As you know, I try not to start off with author notes, but I do feel that it is necessary in this case. I urge all of my readers to read through it. This chapter addresses the murder and rape of female character, namely Rosalie. I will mark the sections with break lines for those of you who don't feel you are in the right place to read it. It isn't graphic, but you might find it distressing.

One of my biggest qualms with the Twilight saga is how Stephenie Meyers uses violence against women as a plot device. For instance: Bella goes to Port Angles with her friends and is rounded up to be most likely raped by a group of men; Esme was abused by her husband; Rosalie was gang-raped; Alice and Bella were both stalked by James who sought to kill them for sport; Bella is kissed against her will and emotionally manipulated by Jacob on more than one occasion. Now compare these to the men in the series… the closet you get is Jasper, who was kidnapped and turned into a war machine.

The fact of the matter is that she uses violence against women, in doing so, normalises the fact that this violence is a very real reality to millions of women worldwide. I, as an author, cannot condone this. Yes, women (and men!) are assaulted, raped, abused, and even murdered. It is a disgusting reality of life that we need to strive to end. But it should never be something that is used to define them. Meyers had the ability to talk about the impact of how Rosalie's rape changed her, but she neglected it in favour of explaining away why Rose was such a bitch to Bella. She had the ability to show empathy for victims of assault, to show her impressionable readers that it is possible to overcome and step out of the shadows of a traumatic event. She had the ability to teach readers — mostly young girls, who God forbid, might one day experience something as terrible as Rosalie did or even already had— that it is NEVER the victim's fault. But she didn't.

If you or anyone you know has been a victim of violence— physical, emotional, psychological, or sexual— I want you to know that the victim is never at fault. There is no such thing as 'doing all of the right things' to protect yourself. When somebody hurt you, THEY made the decision to do so and it is THEIR fault. And for those of you who carry this secret with you: do not be ashamed. You are a survivor, you are brave, and you are not alone. If you or anyone you know needs help, I have included a link to a website on my profile with numbers to hotlines for several countries.

Chapter 21: The Visitation

In the end, the Cullen's decided not to visit their family in Alaska. It had started off with Jasper's refusal to leave Louisa for such a long period of time and no amount of pleading on Mrs Cullen's part could change his mind. Louisa herself had tried to reassure him that she would be fine if he left for a few days, to which he responded with an unimpressed look and the instructions that if she was going to lie to an empath, she should at least be convinced of her own feelings. With Jasper staying behind, Alice declared that she had no real desire to go to Denali either, and after informing her parents how Tanya treated Edward, the trip was called off in favour of a quiet holiday at home.

Not that Louisa could complain too much. Jasper had entirely correct in his assessment when he had called her out for lying to him: Louisa had experienced an overwhelming feeling of dread at the thought of Jasper leaving for even a week. She tried to rationalise the emotion, telling herself that it was only because she didn't want to be left alone in her room with the potential ghost of a homicide victim, but she knew that was only a small part of the issue. She knew, even if the very independent part of her didn't want to admit it, that being around Jasper just felt… right.

Christmas passed in a whirlwind of snow and emotions. The Collins family celebrated the holiday as a quiet affair, exchanging gifts next to a balsam fir that Jasper had helped Mr Collins set up, and trying to ignore the fact that two members of their family were missing. After a hearty breakfast of their father's Christmas pancakes, the three piled into Mr Collins's car and they made the three-hour drive to Tacoma to visit the graves of Laurie and Mrs Collins. Jasper showed up that evening and held her as she cried herself to sleep. The New Year passed in a similar manner, though with the two sisters under what was essentially house arrest. Louisa didn't have the heart to explain to a confused Dot that their father really just didn't want them on the roads with New Year's revellers.

Before she knew it, it was almost time to return to school, something that Louisa took as a welcome distraction. But before they could, there was one final thing that she needed to do: interview Anna's mother, Ms Morales. The woman had returned their phone call, agreeing to meet them at her house in Portland, Oregon, much to the excitement of the teenagers. Because Louisa wasn't sure if she would be able to interview the woman after classes resumed, it was decided that she and Rosalie would drive down the last weekend of break to meet with her under the guise that they were buying their prom dresses. According to Alice, their dresses were waiting in a little boutique not too far from Ms Morales' house, which she had already taken the liberty of purchasing.

