Surprise! We have Edward's POV.

I wasn't planning on writing this, and then I was like… idk we should probably hear from him and get ~some answers. More revelations are coming, and it felt like a good time to fill in some blanks. This chapter takes place a couple of days after their lovey-dovey FaceTime, so we aren't going back in time or anything.

All that said, if you're super against his POV and don't want ANY answers, you can skip this chapter. Something important happens here, but it's mentioned later by another character, so you wouldn't be totally in the dark.

I think it's an important chapter though, but maybe y'all will tell me otherwise, and if that's the case, then I'll just pull it from the story and act like it never existed LOL

Anyway - enjoy! Thanks for reading and I'm excited to hear what y'all think/if specific theories are right/wrong!


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twenty
the albatross
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Edward POV

"Be careful, Mr. Cullen," Pete says as I slide into the car's front seat. "I'm going to start thinking you have a social life if you keep this up."

I smirk as I fasten my seatbelt. "Unfortunately, my plans tonight aren't that fun," I admit.

He looks curious but doesn't dig. He never does, and that's one of the things I like most about him.

"Where am I taking you on this fine Saturday night?" he asks, pulling away from the curb.

"Kate's Tavern," I say, and he presses the voice button on the steering wheel to tell Siri to pull up directions.

Google Maps shows it's only fifteen minutes away. I've never been to this place, but the person I'm meeting tonight sent me the name of the bar and what time to be there, and that was it.

I could back out. No-show. But morbid curiosity pushes me to keep my plans.

I turn on the radio.

After a minute, I turn it off.

Pete keeps his focus on the road, unbothered by my restless energy.

"Are you listening to any podcasts?" I ask him, curious.

Of course, my mind shifts to Bella because she asked me the same question on our date nearly a week ago. I'd told her my honest thoughts, that I wasn't a fan of them. But I didn't tell her the truth, either. That yeah, I am listening to one in particular—Mysterious Minds. A new season aired recently involving a case about a missing girl… and me.

"I mostly listen to sports podcasts," Pete says casually. "And Conan O'Brien has a funny one."

"So, no true crime or anything?"

Maybe it's unfair, but I'm fishing and feeling him out to see if he's recently heard anything terrible about me.

It's the same with Bella. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and for her to tell me she can't see me anymore because she heard some strange shit about me, and it's not worth it to keep this going.

I couldn't even blame her if that happened.

The first episode of Mysterious Minds was about me and my girlfriend at the time, Rosalie Hale. Jackson and James, the hosts, talked about our short relationship and dissected everything. They did a play-by-play of how they thought everything went down the night she disappeared.

They made it seem like I got away with something and twisted shit to make me look worse. They mentioned what I do for a living and insinuated that being a surgeon was just a cover to have patient's lives in my dangerous hands. They at least had the decency not to say the city I live in or mention the hospital where I work.

Legally, I'm not even sure they're allowed to say half the shit they said. But they did it anyway. And part of me can't care because, in a sick way, I want them to do whatever they need to solve the case.

Then I'd know the truth.

With my name defamed after one fucking episode, I was wary of being at the hospital. For the most part, my colleagues left me alone. But then, a nurse eventually approached me about it. Her curiosity was less because she thought I was guilty and more because she's a true crime enthusiast and I was a celebrity.

It was bizarre enough for me to get further in my head about everything and opt for a leave of absence until the podcast's newness wore off or the hosts turned their sights to a different suspect.

Pete stops at a red light. "No, I'm not into true crime. That stuff is too dark for me," he says, unaware of what a relief that is to hear. "I don't like to listen to things that bring me down."

I get what he's saying because I try to do the same. I probably wouldn't even know this podcast existed if Jackson hadn't personally reached out. And I wouldn't be listening if it had nothing to do with me. But now I'm stuck in a catch-22—don't listen and wonder what they're saying, or listen and feel like a monster.

I thought I had moved on from all of this. I thought I found a way to turn my guilt into a career that ultimately helps others. Maybe to the detriment of my mental health because—though I rarely lose patients—when I can't save someone, it fucks me up, despite what Jackson and James insinuated.

