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At least ten minutes had gone by since I'd driven Edward and myself back to the lodge. I hadn't even turned off the ignition before Edward abruptly said, "Don't. Just don't," before jumping out of my truck and stalking to the lodge's door. I sat, frozen and baffled, with my hand still gripping my keys. I hadn't said anything—I hadn't even looked at him.
I mean, I'd planned to say something, but still.
During the ride back, his silence and glaring eyes had done nothing but fuel me with determination. I knew I couldn't force him to tell me what was wrong, but I was too stubborn to sit back and watch him go to pieces again. When he was ready to talk, I would be there. And I'd been about to tell him that as soon as we pulled in, but he'd mumbled his opposition before I even said it and walked away, disappearing into the lodge without a single look.
All the tenacity that had filled me during the ride back had drained halfway after that, and I sank back in my seat, the dashboard light dimming into darkness at his departure. I always seemed to be a good mixture of useless and confused when it came to moments like this.
Time passed as I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, narrowing my eyes to watch the pane fog from the heat I provided. After a few minutes of staring into space, I sat up and watched the little hazy cloud slowly diminish, then quickly blew my breath upon it, stopping it from disappearing completely. When a bigger, vaporous circle had formed, I pressed my fingers on each side to dot two, little 'eyes' and paused before I could form a mouth.
As a child, the faces I drew were always happy. Just one quick U-shaped swoop and all was well. As I grew older and somewhat silly, tongues would snake out of the smiles or jagged eyebrows would emphasize a crazy face. Now I couldn't bring myself to give the face a grin; it would be a lie. I didn't want to give it a frown, either; that would feel too dismal. So, I waited, and the two lonely eyes seemed to watch me with expectation as the circle began to disappear. The cold soaked up the heat like a sponge, and the empty face remained expressionless until it had faded into nonexistence.
I tried to tell myself that wasn't metaphorical and I was too old to be doing this anyway… but I still felt sad about it.
Sighing, I put my head down on the steering wheel. I couldn't stay out here all night, but I couldn't imagine simply going to my room. Trying to talk to Edward could go either way—better or worse—but I knew I had to try one more time. I eventually grabbed my purse and grudgingly opened the door, hopping down to the rocky ground.
Inside, the lobby was dark, quiet, and empty. I made the long climb to the fourth floor, thinking that Doris should post ads in the local paper next to the fitness classes that the lodge had its own built-in Stairmaster. I unlocked my door only to blindly toss my purse inside, then walked to Edward's room and knocked before I lost my nerve. I waited, but there was no answer—no sounds or response of any kind.
"Edward?" I called, nervously tapping my nails against my jeans. "Will you come out, please?"
Still nothing. I pleaded quietly, eventually asking him to just knock on the wall so I knew he was even inside, but no such knock came. No footsteps, no shuffling, no running water… just silence. I put my back against the door and blew my breath out, knowing there was nothing else I could do except break down the door, but I wasn't about to go crazy just because he wanted to lock himself away from everything.
Space. He needed space, not smothering.
I could hardly think about going to bed. I wasn't the least bit tired yet, and even if I had tried to sleep, I'd certainly be tossing and turning all night. Dragging my feet, I descended the staircase and twisted my hair around my finger in a mindless daze, shuffling over the steps as they carried me back down to the first floor.
Maybe the kitchen was unlocked. I could brew myself some coffee or hot cocoa and read, and maybe even figure out how where the switch was for the fireplace. Or if I was feeling extra antsy, I could prep the entire kitchen for breakfast and save Tom the trouble. I smiled halfheartedly when I pictured him walking into his kitchen to see me, dicing vegetables and organizing ingredients like I owned the place. Maybe if I got on his good side, I could finagle his legendary sweet potato pie recipe out of him.
I headed toward the lightly glowing café and just as I was about to head into the dark kitchen, I heard a sound that made me pause. I glanced over my shoulder, remaining silent, and waited to hear it again. It was so faint, almost inaudible, but it came again in little beats.
Music.
The Entertainment Hall doors were shut, but the soft, mellow sound wasn't a recording playing throughout the lobby. It was the piano, and I felt gooseflesh spread across my arms as I realized that Edward must be the person responsible for the melody. It was so simple, yet I never thought that he might have gone anywhere but his own room.