When Louisa tried to object, Alice scowled. "I've waited thirty-eight years for this, Louisa Collins, and I will not have you ruining it!" she snapped, firmly putting an end to any and all arguments on the matter.

Hence the reason for a dishevelled and half-asleep answering the door on the last Saturday of winter break. "We really need to stop meeting like this," Louisa moaned upon seeing Rosalie, who was standing on the porch casually spinning the keys to her car around her long fingers.

"You said you wanted to leave early."

"I didn't mean eight in the morning," Louisa said, trying to pull on her coat with one hand and juggle a travel mug of tea in the other. She called out a farewell to her family over her shoulder before following after the tall blonde to the flashy red BMW that was sitting in the driveway. "It's far too early to do anything."

Rosalie rolled her eyes at the girl's dramatics. "Get in the car, looser."

"Sure thing, Regina," Louisa said, complying with her friend's demands. She wiggled around for a few seconds, trying to get comfortable and closed her eyes, hoping to at least get a few more hours of sleep.

"Oh no you don't," Rosalie snapped, tossing her surprisingly heavy purse into Louisa's lap, startling the human. "I'm not your damn chauffeur. If I'm driving, you're at least going to talk to me.

"What do you keep in here? Bricks?" Louisa asked, shuffling the bag around before dumping it onto the floor with a muted thunk.

"I tore off Jasper's head," Rosalie deadpanned, starting the car. "I thought you might miss him and I didn't want to listen to your whinging for the next twelve hours."

"Oh, you shouldn't have. I didn't get you anything," Louisa replied. "Maybe if I call Emmett right now I can catch him right before they get out of cell range." The brothers were also originally supposed to accompany them as well, but Jasper was anxious about the upcoming term and being surrounded by so many humans again, so the three brothers had decided to take a last minute hunting trip near Mount Rainier.

Well, Emmett and Edward had decided and Jasper had been cajoled. Her boyfriend had been reluctant to leave her for the weekend and she would've been lying if she said she wasn't just as hesitant to be without him. She had become quite accustomed to falling asleep in his arms at night, though she did wonder if she was becoming too dependent on him. When she voiced her concerns about being able to keep psychometric-Anna-murder dreams away Alice informed her that the long-awaited sleepover would be happening at Casa de Cullen, and there was absolutely no way around it. Well, there probably was, but Louisa was too relieved that she wouldn't have to sleep in the murder room by herself to argue.

Rosalie gave an indelicate snort. "Don't worry, I got all I needed from him before he left."

Louisa didn't let her mind consider the meaning behind Rosalie's words. There were just some things you didn't need to know about your best friend. She instead occupied herself with digging through Rose's purse, pulling out her fancy laptop— one of those touch screen ones that you could write on and probably cost more than three of Louisa's own computers— and reading through the notes that she had made. Or at least tried her best to. She was too embarrassed to admit to the century-old vampire that she could barely read cursive.

"You were busy last night," Louisa commented idly, squinting and tilting her head as she attempted to decipher a particularly elaborately written word.

"That's one way to put it."

Louisa closed the computer and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the image of Emmett wearing far fewer clothes than she had ever hoped to see out of her mind. "I swear, you're worse than your husband."

Rosalie snickered. "Why do you think we get along so well? The two of us are quite compatible."

"If you can pull over here, I'd like to get out and walk the rest of the way."

"Come on, you walked straight into that one."

"I want to walk straight off a cliff," Louisa replied, rubbing her temples which had begun to throb. "Seriously though, your driving is already making me feel sick. You don't need to add to it."

"Please, this is slow for me. I usually go much faster."

"Rose, you're doing 90 in a 55."

"Like I said: slow."

Despite the vampire's manic driving habits, or perhaps because of them, the two girls made it to Portland in record time. They picked up their dresses first, from a boutique that served them champagne despite neither girl being of legal drinking age, and where there was apparently only one of each dress in stock. Louisa's eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the price tag on one of them. When she mentioned to Rosalie that most likely all of the dresses were way over her budget, the vampire rolled her eyes and tossed the two garment bags into the boot. She hadn't even been allowed to look at the dress, a fact that she complained about rather vocally all the way to their next destination.

