18

Carlisle felt his eyes widen as he shifted his gaze back to the kitchen, where he could hear Esme and Edward talking to Bella. She, of course, wasn't saying much of anything. Carlisle had noticed that she became almost mute when she was faced with people she didn't know, or trust. He suspected that was her way of protecting herself from giving up too much, putting them in danger. She truly believed Sam Uley would find her, hurt them in order to get to her.

That was one of the reasons Carlisle had called Peter, of course. To get an outside point of view on what dangers lurked around them with Bella staying with them. He and Peter had met during their first year at UW, both of them pre-med majors, even though he later changed his focus to psychology. Anthony and Elizabeth had moved their family from Chicago to Seattle when Carlisle got a full ride to UW.

Turned out, Peter was assigned to be his roommate, and they quickly became friends. He'd taken him home with him at Christmas, knowing Peter didn't have much family of his own, and his mother and father had taken one look at him and invited him in. Treated him like he was one of their boys.

In fact, Peter was the one who introduced Carlisle to Esme, junior year. He'd taken her on a date, but he came back to the apartment the two men shared, he said she wasn't the one for him, but that Carlisle should meet her. He gave him her number and, well, they met, fell in love, and had Peter to thank.

"You think she'd hurt Beth? Hurt us?" Carlisle asked, the words hurting him to even speak out loud.

"Not intentionally," Peter said, drawing Carlisle's attention back to him. "All I'm saying is that she is riding a very thin line between trusting you all and making a break for it. You say she's important to you? To all of you?"

Carlisle nodded. "She's become family. Her sister Rosalie has been dating Emmett for the last year, but even if she wasn't Rosalie's sister, she would still be a part of our family, Pete. She's just . . . important to us, all of us."

Peter nodded. "And you are important to her, Carlisle. You, and especially Edward. Every question I asked, she would look at you or him for . . . approval to even nod her head, Carlisle. The son of a bitch who took her? He brainwashed her into truly, honestly believing that she didn't have a name, that's she is a nothing. That kind of . . . psychological warfare isn't something she's just going to get over because some nice people make her feel safe. Think of it like being in the middle of a hurricane, right? The outer edges are what causes the most damage, right? The heavy rains and incredible winds? But when the eye, the very center is the calm. That girl is in the eye of her storm, Carlisle, and if you're not careful, you and your family are going to get caught up in the storm."

"So what am I supposed to do? Kick her out? Throw her back out onto the streets?" Carlisle asked. "You didn't see her two days ago, when . . . when every inch of her was covered in filth, Peter. Absolute filth. The way she just . . ." Carlisle shook his head. "No, I can't just throw her out, Peter. I can't throw her away like she's not a part of my family, our family."

"Of course, that's not what I am saying," Peter said, putting his hand up. "Pushing her away is going to do more harm than keeping her too close. I'm just saying that you need to be careful, extremely careful that she's not pushed too far, too soon. The fact that she's already divulged anything about what she's been through over the last eight years is a miracle. Most of the adolescents that I treat with even a degree of the trauma she's clearly suffered don't open up like she has to you, or Edward. Especially Edward."

Carlisle smiled. "Yeah, we noticed it, too."

"How's he been doing?"

"Not good," he admitted with another glance toward the kitchen. "He doesn't . . . I don't know, Peter, smile the way he did. You know, he used to be about art and music, and culture, but now, he's just cold and distant. He put on mask and pretended, but there was this . . . darkness in his eye all the time. At least, he was until he met her. I heard them last night, listening to Claire De Lune."

"Her favorite," Peter murmured with a sigh. "I've been worried about him," Peter confessed. "I wanted to reach out, but I knew he would tell me to fuck off."

Carlisle snorted. "He would have. He just . . . He blames himself, Peter, and it doesn't matter how many times we've told him it wasn't his fault, that it was just an accident."

"Survivors guilt." Peter gripped the back of his neck and shifted his eyes back to the kitchen. "Maybe I'm wrong, Carlisle. Maybe he's enough to keep that girl together."

