I picked up a breadstick and began nibbling on the end, measuring his　　expression. I wondered when it would be okay to start questioning him.　　"Usually you're in a better mood when your eyes are so light," I　　commented, trying to distract him from whatever thought had left him　　frowning and somber.　　He stared at me, stunned. "What?"　　"You're always crabbier when your eyes are black — I expect it then," I　　went on. "I have a theory about that."　　His eyes narrowed. "More theories?"　　"Mm-hm." I chewed on a small bite of the bread, trying to look　　indifferent.　　"I hope you were more creative this time… or are you still stealing from　　comic books?" His faint smile was mocking; his eyes were still tight.　　"Well, no, I didn't get it from a comic book, but I didn't come up with　　it on my own, either," I confessed.　　"And?" he prompted.　　But then the waitress strode around the partition with my food. I　　realized we'd been unconsciously leaning toward each other across the　　table, because we both straightened up as she approached. She set the　　dish in front of me — it looked pretty good — and turned quickly to　　Edward.　　"Did you change your mind?" she asked. "Isn't there anything I can get　　you?" I may have been imagining the double meaning in her words.　　"No, thank you, but some more soda would be nice." He gestured with a　　long white hand to the empty cups in front of me.　　"Sure." She removed the empty glasses and walked away.　　"You were saying?" he asked.　　"I'll tell you about it in the car. If…" I paused.　　"There are conditions?" He raised one eyebrow, his voice ominous.　　"I do have a few questions, of course."　　"Of course."　　The waitress was back with two more Cokes. She sat them down without a　　word this time, and left again.　　I took a sip.　　"Well, go ahead," he pushed, his voice still hard.　　I started with the most undemanding. Or so I thought. "Why are you in　　Port Angeles?"　　He looked down, folding his large hands together slowly on the table. His　　eyes flickered up at me from under his lashes, the hint of a smirk on his　　face.　　"Next."　　"But that's the easiest one," I objected.　　"Next," he repeated.　　I looked down, frustrated. I unrolled my silverware, picked up my fork,　　and carefully speared a ravioli. I put it in my mouth slowly, still　　looking down, chewing while I thought. The mushrooms were good. I　　swallowed and took another sip of Coke before I looked up.　　"Okay, then." I glared at him, and continued slowly. "Let's say,　　hypothetically of course, that… someone… could know what people are　　thinking, read minds, you know — with a few exceptions."　　"Just one exception," he corrected, "hypothetically."　　"All right, with one exception, then." I was thrilled that he was playing　　along, but I tried to seem casual.　　"How does that work? What are the limitations? How would… that someone…　　find someone else at exactly the right time? How would he know she was in　　trouble?" I wondered if my convoluted questions even made sense.　　"Hypothetically?" he asked.　　"Sure."　　"Well, if… that someone…"　　"Let's call him 'Joe,'" I suggested.　　He smiled wryly. "Joe, then. If Joe had been paying attention, the timing　　wouldn't have needed to be quite so exact." He shook his head, rolling　　his eyes. "Only you could get into trouble in a town this small. You　　would have devastated their crime rate statistics for a decade, you know."　　"We were speaking of a hypothetical case," I reminded him frostily.　　He laughed at me, his eyes warm.　　"Yes, we were," he agreed. "Shall we call you 'Jane'?"　　"How did you know?" I asked, unable to curb my intensity. I realized I　　was leaning toward him again.　　He seemed to be wavering, torn by some internal dilemma. His eyes locked　　with mine, and I guessed he was making the decision right then whether or　　not to simply tell me the truth.　　"You can trust me, you know," I murmured. I reached forward, without　　thinking, to touch his folded hands, but he slid them away minutely, and　　I pulled my hand back.　　"I don't know if I have a choice anymore." His voice was almost a　　whisper. "I was wrong — you're much more observant than I gave you credit　　for."　　"I thought you were always right."　　"I used to be." He shook his head again. "I was wrong about you on one　　other thing, as well. You're not a magnet for accidents — that's not a　　broad enough classification. You are a magnet for trouble. If there is　　anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will invariably find you."　　"And you put yourself into that category?" I guessed.　　His face turned cold, expressionless. "Unequivocally."　　I stretched my hand across the table again — ignoring him when he pulled　　back slightly once more — to touch the back of his hand shyly with my　　fingertips. His skin was cold and hard, like a stone.　　"Thank you." My voice was fervent with gratitude. "That's twice now."　　His face softened. "Let's not try for three, agreed?"　　I scowled, but nodded. He moved his hand out from under mine, placing　　both of his under the table. But he leaned toward me.　　