Ms Emilia Morales lived in a small yellow ranch house in the suburbs of Portland. The front garden was covered in several inches of snow and, had it not been January, Louisa was sure that it would have been a spectacular sight if the number of flower beds and bare shrubs was anything to go by. Louisa held open the front gate for Rosalie before the two slowly made their way up the icy front path. Rosalie had barely lowered her hand from the knocker when the door opened, revealing a thin woman with dark greying hair. She was wearing a dark purple jumper, the collar of her white shirt pressed neatly above it and dark black trousers that had been ironed so sharply there was a crease running down the front of each leg. They shook hands and she stepped aside to let them into the house.

Catholic, professional woman, lives alone with two cats.

They were lead into a living room which was just as neat as Ms Morales' appearance and smelled heavily of violets. A fat orange cat was lounging on the sofa when they entered, only to give an angry hiss and bolt out of the room, its tail puffed up. There were several home and garden magazines as well as a copy of Vogue all of which sat glossy-covered and artfully arraigned, untouched on the coffee table in front of the loveseat the two teens had chosen. Louisa shifted a needlepoint pillow so she could sit down, breaking the uniformity with the rest, which had all been tilted to fourth-five degrees. Their host reappeared with a silver tea tray and she sat down on the recently abandoned sofa, passing them steaming cups of what smelled like quite possibly the strongest coffee Louis had ever experienced. Louisa took a sip. Melancholy. That's how it tasted, she realised. Melancholy and lonely.

Ms Morales perched on the edge of her seat, hands clasped in her lap, watching them with an unreadable expression. "You have questions about my Anna?"

Louisa nodded and placed her cup of coffee back in its saucer. "Like I said on the phone, I'm currently living in your former house and I'm working with the police to help solve your daughter's murder."

"Charlie, you mean," Ms Morales said, her voice taking on a bitter edge. "And aren't you a bit young to be working on a murder investigation?"

Louisa bit the inside of her lip, considering how to gain the woman's trust. She could easily be the sympathetic detective, willing to help her bring closure to her daughter's death. But a brief glance around the room told her that that wasn't what Ms Morales needed.

The lounge looked like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine: everything was perfectly in place and exquisitely kept. Everything was arranged to give off the impression of a perfect life, yet somehow missed the mark. The pictures of Anna on the mantelpiece above the fireplace were carefully dusted and diligently cleaned. The magazines on the table were the newest additions but never read. The cats were permitted on the furniture, yet there was no fur. Pillows that needed to be moved because nobody ever visited. Ms Morales was, by Louisa's observations, completely alone.

And then there were the woman's words. Louisa's first instinct had been to defend her ability to solve mysteries just like an adult, ready to cite numerous cases she had worked on and successfully solved, but the words died on her tongue. The way Ms Morales had phrased her question hadn't been in one of derision, as if asking how a teenager could do what the police could not in over ten years. The question had been one of concern. The woman had noticed their ages and wanted to ask if it was wise for them to be working on a murder investigation. She was worried about them, and what they might see. Her question was one of motherly worry.

She didn't need a sympathetic ear. No, she needed a daughter.

"Chief Swan allows us to do the paperwork portion, so we've seen most of the files, some of the pictures from the crime scene have been withheld. We're permitted to interview people, and if we come across any evidence, we inform him and let him deal with it properly. Like I said before, I'm a detective, but I work with the police, not for them."

Some of the wrinkles that had formed in her forehead had smoothed out at her words, and Ms Morales picked up her cup of coffee to take a sip. "Charlie is a good man—the only one who still cares about her. He calls, you know? Every Christmas. Lets me know he hasn't given up on her."

"He is," Louisa agreed, her mind racing to come up with something that would garner her trust. "My sister and I sometimes stay with him when my father has to work." Which had more to do with being too afraid to stay in the house and less to do with needing adult supervision. But she didn't need to know that.

"Your mother is working too?" the woman asked.

Louisa wasn't surprised by the query. A woman who lost her daughter would naturally want to know why another mother wouldn't spend time with her children. "No, she died about nine months ago," Louisa replied. She wondered in the back of her mind if she was exploiting her mother's death by bringing it up in an interview. She'd have to ask Jasper when he returned from his trip.

