Wayward ➳ Edward Cullen

20. Death

"You gotta give us more than this!"

"I'm sorry, Dean, but this is it."

Paper crinkled as Dean picked up Alice's latest sketch and waved it in her face. "You know how many houses like this there are?!" He slapped it on a nearby table and pointed. The drawing was of a two-story split level with a few trees in the yard. A house so generic it could have been in any middle-class neighborhood, anywhere. "You've gotta see more! Something we can go on!"

"Dean." Sam sat on the sofa, back and head bowed low.

Dean wasn't listening. Instead, he paced in front of Alice's chair. "Doesn't have to be important. Anything could be a clue." He whirled on Edward, standing not far off from Alice. "You can see into her head, right? What are we missing?"

Edward, eyes crinkled as if in pain, sighed. "There's nothing I could tell you that Alice hasn't."

Dean stalked over, getting right in Edward's face. "Not good enough." He turned, taking in the Cullens, Sam, and me. "Not even close," he said, eyes bright with anger and something even more troubling. Fear.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and, before anyone could say a word, stalked out of the room.

Sam, hands squeezed together and bouncing his knee, shot me a wounded look. It begged me for some sort of idea, or plan, or maybe just comfort. But nothing came to mind. Sam's gaze dropped to the floor before he too shot up and walked out after Dean.

Edward moved closer. "We'll find something—"

"Where?" I demanded. I needed to do something, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing but clench my fists and grit my teeth to keep from yelling. "How?"

"I'll focus on the Tracker," Alice put in, rising from her seat. "Until something changes."

What I couldn't stop thinking but wouldn't say was that Dad's life was the thing that might change. If it hadn't changed already.

≿━━━━༺ 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 ༻━━━━≾

By the next day, there wasn't much left to hope for.

The world was a different place. Walking the Cullens' home, all the wonder and splendor I'd once seen was now a collection of things. A pit had opened within me, and nothing I set sight on could fill it. There was only the terrible knowledge that dug it deeper and deeper every time my mind turned to it, and however much I would've given to think of anything else, I couldn't think of anything but.

I couldn't cry. I was too empty for tears.

I wandered, aimless. I roamed the woods, found a nearby river. I watched the rushing water. How the light glimmered off the rippling currents beneath. I listened to the trill of birds and the chirrup of crickets. To the rustling leaves. Smelled the loam and the clean waters and the taste of last night's storm lingering in the air. There was no relief in any of these things. The emptiness swallowed it all as the dread dug an even deeper hole.

I returned to the house, avoided the commotion in the grand room. Quietly, I went upstairs to the parlor. There were bullets unmarked, unblemished blades. Hoping for a distraction, I carved in the symbols until it was as if they were scratched behind my eyelids. But no matter what I did the emptiness remained.

And then my cellphone vibrated. I ignored it. A few seconds later, it buzzed again.

I slipped it from my pocket and looked at the number. I didn't recognize it. "Hello?"

And the only thing that could fill the void spoke. "Hello, Sarah."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The smirking words stunned my mind, chilled my fingers, my spine, and boiled my blood. To go from feeling nothing to so much, it took a moment to find my voice. I gripped the phone till it creaked. "James."