"I followed you to Port Angeles," he admitted, speaking in a rush. "I've　　never tried to keep a specific person alive before, and it's much more　　troublesome than I would have believed. But that's probably just because　　it's you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many　　catastrophes." He paused. I wondered if it should bother me that he was　　following me; instead I felt a strange surge of pleasure. He stared,　　maybe wondering why my lips were curving into an involuntary smile.　　"Did you ever think that maybe my number was up the first time, with the　　van, and that you've been interfering with fate?" I speculated,　　distracting myself.　　"That wasn't the first time," he said, and his voice was hard to hear. I　　stared at him in amazement, but he was looking down. "Your number was up　　the first time I met you."　　I felt a spasm of fear at his words, and the abrupt memory of his violent　　black glare that first day… but the overwhelming sense of safety I felt　　in his presence stifled it. By the time he looked up to read my eyes,　　there was no trace of fear in them.　　"You remember?" he asked, his angel's face grave.　　"Yes." I was calm.　　"And yet here you sit." There was a trace of disbelief in his voice; he　　raised one eyebrow.　　"Yes, here I sit… because of you." I paused. "Because somehow you knew　　how to find me today… ?" I prompted.　　He pressed his lips together, staring at me through narrowed eyes,　　deciding again. His eyes flashed down to my full plate, and then back to　　me.　　"You eat, I'll talk," he bargained.　　I quickly scooped up another ravioli and popped it in my mouth.　　"It's harder than it should be — keeping track of you. Usually I can find　　someone very easily, once I've heard their mind before." He looked at me　　anxiously, and I realized I had frozen. I made myself swallow, then　　stabbed another ravioli and tossed it in.　　"I was keeping tabs on Jessica, not carefully — like I said, only you　　could find trouble in Port Angeles — and at first I didn't notice when　　you took off on your own. Then, when I realized that you weren't with her　　anymore, I went looking for you at the bookstore I saw in her head. I　　could tell that you hadn't gone in, and that you'd gone south… and I knew　　you would have to turn around soon. So I was just waiting for you,　　randomly searching through the thoughts of people on the street — to see　　if anyone had noticed you so I would know where you were. I had no reason　　to be worried… but I was strangely anxious…" He was lost in thought,　　staring past me, seeing things I couldn't imagine.　　"I started to drive in circles, still… listening. The sun was finally　　setting, and I was about to get out and follow you on foot. And then —"　　He stopped, clenching his teeth together in sudden fury. He made an　　effort to calm himself.　　"Then what?" I whispered. He continued to stare over my head.　　"I heard what they were thinking," he growled, his upper lip curling　　slightly back over his teeth. "I saw your face in his mind." He suddenly　　leaned forward, one elbow appearing on the table, his hand covering his　　eyes. The movement was so swift it startled me.　　"It was very… hard — you can't imagine how hard — for me to simply take　　you away, and leave them… alive." His voice was muffled by his arm. "I　　could have let you go with Jessica and Angela, but I was afraid if you　　left me alone, I would go looking for them," he admitted in a whisper.　　I sat quietly, dazed, my thoughts incoherent. My hands were folded in my　　lap, and I was leaning weakly against the back of the seat. He still had　　his face in his hand, and he was as still as if he'd been carved from the　　stone his skin resembled.　　Finally he looked up, his eyes seeking mine, full of his own questions.　　"Are you ready to go home?" he asked.　　"I'm ready to leave," I qualified, overly grateful that we had the　　hour-long ride home together. I wasn't ready to say goodbye to him.　　The waitress appeared as if she'd been called. Or watching.　　"How are we doing?" she asked Edward.　　"We're ready for the check, thank you." His voice was quiet, rougher,　　still reflecting the strain of our conversation. It seemed to muddle her.　　He looked up, waiting.　　"S-sure," she stuttered. "Here you go." She pulled a small leather folder　　from the front pocket of her black apron and handed it to him.　　There was a bill in his hand already. He slipped it into the folder and　　handed it right back to her.　　"No change." He smiled. Then he stood up, and I scrambled awkwardly to my　　feet.　　She smiled invitingly at him again. "You have a nice evening."　　He didn't look away from me as he thanked her. I suppressed a smile.　　He walked close beside me to the door, still careful not to touch me. I　　remembered what Jessica had said about her relationship with Mike, how　　they were almost to the first-kiss stage. I sighed. Edward seemed to hear　　me, and he looked down curiously. I looked at the sidewalk, grateful that　　he didn't seem to be able to know what I was thinking.　　He opened the passenger door, holding it for me as I stepped in, shutting　　it softly behind me. I watched him walk around the front of the car,　　amazed, yet again, by how graceful he was. I probably should have been　　used to that by now — but I wasn't. I had a feeling Edward wasn't the　　kind of person anyone got used to.　　Once inside the car, he started the engine and turned the heater on high.　　