Despite whatever qualms Louisa had about the matter, she couldn't deny that it was effective. Ms Morales' dark eyes softened and she leaned forward, placing her coffee cup on the table. "I'm sorry, darling."

Louisa gave a brief smile. "Thank you." She could feel Rosalie's surprise at the change in Ms Morales' behaviour but didn't want to call too much attention to it. The hardest part of manipulating someone, after all, was not letting that person know that they are being manipulated.

"How can I help you?"

"I'd like to start from the very beginning. I've been trying to get a sense of who Anna was as a person, but everything I have read seems horribly biased."

A thin eyebrow arched at this. "And you think that I won't be?"

"Mothers are supposed to be biased," Louisa agreed with a grin. "But they usually have a pretty good understanding of their children."

The woman's lips pursed, dubious. "I'm not sure what you could say that wasn't already asked by the police during the original investigation."

"Police often don't know what to ask," Louisa explained. "They try to understand the crime for what it is, not why it is. Sure, you look for things like motive, but you have to ask, why that certain victim? Most police officers, I find, don't realise that this is an important question."

The scepticism was still written on her face and Louisa could tell that she was humouring them. "What do you want to know?"

Rosalie pulled out her laptop, perching it on her knees and reading the first question. "What was Anna like as a child?" Her fingers were poised over the keys, ready and waiting for Ms Morales' response.

A wistful expression flitted across the woman's face and her eyes drifted away to stare at a photograph on the mantelpiece. "She was a headstrong girl, even as a baby. She always knew what she wanted. She had dyscalculia and struggled academically. Math was her worst subject. She was musically inclined, though— she loved to sing. She had such a beautiful voice. The school did The Sound of Music one year. She played Maria." Ms Morales rose from her seat and bustled over to a bookshelf, extracting a thick red photo album from the collection of neatly arranged books. She flipped through the pages while she walked back and handed the book to Rosalie, sinking down next to the blonde, pointing to one of the pictures. It was of Anna wearing a brown dress and a white bolero, surrounded by seven children in grey uniforms. "This was from her junior year. She was so proud of herself. She fell in love with The Sound of Music when she was five. She idolised Julie Andrews." She turned back a few pages and pointed to a very young Anna wearing a blue gingham dress and sparkly red shoes, her long brown hair tied into two pigtails. "This was the first play she was in: The Wizard of Oz. She was six. She used to tell me that she would be on Broadway."

"Do you think she would have?" Louisa interjected.

"Oh, I have no doubt," Ms Morales replied. "If she didn't get roles on talent alone, she would have gotten them for sheer persistence. Like I said, she knew what she wanted and she never let anything get in between her and her goals."

"Did that ever bother people?" Louisa asked.

"If it did, I never heard of about it. She never met anyone she couldn't be friends with," Ms Morales said. "And, I know, you probably hear that a lot. But for Anna, it was true. She could light up a room, just by walking into it."

Rosalie made a note on her laptop at this. "What were her friendships like?"

"She was popular. She had so many friends, I honestly wouldn't have been able to tell you all of their names."

"Can you remember any names in particular? Anyone she was closest too?" Rosalie asked.

"Bernie," Ms Morales said without a moment of hesitation. "Bernadette Krantz."

Louisa's brow furrowed, recognising the name. She leaned over Rose's shoulder to see what she had typed, wondering if they had made a note about the girl before. "Can you describe their relationship?"

"They were inseparable," Ms Morales explained. "The Krantz's went to church with us. Bernie was always over— sometimes I think she saw more of our house than her own. They had sleepovers together all the time, usually once a week. The Krantz family was really helpful when Anna died."

Louisa scrolled through the laptop, looking for Bernadette's interview with the police. It was short, like all the others, and took place the day after the murder. It was undetailed and spoke of a girl too traumatised by the death of her best friend to talk to the police. Louisa found it odd that she hadn't been re-interviewed a few days after giving her initial statement. The best friend of a teenager would have been a helpful source of information, yet it seemed that the police had yet again underutilised the lead. No wonder Anna's case hadn't been solved.

"Do you think she would be willing to talk to us?"

