Book1

The New Girl

"Mystic Falls," Gran said, her voice flat as she tightened her grip on her cane, her knuckles white against the wood.

The moving men had wrapped up the heavy lifting, their footsteps echoing in our new home, and they'd gone the extra mile by connecting our electronic devices and assembling our beds.

All that was left for us were the knick-knacks—trinkets and memories ready to find their places in this unfamiliar house. I offered to take care of the sorting, but Gran wasn't having it.

"Bella," she declared, her voice firm, "you don't get to be my age by just sitting on your tail and letting people treat you like you're an invalid."

A warm smile tugged at my lips; that was classic Gran—always keeping me on my toes, never allowing me the luxury of feeling sorry for myself.

"I don't know if you remember, but you and your parents lived here for four years," she continued, her eyes sparkling with reminiscence. "They always said it was too dangerous, but when Beaufort and I lived here, it was perfect."

I tried to dig through my hazy memories of Mystic Falls. The recollections were like pictures fading in and out, primarily blurry impressions of a boy and his sister.

I remember declaring him my twin since we shared birthdays precisely one month apart; I was born on September 13, while he arrived a month later on October 13.

I wondered if he ever thought of me. Did he remember my name? The thought nagged at me.

"Not really," I finally admitted, my gaze drifting to the photo framing the mantle.

In that snapshot, Gran and Grandpa Beau stood proudly beside my parents, Charlie and Renee Swan, with an infant Isabella Marie Swan cradled in their arms—me, just a week old.

The image had been taken just a week after my arrival, a bittersweet moment captured a month before my grandfather passed away. It was a rare occasion, a neighbor snapping the whole family together for the first and last time, frozen in time.

As I studied the faces of my parents, tears began to trickle down my cheeks, the weight of the moment settling heavily in my chest, when I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I miss them too, dear," Gran said, her voice trembling with emotion, a sob barely concealed underneath.

My grandparents, Beau and Marie Higginbotham, had two children: Renee, the daughter who had thrived, and their

son, who was just a couple of years older and lost in the ravages of war. They seldom spoke of him, a shadow they didn't want to confront. Charlie had met him only once at their wedding, a fleeting encounter lost to time. If I rummaged through old family albums, I might uncover a photo of him hiding among the memories.

It had only been six months since that fateful night when my parents and I were caught in a car crash. We had been on our way home from a movie, laughter still bubbling between us, when a drunk driver in a red Ford truck veered into our lane and slammed into our Honda Civic, smashing it on Charlie's side. The world outside became a blur as our car flipped over several times, and then a blue Chevy collided with us on Renee's side.

The chaos had left me in a daze; I was barely conscious, flashes of light and sound swirling around me. I could hear Charlie's desperate voice screaming my name, but it felt distant. As I was pulled from the wreckage, the acrid smell of gasoline filled my nostrils, mixing with the metallic tang of fear. I remember crying out for my parents, my voice small and shaky, calling for Mommy and Daddy like a frightened child, just moments before the horrific explosion shattered the night.

Glancing over at Gran, I felt shame wash over me. Here she was, a woman who had lost her soulmate, both her children, and a son-in-law, yet she held herself together with such grace. Meanwhile, I was left in tears, crumbling under the

weight of my grief.

Why was I still alive when Renee and Charlie were gone?