The weekend before Halloween, Bella and I are on the computer adding items to our wedding registry when she goes still. I don't think anything of it, assuming she's comparing the two silverware patterns on the screen.
"Edward," she says, and her voice is shaky. "My article."
She's pale.
Fidgety.
Eyes expectant.
My brows furrow as I replay her words. "Article?"
Her fingers press into her temples, hands shaking. "The one for Architectural Digest."
Now I freeze.
My heart is thumping so loud I can barely think.
The puff piece about the firm I work for.
From before the accident.