I took a deep breath and walked to the Entertainment Hall, opening and closing my fists like the nervous wreck that I was as I reached for the door. I closed my hand around the cool, brass doorknob and twisted it slowly, pulling it open with caution, the door emitting a slight creak as I peeked my head inside. The hall was dark and shadowy, except for the large, crooked rectangles of reflected light from the long windows, which spread across the hardwood floor like wraithlike carpet runners. Beyond the illumination, in the far corner, was the piano. Edward was sitting on the small bench, slouched to one side with his head on his arm, his other hand arbitrarily pressing down on the keys. He hadn't heard me.
The sliver of faint, waxen light that had filtered into the room spread as I opened the door further, which groaned audibly and gave me away. Edward whipped his head toward me and though I couldn't really make out the look on his face, I felt a small pain in my chest as though he had shot me a menacing glare. We stared at each other for a few moments before he turned back to the piano and put his head down again.
Uncertainly, I stepped into the chilly space and shut the door behind me, releasing an echoing click throughout the large room. Physical barriers I could take care of easily; it was the ones I couldn't see that were tricky. I walked toward him carefully, frowning at my soft footsteps because this common area had transformed into foreign territory—his territory, and I was intruding.
I stopped a few feet away from him and swallowed the apology that was tickling my tongue. Instead I said, "I just wanted to see if you were okay. I know you said not to, but—"
I watched his hand move over the ivory and black keys, but he didn't continue playing like he had been. He sighed and eventually tucked his hand under his head, looking like a school kid who was told to put his head down on his desk for being too obnoxious.
"I don't know, Edward. I can't just go upstairs and not care," I continued quietly, shifting my weight and shuddering a bit from the chill. "I feel like I should be sorry, but I don't know what for."
He remained still and quiet, so I moved a little closer to the side of the bench and finally got a look at his face. His eyes traveled to mine for a split second, but that was all I needed to see that he wasn't angry anymore. Instead, he appeared worn out and beaten. I must have looked too sympathetic, because he slowly sat up straight and rested his forehead on his hand, shielding his eyes.
"You know, I wish my face wasn't so readable," I said quietly, stepping next to him. "I always try my best to seem okay when I'm not, but most of the time people call out that I'm putting up a front."
He didn't look up, and I figured he wouldn't answer, so I kept speaking.
"My friends used to ask me to talk to them—always at the worst moments, when I could barely keep enough of my composure to smile and decline. I didn't want to talk. I was too afraid of opening my mouth and having my secrets spill out like some kind of poison, exposing me and contaminating them, too. So I'd say no and tell them that I was fine. And eventually, they would walk away."
Slowly, I sat on the edge of the piano bench, giving him some space.
"But sometimes, I wished they would have stayed," I said, tucking my fingers under the seat. "Not to talk… just to sit. Just so I knew that someone was there, to feel that someone cared enough to be with me."
Uncertainly, I placed my hand on his back, which was stiff with tension. "You don't have to talk to me. You don't even have to look at me. But if you want me to sit with you, and only sit, just tell me, and I will. And if you want me to leave you alone, you don't have to say anything. I'll go."
I looked away, unsure, and stared at the floor by our feet, watching one of his hover over the piano's foot pedals. Protracted seconds went by like a slow heartbeat, and I finally pulled my hand away from his back. His breath came in and out in a gentle rhythm, but when he brought his hand away from his face, he still shut his eyes with a heavy sigh.
I waited for another few moments, feeling the flimsy film of hope inside my chest begin to tear.
Edward seemed to become more solid with every second. His eyes were fixed to the shadowed keys of the piano and steeled his hands against the fall board. He was locking himself up so that no one could reach him.
I wished for him to move, to glance in my direction, or to sigh in resignation and reach out so that I could hold him. But he didn't.
I would have to make myself get up and go.
Righting myself carefully, I stood up and tried to ignore the horrible pit in my stomach. I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Goodnight," I murmured, squeezing gently.
I very well could have been saying goodbye. If he was gone by morning, I wouldn't be surprised.
When I turned toward the doors, I felt guilty, discarded, and discouraged all at once. I was leaving him alone when he was clearly upset, but he didn't want my reassurance or any of my words. He didn't even want my presence.
