7.

Esme Cullen is just as warm as her husband. Her gentle expression and gentler demeanor are so welcoming, it nearly brings tears to my eyes. Apparently, I'm starved of affection since Edward disappeared, so I soak up her hugs and attention like parched land in a desert.

My father's frustration with my inability to further the investigation into what happened to Edward and me has put a strain on our relationship.

I haven't seen him since the day after I was released from the hospital.

"So, tell us more about yourself," Esme prompts. She grins at her husband and turns back to me, her smile never leaving her lips. "Carlisle is bound by the rules not to say too much about his patients, but I don't suppose anything he could find in your medical records is anything I'd want to know about you anyway."

I shake my head. "There's not much to tell, I don't think. I'm on leave for now, until I can sort things out. Until Edward is …" My voice cracks and I shake my head. "Sorry."

"It's okay, dear. Edward is … your husband?"

I nod, my vision blurring. "He disappeared the night I was hurt."

"Oh, Bella."

"And the police still haven't found anything?" Carlisle asks.

I shake my head, staring at the condensation running down the side of my glass. "No. Nothing."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Esme leans in, taking my hand, her grasp cold from her own glass. "We want to help."

I look up from the table, offering her a watery smile. "I don't know where to begin."

"Have you thought about speaking to any of the therapists you were referred to?" Carlisle asks.

A humorless sound, something between a laugh and a sob, escapes me. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"I mean I'm pretty sure if I told anyone what I think I saw that night, they'd put me away."

The doctor and his wife exchange a look that, if I were thinking clearly, would set off alarm bells.

"Perhaps you'd speak with our son-in-law," Esme finally suggests. "He specializes in helping people understand the more … unexplainable things we experience in life."

I glance between them. "Unexplainable?"

Esme squeezes my hand gently. "Yes, dear. He has an understanding many in the traditional medical field don't."

I think back to the weeks I've lost to feeling like this, so depressed, despondent, and I realize I'm tired of feeling this way.

I look up at the couple who have been so kind to me. "I think I'd like to meet him."


A week later, on the day I'm to meet Jasper Whitlock for the first time, I wake sick, running to the bathroom and spilling the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl. With a shaky hand, I rinse my mouth.

When I open the cabinet for a towel, I reach past an unopened box of tampons. My hand stills.

Is it possible?