That's why the timing of the podcast and losing someone on the table weeks ago was a bad combination.

As Pete and I drive in silence, I stare out the window. We pass a random furniture store, and my thoughts are back on Bella. Like I'm seeking a connection, a reason to think about her.

Maybe it's pathetic. I don't know.

It's new, and I don't know where it's going, but she makes me happy.

She stumbled into my life during a time when I needed a distraction. Work, my past—everything was feeling heavy. She makes me feel lighter. She makes me excited. I wasn't lying when I said something about her draws me in and makes me want to open up to her. I think it's because we've dealt with similar losses at a young age: her parents and my dad. We have a kindred darkness. Matching holes in our hearts that make it easy to relate to her.

But there's an underlying tension with her that I can't place. Sometimes, I wonder if it's because she does want to take things slow. Which I can respect. But sometimes she'll look at me, and it feels like she fucking sees me. I can't reconcile that look with her words because her mouth says slow, but her eyes say more.

God, I'm screwed.

I pull out my phone and open our texts.

Our last exchange was when I accused her of lying about the movie. It was a desperate, obvious excuse to reach out to her, but it worked. We haven't talked since we FaceTimed on Thursday, though.

I'm curious about what she's doing tonight. Maybe she's out with friends. Or worse—on a date.

That last thought makes me irrationally jealous.

"How's Maria?" I ask, hoping Pete will talk about his life so I can focus on that.

Thankfully, he does. For the next ten minutes, he talks about his wife and kids. We share occasionally, but he opens up the most when his family is the topic.

When he pulls up to Kate's Tavern, my anxiety ramps up.

But I get out anyway.

I walk in.

Scan the bar.

Find who I'm looking for in a booth in a dark corner.

I slide into the seat.

"Edward Cullen," Jackson says, looking pleased. "You came."

"I did."

I get he has a job to do, but there's an arrogant air about him that I've picked up while listening to the podcast. I only came here tonight to see if he is how I perceive him or if his on-air persona is just an act. If he seems genuine in solving Rosalie's case, maybe I will help. If all I pick up on is asshole behavior, then I'm out.

"Gotta admit, I'm surprised," he says, watching me too closely like he's already committing this to memory. I'm not stupid—I know whatever I give him tonight, he'll use it for the podcast. That's why I'll be careful about what I say and do.

"I said I'd be here. I keep my word," I say with intention.

"Good, good. I ordered you a beer," Jackson says, but I leave it untouched even when he drinks from his glass.

"I'm not planning on staying long," I admit.

"Oh, okay." He shrugs, wiping a hand over his beard. "In that case, let's get down to it—I want to interview you."

"I already knew that. What I wanna know is why?"

"Isn't it obvious? I want you to share your side of what happened that night."

I could do precisely that—tell Jackson the truth that the police don't know—a truth my stepfather convinced me to withhold. With so many years passed, I'm not sure what good it would do now. And I don't know how it would make me look—better or worse—but there is something kind of freeing in knowing I could be fully honest for once.

But the thing is, I don't remember much from that night. Parts are missing. The holes in my memory still haunt me. Being accused of murder has shaped me.

It's why I've hired drivers over the years. They're less of a luxury and more of an alibi. The Hales accused me of picking up Rosalie the night she disappeared. I was supposedly the last person to see her. But I don't remember that. Yeah, I was drunk, but I didn't drink any more than usual. Still, I ensured I'd never have to drive again and certainly never be responsible for another person's whereabouts.

"We could ease into it," Jackson offers. "I'll send you the interview questions beforehand so you can prepare. I'll let you dictate how this goes. We can start wherever you want."

I wouldn't know where to start. I have the before and the after, but not the in-between.

Rosalie was there. And then she wasn't.

At first, I thought she ran away because she was scared of what she'd done. Then, I thought she ran away because she was afraid of how I reacted. The longer she was missing, the more I realized that maybe her disappearance had nothing to do with me at all.