And as much as I tried, I didn't understand anymore.
I was halfway to the door when he spoke.
"Wait."
His voice was so quiet, I almost didn't turn around, thinking I imagined it.
"Bella, wait."
I stopped and peered over my shoulder.
Edward straddled the bench, lifting his gaze to me. "Please stay."
I took a shaky breath. "Okay," I whispered. I could barely feel my feet as I walked back to him, unsure how much distance I should keep. When I was close enough to touch him, I hesitated to sit beside him.
Before I could do anything, Edward reached out and pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest and burying his face in my shoulder. I sat, stunned, exhaling quickly and finally moving to wrap my arms around him. My hand found the base of his neck and I squeezed gently, sliding my fingers through his hair.
I tried to speak, but words felt so insubstantial. All I could do was hold him and try to keep my head from spinning. The back-and-forth whiplash of emotions were so confusing, and I couldn't think of anything to say. And then I realized as he trembled against me, sniffing quietly, that he was crying. I held him a little tighter, and even though he was clinging to me equally as tight, I felt like I wasn't doing enough.
"Hey," I spoke at last. "What's the matter? Won't you tell me?"
He sighed, a little puff of heat against my skin, and I felt like crying, too, as his breath caught in his throat. I kept stroking his hair, as though my hands could soothe any of the pain that he was in. Ultimately he pulled back, and before he could hide his face, I held both of his cheeks, brushing away the damp tears that still lingered on his light skin.
He didn't meet my eyes, and only took a shaky breath. "You'll hate me."
"I won't," I replied, sliding my hands down to rest on his neck.
"You will."
"I couldn't."
His breath hissed through his teeth and I watched him dig his fingernails into his opposite wrist. I ran my hand underneath his fingers, gently loosening his grasp and taking his hands into mine.
"Stop," I whispered. "You're hurting yourself."
He looked ashamed as another tear streamed down his cheek and he roughly brushed it away. "Sorry. I—"
"Shh." I shifted and scooted closer so I could lay my head against him, putting one arm behind his back. I wanted to seek out and destroy everything and anything that had ever hurt him—whatever had broken him to such a terrible degree. He didn't deserve such pain day after day—just watching him go through it made me ache, too.
"I'm so selfish," he said, speaking into my hair and cupping his hands around my cheeks. "And I'm vile, Bella. I'm a murderer."
My head shook in disagreement under his hands, but Edward pulled my head further into his chest and clung to me. "No, I am," he said, sounding choked. "I am because I've got to face the truth. I've already chosen to be."
Beyond confused, I tried to speak, but little sounds of barely-formed words got stuck in my throat. I had to push myself away from him just to get a few inches of space, but managed to tilt my head back enough to see him.
"That doesn't make any sense," I said.
"I never, ever meant to shoot Justin," he said miserably. "But I will end up killing someone else."
"What—why? Where is this coming from?" I remained silent for a few seconds and rubbed his arms while I waited for him to answer. Just as I was about to ask why he had completely crumbled after taking that phone call and what that had been about, he spoke.
"I'm surprised you haven't asked before." I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was trying to find a way around this, whatever this was, but was failing. "You haven't wondered why I was here in the first place?"
"Of course I did," I said faintly. "There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. I was afraid I'd upset you."
He inhaled and only met my eyes for a second before looking down. "I left Chicago because I couldn't do my job anymore. I was distracted and useless, and no one was going to accept a lawyer who'd been accused of third degree murder, anyway. I had no business being there and I didn't have anyone left, so I figured I'd have to find something else. But it didn't take me long to realize that I had another job to do."
"What job?"
Edward pressed his lips together so hard, I could see the blood leave them, his white skin already blanched in the shadows. I slowly pulled my hands back, because a chilly recognition was already churning in my nervous stomach and I couldn't help but speculate.
"Oh," I murmured, and he darted his gaze to my face, searching my expression for understanding. "You mean, you—"
He swallowed, looking ill, and I narrowed my eyes to the moonlit windows, unable to see the parking lot—only trees.