"But if he's not," Carlisle said, quietly, "God help us all. Losing her would be the end of him, Peter. He won't survive losing another person he loves again."

"I suspect you're right." Peter placed his hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "I'd like to hang around for a while. Watch her for myself, if that's okay?"

He quickly agreed and led Peter back into the kitchen, where they found Bella and Edward sitting at the table, turned toward one another, and staring into each other's eyes.

Maybe Peter was right, he thought. Edward just might be her savior.

—SfH—

She wasn't sure she like Peter. He seemed nice, not as nice as Edward and her pancake man, but nice enough. It was more of the way he watched her, like he was waiting for her to do something, say something. It was odd and uncomfortable, yet she wasn't afraid of him, either.

"Hey, come on," Edward murmured, slipping his hand into hers.

They'd just finished eating, her once again demolishing more pancakes than he had, and were seated at the table, staring into each other's eyes. She couldn't explain why he made her feel better, calmer. When she felt the panic starting to rise, he would hold her hand, or whisper her name. Why, though? Why did he have that effect on her?

"Where are we going?" she asked, standing up as he did.

"Just outside. It's a beautiful morning. Thought maybe you'd like to sit on the porch swing with me."

She bit her lip as she looked around, Carlisle and Peter were pretending not to listen as they helped Esme clean up the mess they'd made in the kitchen while she learned how to make pancakes. She should have helped, but the thought of sitting on the front porch with Edward was better than being watched by them.

"Um, okay."

"You can trust me, Bella."

She snapped her eyes to his. "I know."

Edward smiled before giving her hand a quick tug and leading her out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out onto the front porch. He sat on the porch swing, patting the wood next to him with a crooked smile that only he could pull off.

She shifted her eyes around the area, expecting him to step out from behind a tree or something before she walked over and sat next to him, pulling her knees up against her chest. Edward moved his arm so that it was behind her and she felt his fingers grazing the side of her neck.

"Carlisle, Emmett, and Jasper are your brothers, right?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him.

Edward nodded. "All older, of course."

"Tell me what it was like to . . . grow up with them."

"Um," Edward laughed. "It was great, when they weren't beating the shit out of me," he added with a snicker. "Carlisle's eight years older than me. He's always been a little protective of me, I guess. All of us, but especially me. Jay's the next oldest. He was always trying to be the moderator of the family, keep the peace you might say."

"Why do you call him Jay?" she asked. "His name is Jasper, right?"

Edward laughed. "My dad called him Jay. Kind of stuck, I guess."

"Oh."

"Emmett's two years older than me, and when we were little, he was an asshole. Used to make it his mission to make me cry every day."

She frowned.

"Not in a bad way, Bella," he assured her. "Just in a big brother kind of way. Normal big brother picking on his baby brother kind of thing. Didn't Rosalie do that to you when you were little?"

"I . . ." She bit the inside of her lip. "I don't know. I don't really remember much before . . . before he came for me that night. I used to dream about them, though. I thought . . . I thought I had made them up, Edward. He'd get so mad when I cried for them, begged him to let me go home," she cried, her arms wrapping tightly around her knees. "Why'd he me? I wasn't a good girl, Edward. Why would he want a nothing like me?"

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, sliding his arm around her and pulling her against him. "I don't know, but you're safe here."

"Tell me more about your brothers, about . . . about your mom and dad," she wept. "Please, just tell me more."

"My mom," he whispered. "She was the most amazing, loving woman, Bella. So full of life and passion for her family. She'd wake us up early on Sunday mornings by blasting AC/DC through the house, laughing when everyone grumbled, but she'd make us dance with her. She just loved with everything she had. And then . . . and then she was gone, and . . ." Edward paused and when she looked up at him, she saw tears in his eyes. "The fight I'd gotten in that day, it was about her. This boy in my class, a real asshole, he'd said he wanted to . . . to have sex with her, Bella. I lost my shit. Broke his nose, cracked his ribs, but he lived and she was gone. She was my mother, Bella, my whole fucking world and because I was stupid and reckless, she died."