I might not know everything, but I know I should've done more to help her and been more honest with the police.

I also know I didn't kill Rosalie Hale.

I wouldn't have hurt her, even though she hurt me.

"I can sense you're considering it," Jackson says smugly. "What's holding you back?"

"Why do I need to share my side when you already did it for me?" I point out, not hiding my irritation.

He drinks his beer. "That's all speculation. You know that."

"You made me sound like a fucking monster," I say, my jaw tightening. "You made it seem like I became a surgeon so I could kill my patients and get away with murder, which is bullshit. And defamation, by the way. I could sue you."

"I'm surprised you haven't already," he says lightly.

I realize now that he was doing that on purpose. He was destroying my character, trying to rile me up, and leading me to talk with him and correct the narrative.

I shouldn't have come here.

He speaks before I can, which is good because fuck you is on the tip of my tongue.

"Don't be too worried about all of that. Nobody believes that about you. It's just for the hype, I guess. But I'm sorry about that. I promise I'm on your side," he says, but I don't believe him. "Wouldn't it be nice to clear your name?"

"The police cleared my name," I insist. "Or are you forgetting that because you're mixing reality with the fiction you create to sensationalize everything?"

He smiles, but it's not kind; it's calculated. I'm not making this easy, and I can tell it's grating on him despite his seemingly calm exterior.

"Have you been here before?" he asks. "To this bar?"

I don't know where he's going with this, but from the glint in his eyes, I already don't like it. "No."

"Garrett Hale owns this bar. Rosalie's dad," Jackson says, and my stomach drops.

I glance around, expecting Mr. Hale to walk up any second and ambush me. When I briefly scan the bar, I don't see anyone who looks familiar. Then again, I don't fully remember what he looks like. All these years, my heavy conscience drove me to avoid anything related to the Hales. It's shitty, maybe, but it made me feel better.

My knee bounces under the table, and I'm ready to bolt. But something makes me stay. Maybe my stupidity. Or the fact that leaving right now would raise questions. Or maybe I want a confrontation so I can finally move past this.

"Don't worry, he doesn't know we're here," Jackson reassures me. "I haven't seen him either. But I thought it would be good if we talked to him. What do you think?"

"No," I say firmly. "That's not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm sure I'm the last person he'd want to see. I don't appreciate you blindsiding me, and I doubt he would either."

"Fair. What about Jasper or Isa Hale? Would you be willing to talk with them?" he asks. "Maybe they'd be less intimidating. I can set something up. Although Jasper has been less cooperative with this, I'm sure Isa would be willing to see you."

I can easily place Jasper as Rosalie's twin brother, but I'm unsure about the woman mentioned.

"Who?"

"Jasper is—"

"I know who he is. I don't know Isa."

"She's Jasper and Rosalie's younger sister," he explains, and yeah, I faintly remember that now, even if I don't specifically remember her.

"Why would I talk to them?"

"There are many benefits. It's good content, and both parties can receive some closure."

"The only closure any of us need is if we found out what happened to Rosalie, and I don't have the answer to that," I confess.

"But you know some stuff they might not be aware of. Isn't that so?" he challenges. He's right. Now I wonder how much he knows. How much he's holding back, trying to see what I'll spill first. When I haven't spoken, he adds, "I have to admit, my ratings go up any time you're the topic. It's almost like people want you to be the bad guy. Why do you think that is?"

I laugh darkly. Humorlessly.

I came here thinking that working with him could be a way for me to right my wrongs and to help Rosalie when I didn't in the past. But I'm not about to satisfy his sick need to exploit me and the Hales any further than he already has.

If anything, I might do some digging and work up the courage to contact Jasper and Isa myself.

"Our time is up," I tell him. "I came here with an open mind, willing to see if you genuinely wanted to help. Now I know you're just looking out for yourself and your podcast. You don't give a shit about any of the people affected, that much is clear."

"Okay." He nods. "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

"I won't. And keep my name out of your mouth, or you'll be hearing from my lawyer," I threaten before standing and walking away.