"It's a gun, isn't it?" I asked, feeling my palms start to sweat. "In your car? That case, it's—"
But I didn't have to continue and he didn't have to answer, because it was already clear. I bit my lip, trying to think of what to say. He stayed silent while my thoughts raced. Not that I ever thought that he was actually vacationing in the rainiest town in the corner of the U.S. for the hell of it, the same as I was, but still. I never expected that he was out for vengeance.
I cleared my tightening throat. "You're hunting someone."
"Whoever was responsible for their deaths, yes," he answered so quietly, I almost didn't hear him.
We sat like ghosts—hushed, unmoving, barely breathing—and it was only the sound of the wind outside that finally snapped me out of my daze. I took a quick breath that shuddered slight, and Edward slowly spun himself to face the piano again, looking away from me.
"You can leave," he whispered into the empty air. "I wouldn't blame you. And I promise I won't follow you."
I didn't move—I wouldn't have, even if my feet hadn't felt cemented to the hardwood floor or I could actually manage to peel my stare off the bench.
"You should see your face," he whispered miserably. "I never wanted to be the one to make you look like that."
I tried to soften my expression, but my face felt solid. Eventually, I lifted my head and met his eyes, analyzing him closely. "You would never do something like that," I said, barely audible.
"I would," he said hoarsely. "It's the only thing that's kept me going this long."
My head started to ache, rushing with questions. "How could you be sure you'd ever find the right person?"
"The guy who called me tonight, Carson, is a friend—a colleague of sorts," he mumbled as he rested his head on his hand. "He's a law enforcement officer. We used to collaborate on criminal cases. He's a part of a search team and he's been letting me know where other murders have taken place. And this guy, this killer—he's scattered himself all over the map. I've been tailing the police. The last murder was over a month ago in Hoquiam, just south of here. All of a sudden, the trail just went cold. Not that it surprised me. The trail always goes cold."
He turned to me then, his eyes blazing with an odd intensity. "Whoever's done this has been flawless. The bastard doesn't leave any fingerprints, footprints, or DNA of any kind. And the way he does it—it's sickening. I don't see how forensics hasn't been able to pick up a single piece of evidence with the way this guy tears into people and completely cleans them out."
My insides felt as though they were squirming and I swallowed thickly. I must have looked appalled, because as quick as Edward's eyes had changed before, his expression swiftly softened. His shoulders slumped as he faced forward again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking about this," he said, raking his hand through his hair. I hated to watch him deteriorate so quickly.
"Cleans them out?" I repeated uneasily, feeling my stomach lurch as I added, "Do you mean he steals their organs?"
Edward shook his head. "No. It's so bizarre. He leaves them without blood. Rumors fly that it's some sort of satanic-ritual maniac, but every once in awhile, someone is found—just—brutally slashed into. Or completely destroyed like they didn't feel like draining them, as though they just wanted to play instead. Like they did with—"
He stopped, his throat bobbing slightly.
'Like they did with who?"
My heart pounded heavily in my chest as I realized he looked as though he could cry again.
"With my mom," he said, his voice catching.
I was instantly in tears, reaching to hold his face. "Oh, God," I whispered, pressing my head to his, feeling my heart drop into my stomach. He was crying again, too, and I didn't know what to do except pull him close once more. It was all so morbidly sick, and so unfair that he'd been through something so vicious.
He didn't let me hold him for too long before he straightened up, brushing his arm over his face and gruffly clearing his throat, composing himself.
"Anyway," he said hoarsely, "Carson called earlier to tell me they caught someone in Minneapolis."
My teary eyes widened. "They did? What does that mean? I mean, what are you going to do?"
"Go," he replied.
Go?
"Go and… testify or something?"
When he didn't answer, I shook my head. "What—you can't expect to just walk up and kill him."
Edward sighed, rubbing his eyes forcefully. "I'm aware of that."
"Then how—"
"It's nothing for you to be concerned with," he said abruptly. "And I know it makes me sound insane. In a way, I suppose I am."
I pressed my knuckles to my lips, trying to envision the situation from his point of view, and my thoughts became a dizzying mess. No wonder he was so shaken.
"Edward… if someone did that—if someone murdered my parents…" I trailed off, swallowing the knot that was forming in my throat. "If I ever came face to face with the person who killed them, and someone handed me a gun and told me to have my revenge, I would want to do it and watch the life drain out of their eyes, and I'd enjoy it because of what they took from me.