"It's possible. She was the only one of Anna's friends who still cared about her after her death," Ms Morales said. "All of the others seemed to forget about her the moment she died."

Rosalie's fingers were flying across the keyboard, words appearing so fast, Louisa wondered if one of the Cullens had made some sort of modification to it. She was firing off an email to Emmett, asking him to look up Bernadette. She waited a few moments for Rosalie to catch up before asking a new question.

"I know you said she struggled academically," Louisa said. "But did she have a favourite school subject?"

"English would probably be her favourite," she replied. "She loved reading. She had so many books that her father built bookshelves into the walls of her bedroom one year for her birthday." Ms Morales let out a sad little laugh. "I would always joke and say that if Broadway didn't work out, she could always be a librarian. Then she would sing 'Marian the Librarian'." She smiled, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "You know, she used to sing all the time. Sometimes they were real songs, sometimes, it was her just narrating what she was doing. "She was such a silly girl. I miss her singing."

Louisa felt Rose stiffen next to her. She spared a glance towards her friend, only to see that what little colour Rosalie's face had possessed had drained out, making her look more corpse-like than usual. Her fingers had frozen over the keyboard, her wrist drooping so they rested on the laptop. Louisa watched as Rose's fingers slowly curled into fists, confused by her friend's sudden change in behaviour, but not wanting to call attention to it. She continued to probe Ms Morales, hoping to glean more information about Anna's personality, keeping an eye on how distressed her friend was. Eventually, Rosalie excused herself, dumping the computer into Louisa's lap before walking briskly out of the house.

Ms Morales watched her, her face set in concern. She had half risen from her seat, as if wanting to run after the blonde, but unsure if it would be appropriate. "Is she okay?"

Louisa privately was concerned by her friend's behaviour, as well. She had gathered that Rosalie cared a great deal about the case and had a strong sense of justice, but her reaction indicated that there was something deeper going on. The case was almost… personal to her. Louisa quickly reflected on Rosalie's dealings with the case. The blonde had, from the beginning always gone above and beyond in the amount of effort Louisa had expected her to put into the investigation—carefully thought out notes, an overabundance of research— and realised that what she had mistaken for her friend's enthusiasm was actually something that bordered on obsession. She empathised with Anna more than what was considered normal or healthy.

Not that Louisa could say any of this. Instead, she made an excuse for her friend, citing the side effects of a new medication for her behaviour and redirected their conversation back to Anna. They spoke for a while longer, Ms Morales painting a picture of the assertive yet thoughtful girl whose life had been cut too short. It was just before Louisa was ready to pack up the laptop when Ms Morales dropped a surprising bombshell that had the teen practically running for the car.

"She had a diary," Louisa said while sliding into the front seat of the BMW and buckling up her safety belt. "But the police were never able to find it after she died." Not even Ms Morales and her husband had been able to locate it, even after they cleaned out her room. Ms Morales admitted knowing of its existence and had seen her daughter writing in it frequently each night before bed, but exactly where it had been kept was something that had only been known to Anna.

"That wasn't in the police reports," Rosalie replied, turning on the engine and pulling away from the curb. "Shouldn't they have made a note about its possible existence?"

Louisa shrugged. "This is where I admit that I am not actually a member of the Forks police department and therefore have no clue if they should or shouldn't have."

"Shocker," Rosalie drawled. "You really had me going there for a while. I feel betrayed."

"Will a sleepover make it up to you?"

"It would be a start, I suppose. Though you'll be the one doing all of the sleeping."

"I hope you don't feel too left out," Louisa said. "It's a vital part of the slumber party experience."

The two lapsed into silence while the car flew down the highway. Louisa knew that Rosalie was aware she wanted to ask about what had happened earlier, but the vampire didn't seem inclined to offer anything. Louisa wanted to respect her friend, of course, but she couldn't just ignore that her best friend was upset. And, well, she was nosy. She wasn't entirely sure what had upset her friend, but she had a pretty good idea of where to start.

"Remember that day when we went to Victoria?"

"And you threw your smoothie at those morons." Rosalie finished.

"Nobody is ever going to let me live that down, are they?"

"It was pretty spectacular," Rosalie said.