It had gotten very cold, and I guessed the good weather was at an end. I　　was warm in his jacket, though, breathing in the scent of it when I　　thought he couldn't see.　　Edward pulled out through the traffic, apparently without a glance,　　flipping around to head toward the freeway.　　"Now," he said significantly, "it's your turn."　　===========================================================================　　9. THEORY　　"Can I ask just one more?" I pleaded as Edward accelerated much too　　quickly down the quiet street. He didn't seem to be paying any attention　　to the road.　　He sighed.　　"One," he agreed. His lips pressed together into a cautious line.　　"Well… you said you knew I hadn't gone into the bookstore, and that I had　　gone south. I was just wondering how you knew that."　　He looked away, deliberating.　　"I thought we were past all the evasiveness," I grumbled.　　He almost smiled.　　"Fine, then. I followed your scent." He looked at the road, giving me　　time to compose my face. I couldn't think of an acceptable response to　　that, but I filed it carefully away for future study. I tried to refocus.　　I wasn't ready to let him be finished, now that he was finally explaining　　things.　　"And then you didn't answer one of my first questions…" I stalled.　　He looked at me with disapproval. "Which one?"　　"How does it work — the mind-reading thing? Can you read anybody's mind,　　anywhere? How do you do it? Can the rest of your family… ?" I felt silly,　　asking for clarification on make-believe.　　"That's more than one," he pointed out. I simply intertwined my fingers　　and gazed at him, waiting.　　"No, it's just me. And I can't hear anyone, anywhere. I have to be fairly　　close. The more familiar someone's… 'voice' is, the farther away I can　　hear them. But still, no more than a few miles." He paused thoughtfully.　　"It's a little like being in a huge hall filled with people, everyone　　talking at once. It's just a hum — a buzzing of voices in the background.　　Until I focus on one voice, and then what they're thinking is clear.　　"Most of the time I tune it all out — it can be very distracting. And　　then it's easier to seem normal" — he frowned as he said the word — "when　　I'm not accidentally answering someone's thoughts rather than their　　words."　　"Why do you think you can't hear me?" I asked curiously.　　He looked at me, his eyes enigmatic.　　"I don't know," he murmured. "The only guess I have is that maybe your　　mind doesn't work the same way the rest of theirs do. Like your thoughts　　are on the AM frequency and I'm only getting FM." He grinned at me,　　suddenly amused.　　"My mind doesn't work right? I'm a freak?" The words bothered me more　　than they should — probably because his speculation hit home. I'd always　　suspected as much, and it embarrassed me to have it confirmed.　　"I hear voices in my mind and you're worried that you're the freak," he　　laughed. "Don't worry, it's just a theory…" His face tightened. "Which　　brings us back to you."　　I sighed. How to begin?　　"Aren't we past all the evasions now?" he reminded me softly.　　I looked away from his face for the first time, trying to find words. I　　happened to notice the speedometer.　　"Holy crow!" I shouted. "Slow down!"　　"What's wrong?" He was startled. But the car didn't decelerate.　　"You're going a hundred miles an hour!" I was still shouting. I shot a　　panicky glance out the window, but it was too dark to see much. The road　　was only visible in the long patch of bluish brightness from the　　headlights. The forest along both sides of the road was like a black wall　　— as hard as a wall of steel if we veered off the road at this speed.　　"Relax, Bella." He rolled his eyes, still not slowing.　　"Are you trying to kill us?" I demanded.　　"We're not going to crash."　　I tried to modulate my voice. "Why are you in such a hurry?"　　"I always drive like this." He turned to smile crookedly at me.　　"Keep your eyes on the road!"　　"I've never been in an accident, Bella — I've never even gotten a　　ticket." He grinned and tapped his forehead. "Built-in radar detector."　　"Very funny." I fumed. "Charlie's a cop, remember? I was raised to abide　　by traffic laws. Besides, if you turn us into a Volvo pretzel around a　　tree trunk, you can probably just walk away."　　"Probably," he agreed with a short, hard laugh. "But you can't." He　　sighed, and I watched with relief as the needle gradually drifted toward　　eighty. "Happy?"　　"Almost."　　"I hate driving slow," he muttered.　　"This is slow?"　　"Enough commentary on my driving," he snapped. "I'm still waiting for　　your latest theory."　　I bit my lip. He looked down at me, his honey eyes unexpectedly gentle.　　"I won't laugh," he promised.　　"I'm more afraid that you'll be angry with me."　　"Is it that bad?"　　"Pretty much, yeah."　　He waited. I was looking down at my hands, so I couldn't see his　　expression.　　"Go ahead." His voice was calm.　　"I don't know how to start," I admitted.　　"Why don't you start at the beginning… you said you didn't come up with　　this on your own."　　"No."　　"What got you started — a book? A movie?" he probed.　　"No — it was Saturday, at the beach." I risked a glance up at his face.　　He looked puzzled.　　