"But that's not the way it works," I continued weakly. "I can't even begin to understand how bad you're hurting, but there are other ways to deal with this."
"Oh, and I suppose that you're going to say that this survivor's guilt I'm carrying around can be turned into healing through forgiveness," he said callously. "Or that maybe I should call on my personal faith to get me through it? Do you think I haven't heard that already?"
"You killed someone by accident and look how it's affected you," I pressed. I was in unfamiliar waters and could only reach so far. "You can barely talk about it, let alone think about it. How do you expect to kill someone on purpose? How do you think you're going to cope with that?"
"I have no idea," he said. "I don't really care what happens after that."
"What do you mean, you don't care?"
"I mean just that," he said tiredly. "If I actually find him, he'll either kill me or I'll kill him. If I'm dead, then that's it. And if he dies, I'll be in jail and won't be able to help anything. Either way, I won't care."
I stared at him with a frozen expression of disbelief, eyeing him up and down. "You don't care," I plainly repeated. He shook his head, still staring straight ahead and refusing to look at me. "If you don't care, then why are you shaking?"
Edward looked down at his trembling hands and wrung them together in a tight grasp. "Because I never wanted you to hear this."
"And?" I said, waiting for him to tell me the rest of the truth. I didn't miss the way his chest was beginning to rise and fall in a quicker pace. If it had been an hour earlier, I would have been far more concerned, but at the moment he was actually helping me prove my point, so I didn't move to comfort him yet.
"And what?" he said stubbornly, gripping his shirt in his hand as he finally looked up at me. He was trying his best to look intimidating, but he couldn't lie through his eyes this time. He had to be exhausted from taking his mental mask on and off so frequently. "There's nothing else to say."
"Bullshit," I said. "You're terrified. All we're doing is talking about it and you can't even catch your breath."
"I made this decision a long time ago," he muttered. "I can't sit and not do anything. He's killed so many people."
"But you said he's been taken in, right?" I said. "He'll be charged. The best thing you could do is testify, or at least—"
Edward cut me off. "He deserves worse than prison. Besides, I'm not sure if the guy they caught is the one or not. People are sick, Bella. There have been two copycats before. I need to make sure."
I sat quietly, pressing the balls of my feet into the floor until they started to shake from the pressure. "So, you're going to leave for Minneapolis?" I asked. "And if it isn't the guy you're looking for, then what will you do?"
"What I did here," he replied, giving me a glance. "I'll find somewhere to stay and wait until I get another call."
He was so adamant. I lowered my eyes, only because I was afraid that he would think I was staring at him in pity. The truth was, he'd been alone—so alone in this whole mess—and his self-worth was so minimal that he figured he had nothing to do except seek out the responsible party, no matter how dangerous or ludicrous it seemed.
"And if it is the right man, you're going to try to shoot him?"
"You finally understand, don't you?" he asked quietly. "Can you honestly argue with me now? Tell me I'm not a murderer when I'm so determined to become one?"
I shook my head. "You're not. You haven't done anything wrong. But if you choose to go that path, then you're destroying your life—and you're worth so much more than that, even if you don't think so. It's not your responsibility. Don't you see that? And think of your parents."
I knew I was in fragile territory when he narrowed his eyes to me.
"I know that I never knew them," I said carefully. "And I'm sure that they loved you so much—so much that it's not possible to express. Can you honestly imagine that this is what they would have wanted you to do with your life?"
I thought about moving away from him in case he was going to give me a nasty glare and start to yell that I didn't know anything and should mind my own fucking business.
"I don't know what else to do."
His answer was simple and calm, which I was not expecting. Yet, it was miserable, and he sounded wholly weighed down.
"You could talk about it to someone, for a start," I said weakly. It was a poor suggestion, but I was grasping at straws. "It's not the answer, I know that, but it's something to do until you can figure something out."
Edward chuckled mirthlessly, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. When he looked back at me, he raised his hands carelessly before letting them fall to his lap.
"What do you want to hear? That usually I can't get through a day without feeling so sick that I hardly eat, or that I only sleep when my body crashes because I'm terrified to close my eyes? That I have to hold myself together every day, hoping I won't go to pieces if I see someone with my mother's haircut or if someone calls me 'son' out of common habit? That this whole fucking mess has made me a terrible person? There. There it is."
