed by the attic window. I moved my hand until the little flame sat right over the porch.

The tiny flare doused the house in burning, clean light— a baptism of flame—wiped out in a kiss of heat.

Mad love to LayAtHomeMom, Hadley Hemingway, and CarrieZM for making us pretty.

Enjoy, and leave us your thoughts!

HB&PB