Louisa rolled her eyes but continued on with her original thought. "I didn't understand it at the time why I had reacted like that, but now I think I do. Dr Cullen said that my… power works when strong emotions are imprinted on an object. That day, you felt fear, but I think you felt something similar to it before. Back when your eyes were violet. Back when you were human, I guess." She turned her head towards her friend whose face was hard as flint. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

And for a long time, it seemed like she wouldn't. The vampire stared out of the windscreen stony-faced, driving so quickly the gas pedal might as well have been glued to the floor. "I just wonder," Rosalie finally said, her voice brittle. "If my mum was like that. If she called the police station every day or if she just moved on with her life." Slowly, her voice breaking on more than one occasion, she began to tell the horror story that was Rosalie Hale's last night as a human. Periodically, she would lift up a hand and swipe at her eyes, trying to stem the tears of venom that began to leak out. Louisa listened in silence, her heart constricting painfully at each word, wishing that there was something she could say to help her friend.

"Some days I think about what I could have done differently that night," Rosalie admitted. "I shouldn't have walked home alone, I know that. Maybe if I had accepted my friend's offer to stay the night, I wouldn't have died."

"Rose," Louisa said finally. "I know this is probably something you've already heard, but what happened that night wasn't your fault. There is no such thing as making a mistake that means that what those monsters did to you was justifiable or makes any sort of sense. It was their fault, their decision to hurt you. You are the victim and they are the ones who chose to do something wrong that night. Not you."

"I know that," Rosalie said. "But it still doesn't make any sense. How could I not see that he was a monster, you know?"

"I think we like to call people who do bad things monsters because it distances them from us. It's something we would never do, is so far out of the social norms, that we think that there is something inherently evil about them," Louisa said after a moment of thought. "We expect them to look like how they act, but in doing so, we forget that they are human too."

Rosalie tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel while she considered her words. "I killed him, you know. And his friends."

Louisa didn't feel as shocked by this revelation as she suspected she should have. "Please told me you wore your wedding dress when you did it."

"Of course, I did," Rosalie replied. "Though it's weird that you know that."

"It would be suitably dramatic," Louisa explained. "I have a lovely mental image in my mind of you with bright red eyes and wearing a bloodstained veil." She tried to stop it there though before it got too violent.

"You're an odd one, Louisa Collins."

Louisa, despite the seriousness of the situation, had to laugh. "Says the vampire."

Rose's lips quirked up in amusement before changing the topic back to something less morbid. The trip back home took less time than expected, though Louisa couldn't be sure if it was because she was enjoying her friend's presence, chatting about inane topics and singing along with the radio, or because Rosalie drove like a maniac. It probably was a mixture of both. Either way, the four hundred kilometre drive flew by and soon the Collins' two storey house was in front of them.

Louisa hopped out of the car and sprinted towards the front door, trying to avoid getting soaked in the sudden downpour. Rosalie materialised next to her, wearing the 'drowned rat' look much better than Louisa did. She quickly unlocked the door and let them into the house, kicking off her boots by the front door. She could hear her dad walking around upstairs so she called up to him, letting him know that they were home. She shucked her coat and hung it in the hall closet and moved to throw her keys on the table in the front hall where they usually left the mail only to pause, her hand frozen mid-air. The bowl where they kept all of the car keys was empty. Her mind flashed the memory of pulling up the driveway to the house and realised with horror that her father's car had been missing. Louisa's eyes darted up towards the ceiling where she could still hear the footsteps. They were heavy and moving quickly as if the person making them was in a rush.

"Do you hear that too?" Louisa asked, her voice low.

"What your dad upstairs?" Rosalie replied, confused by her friend's change in demeanour.

Louisa shook her head and pointed to the bowl on the table where the Collins family kept their keys which empty. "His keys are gone," she hissed. "Whoever is up there isn't my dad."

"There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were." — Dwight Eisenhower.

A/N: I'MMM BAAACCCCKKKKKKKK. I went on holiday for a while and didn't have the opportunity to write. But I'm here now! What did you think of the chapter? Leave me a comment and let me know. I love to hear from you. Thank you also to all who have commented, favourited, or followed my story. It still blows me away with how supportive you all have been. Lots of Love, CheckAlexa