"You fought for her," she murmured, causing him to look down at her. "That boy, he . . . he said bad things about her, right? He said mean, nasty things about her, but you fought for her, defended her, didn't you?"

"I did," he said, quietly.

"Maybe she didn't understand at that exact moment, but I can't imagine that a woman who loved the way you say she did, and listened to Claire De Lune," she whimpered, "died not knowing how much you loved her, Edward."

"You think so?" he asked as a tear slipped down his face. "You think she knew?"

She nodded. "How could she not? She was a good mom. She didn't . . . she didn't let you get taken from her."

"Bella," he murmured, placing his hand under her chin. "You didn't let him take your daughter from you, you know that, don't you?"

"I never fought him, not one time," she whispered. "When he came for me that night, I let him . . . I let him touch me, hurt me, because I was too scared to fight back. And then she was there and I wanted to keep her. To have someone to love, but he said I couldn't have her, that I would hurt her. I would never have hurt her! Never!"

"Shh, it's okay, love," he whispered, holding her tighter. "We'll find her. I promise, we'll find her."

She wasn't sure why, but in that moment, she believed him. But would Hope want anything to do with her? She let her be taken, after all. What kind of mother let's her baby be stolen? Her own mother died to protect her, didn't she?

—SfH—

Jasper leaned against the side of his truck and watched as the medical examiner rolled Emily out in a black body bag. He had called Garrett, who rushed over and was now standing with Newton and Crowley, no doubt questioning them on whether or not Jasper had pushed Emily Young too far. He had, but at the same time, he had had to ask the questions. If there was any hope of ever stopping Sam Uley, he had had to ask the hard questions.

"Cullen, get over here," Garrett snarled.

Jasper pressed his lips together and pushed himself away from his truck to where Garrett, Newton, and Crowley were standing. "Cap."

"Let's process her place," Garrett said, giving Jasper a look. "Together."

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he nodded and followed the three men into the house. The living room carpet was red, soaked with Emily's blood. Jasper bypassed the living room, not wanting to be reminded of what had happened, and walked into the tiny bedroom right off the living room. There wasn't much inside the room. A twin size bed, which had been made to military standards, a small wooden nightstand that held a lamp and an alarm clock. A wooden dresser that needed to be sanded and pained for it to look almost decent. And that was it.

Jasper pulled open each drawer, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Top drawer held her bras, panties, and socks. Next door was pajamas and tank tops, then shirts in the following drawer and shorts in the bottom drawer. There weren't any hidden pictures of friends or family. In fact as Jasper looked around the room, he noted that there wasn't a single picture of anyone important to Emily Young in the room. Not Leah, not Harry, not her Aunt Sue.

Jasper walked over to the closet and pulled the door open. Her clothes, almost all pants and a handful of dress shirts were hung in a precise order, pants on one side, and shirts on the other. Organized by color, he noticed. Very obsessive-compulsive, he thought. Maye the only part of her life that she could control. There were five pairs of shoes on the floor of the closet next to a cardboard box.

Jasper picked up the box and carried it over to the bed, placing it on top. He pried the top of the box off and gasped. Inside were hundreds, if not thousands of pictures of Emily over the last six years. Jasper picked up one from when she couldn't have been more than eleven years old. She was riding her bike in front of a large brick house. The scarring on her face redder, fleshier than it had been when she opened the front door just a few hours before. He flipped it over and what he read had him fighting the urge to vomit.

"You'll always be my girl, Emily. Always. With all my love, Sam."

As Jasper dug through the photographs, finding each one dated and signed with the same words, the same threat from Sam Uley. In that moment, Jasper knew Emily Young didn't kill herself because he had pushed her too far. She'd killed herself because death was the only way she would ever truly be free of Sam Uley.

Thank you for all the amazing reviews!