Now I felt my hands shaking. I moved to tuck them in my lap, but he reached over and wrapped both of them in his own hands.
"But then, the only time it's ever stopped long enough to make me feel whole again is when I'm around you?"
My heart, which had felt as though it was sinking like an anchor, seemed to freeze.
"You distracted me," he said hoarsely. "From the first time I spoke to you, I just wanted to be around you. I figured it was some sort of infatuation and that it would fade. I kept telling myself, whatever day it was, it the last time I would see you. But then the next day came and I couldn't do it."
He sighed and pulled me close again with one arm, resting his other hand on the back of my head. "I never expected to feel this way," he said, combing his fingers through my hair. "This is… I have no idea what I'm doing."
He had no idea what he was doing? I didn't quite know how to tell him that he'd somehow, even in his derelict state, managed to pour life into my empty black hole of a heart, and alleviated the insecurities that I'd tried to hide from everyone—how he had changed something inside me, and he didn't even know it.
After a moment, he released me hastily, probably reading my silence the wrong way. He studied my face with concern before blurting, "God, Bella. Aren't you angry with me?"
"Because meeting me sidetracked you? No. We're more alike than you think." I understood why he felt so self-demeaning. "You distracted me, too. Except I didn't try to make myself to stay away from you. If you're calling yourself selfish, then I am, too."
He shook his head. "No, you're not."
"Yes, I am," I whispered, feeling the all-too-familiar ache begin to foster in my chest. It was so complicated, having these feelings and digging through the thorns that kept our paths from being clear. "I don't regret it, though. Not even one minute. Do you?"
I thought I might break in two if he said yes.
After a few agonizing moments, I figured he might be thinking he was sorry he'd dragged me into this and I couldn't take hearing that again. "Never mind," I said. "I know you don't. But you need to help yourself and understand that there are other ways to deal with this, and if I can help you, too, I will."
"I've tried," he said, defeated. "I've tried therapy and medication, but I didn't stick with either and now it's too late. I'm too broken. I'll never feel the way I did before this all happened—never be the same person.. Can't you understand that?"
"It's not too late," I managed to say. "You can't think like that. Who knows—"
"Please understand, my decision has nothing to do with you," he broke in. "I want to end him and end my pain. I don't care. If I die in the process, then so be it. I'll be free, finally."
My chest felt full of stone. He was choosing not to hear me, or even try to. He was blind to the fact that there might be a way to fix this. My fingers were kneading his hands, anxiously working against his, hoping to pull him out of it.
"Do you actually think it's not a big deal if you die?" I asked, feeling warm tears on my eyelashes. "You're—you're telling me this like it won't affect me. You sit here and tell me how much you care about me and then expect me to not give a damn what happens to you?"
He was silent and still, and I tried pulling him closer, but he wouldn't let me.
"Look, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this happened to you and your family, and I'm sorry that you feel like this is the only way out, but—"
"Don't be sorry. Everyone is always sorry. It changes nothing."
We both solidified after that and our hands went to our own laps, our feet moved apart, and we sat on opposite sides of the bench. The air was cold and empty, and my eyes grew heavier as time went by. I only knew how much time had passed when I noticed that the reflected, moonlit shapes on the floor had shifted slowly while Edward and I sat, still and unchanged. When he finally did move, he turned to me with weary eyes before standing with a sigh.
He held out his hand and I took it, my heart leaping in my chest, thinking he was about to give in or break down, and stay.
"You should go back to your parents," he said. "You might not think so, but you're the best thing in their lives. They love you. Go love them back while they're still around."
I was angry that I felt guilt weigh on my shoulders, though a fierce resistance to his words bubbled inside me as well. "I do love them," I said assertively, standing up on my shaky legs. "I never said I didn't."
"I know," he muttered. "So, go be with them—I mean all of the people that you care about. Don't waste your time worrying about me. I told you, I'm a wreck. My story won't end any differently."
It sounded so final. Those words physically hurt, and I shook my head, tears spilling from my eyes as I started begging him.
"Please don't go," I cried, feeling as though I might be the next one to have a panic attack. "Please. You can't. I promise I'll help you. But I need you to stay."
I moved to hug him tightly, going to pieces at the thought of never seeing him again, at what he might do, and the horrible notion of something happening to him. I couldn't think of it. I continued to desperately plead with him, my chest hitching with sobs, until I finally let go so I could look him in the eyes. He looked like he was holding back doing the same as I was, but before he could say anything, I reached up and kissed him fiercely, trying to pour all every emotion I had into it, to make him realize how much he was cared for.
When I broke away from him, gasping from crying, I whispered to him as I held him, "Please, Edward, don't go."
We stood still for a long time, clinging to each other, exhausted from crying and confessions, and the thought of what to do next.
I felt him move first—felt his lips on my cheek as he kissed me gently, and the tickle of his breath by my ear as he whispered back, "I can't stay."
The seconds were long as I took that in, and it was the strangest feeling as the energy slowly drained from every part of my body. My shoulders sagged, my breath calmed, and my hands fell away from him. We could have talked the subject to death, and even though I had tried to make him feel safer in my arms, it wasn't enough. I couldn't protect him from the demons that were clawing at his insides, and I wasn't the comfort or the answer that he had been searching for, and I was an obtuse little girl for thinking that I ever could have been.
There had always been a bigger monster waiting in the wings.
He was sorry. Apologies were burning in his eyes through his tears like deep fires, but he didn't say anything as he watched me back away.
Once I was certain I could speak again, I said, "So… should I say goodbye now or later?"
He cleared his throat, taking some breaths as he struggled to get his emotions under control. "I'm going to try to sleep," he choked out. "I'll probably leave later this afternoon."
I swallowed, trying to keep the pain at bay as I nodded. My chest had never ached so badly, and it was spreading to my stomach. I turned to walk to the lobby, unsure where I should go: my truck or my room. I didn't want to hear him pack his bags or suffer another nightmare—the one that either he was going to vanquish or have it end him first.
"Bella," he called after me, sounding as though he was choking on my name.
Little phantom slivers of glass invaded my heart at the sound, and as I reached the door, I realized he probably thought I wasn't planning on saying goodbye.
"You're leaving in the afternoon?" I asked once again, turning to see his answer.
His shoulders raised slightly as if shrugging, but then he nodded, grimacing.
"Then I'll see you later," I finished, pulling open the doors.
I didn't look back.
-:-
Dawn had broken through the window in my room a while ago, and faint traces of daylight had streamed inside since then. It must have been cloudy, for there was no glistening sunlight to greet my eyes today. Sleep hadn't come for me, as I expected; thinking about Edward running off to exact retribution on someone who may or may not be a serial murderer hadn't exactly been lulling. And if it was the wrong person, he was going to keep hunting for the right one, and possibly get himself killed in the process. It was almost dreamlike, but unfortunately, I wasn't waking—already fully conscious and not living in some kind of fantastic movie.
Only minutes after I had entered my room and succumbed to my bed, I'd heard his door shut, followed by the pipes creaking, and then a bit of shuffling before silence. There was no telling if he'd managed to fall asleep or had only been lying there in silence the whole night like me, trying desperately to slip into unconsciousness and forget the task that was ahead of him for a few, short hours. Though I doubted he'd be successful at either.
My body was trembling involuntarily, probably from fatigue, and I considered taking a leftover painkiller to send me into a hazy oblivion, but I was afraid I would sleep through the day. Other than that, all I had was Tylenol, birth control, and a half-empty box of Midol. Maybe I could ask Angela to smuggle me some Xanax after all of this. I was going to need a pill case.
Turning on my side, I couldn't help but wish that there really was a magical cure-all to give me all the right answers, since there was no helping the situation at hand so far. I'd tried everything I could think of: rationale, begging, guilt… but nothing worked.
Suddenly, my eyes snapped open. No. I hadn't done everything. Because I'd just been reminded of something.
I sat up, my comforter slowly falling off my upper body, and stared at the door, thinking it was the dumbest thing I'd ever thought of, but it would at least stall him. My heart started pounding as I got a wild burst of energy. I jumped out of bed and reached for my shoes, my fingers slipping and tugging them on clumsily. Before I knew it, I was out in the hallway. I couldn't believe what I was going to do, but my feet were moving, and suddenly, there was no changing my mind.
-:-