"I ran into an old family friend —Jacob Black," I continued. "His dad and　　Charlie have been friends since I was a baby."　　He still looked confused.　　"His dad is one of the Quileute elders." I watched him carefully. His　　confused expression froze in place. "We went for a walk —" I edited all　　my scheming out of the story "— and he was telling me some old legends —　　trying to scare me, I think. He told me one…" I hesitated.　　"Go on," he said.　　"About vampires." I realized I was whispering. I couldn't look at his　　face now. But I saw his knuckles tighten convulsively on the wheel.　　"And you immediately thought of me?" Still calm.　　"No. He… mentioned your family."　　He was silent, staring at the road.　　I was worried suddenly, worried about protecting Jacob.　　"He just thought it was a silly superstition," I said quickly. "He didn't　　expect me to think anything of it." It didn't seem like enough; I had to　　confess. "It was my fault, I forced him to tell me."　　"Why?"　　"Lauren said something about you — she was trying to provoke me. And an　　older boy from the tribe said your family didn't come to the reservation,　　only it sounded like he meant something different. So I got Jacob alone　　and I tricked it out of him," I admitted, hanging my head.　　He startled me by laughing. I glared up at him. He was laughing, but his　　eyes were fierce, staring ahead.　　"Tricked him how?" he asked.　　"I tried to flirt — it worked better than I thought it would." Disbelief　　colored my tone as I remembered.　　"I'd like to have seen that." He chuckled darkly. "And you accused me of　　dazzling people — poor Jacob Black."　　I blushed and looked out my window into the night.　　"What did you do then?" he asked after a minute.　　"I did some research on the Internet."　　"And did that convince you?" His voice sounded barely interested. But his　　hands were clamped hard onto the steering wheel.　　"No. Nothing fit. Most of it was kind of silly. And then…" I stopped.　　"What?"　　"I decided it didn't matter," I whispered.　　"It didn't matter?" His tone made me look up — I had finally broken　　through his carefully composed mask. His face was incredulous, with just　　a hint of the anger I'd feared.　　"No," I said softly. "It doesn't matter to me what you are."　　A hard, mocking edge entered his voice. "You don't care if I'm a monster?　　If I'm not human!"　　"No."　　He was silent, staring straight ahead again. His face was bleak and cold.　　"You're angry," I sighed. "I shouldn't have said anything."　　"No," he said, but his tone was as hard as his face. "I'd rather know　　what you're thinking — even if what you're thinking is insane."　　"So I'm wrong again?" I challenged.　　"That's not what I was referring to. 'It doesn't matter'!" he quoted,　　gritting his teeth together.　　"I'm right?" I gasped.　　"Does it matter?"　　I took a deep breath.　　"Not really." I paused. "But I am curious." My voice, at least, was　　composed.　　He was suddenly resigned. "What are you curious about?"　　"How old are you?"　　"Seventeen," he answered promptly.　　"And how long have you been seventeen?"　　His lips twitched as he stared at the road. "A while," he admitted at　　last.　　"Okay." I smiled, pleased that he was still being honest with me. He　　stared down at me with watchful eyes, much as he had before, when he was　　worried I would go into shock. I smiled wider in encouragement, and he　　frowned.　　"Don't laugh — but how can you come out during the daytime?"　　He laughed anyway. "Myth."　　"Burned by the sun?"　　"Myth."　　"Sleeping in coffins?"　　"Myth." He hesitated for a moment, and a peculiar tone entered his voice.　　"I can't sleep."　　It took me a minute to absorb that. "At all?"　　"Never," he said, his voice nearly inaudible. He turned to look at me　　with a wistful expression. The golden eyes held mine, and I lost my train　　of thought. I stared at him until he looked away.　　"You haven't asked me the most important question yet." His voice was　　hard now, and when he looked at me again his eyes were cold.　　I blinked, still dazed. "Which one is that?"　　"You aren't concerned about my diet?" he asked sarcastically.　　"Oh," I murmured, "that."　　"Yes, that." His voice was bleak. "Don't you want to know if I drink　　blood?"　　I flinched. "Well, Jacob said something about that."　　"What did Jacob say?" he asked flatly.　　"He said you didn't… hunt people. He said your family wasn't supposed to　　be dangerous because you only hunted animals."　　"He said we weren't dangerous?" His voice was deeply skeptical.　　"Not exactly. He said you weren't supposed to be dangerous. But the　　Quileutes still didn't want you on their land, just in case."　　He looked forward, but I couldn't tell if he was watching the road or not.　　"So was he right? About not hunting people?" I tried to keep my voice as　　even as possible.　　"The Quileutes have a long memory," he whispered.　　I took it as a confirmation.　　"Don't let that make you complacent, though," he warned me. "They're　　right to keep their distance from us. We are still dangerous."　　"I don't understand."　　"We try," he explained slowly. "We're usually very good at what we do.　　Sometimes we make mistakes. Me, for example, allowing myself to be alone　　with you."　　"This is a mistake?" I heard the sadness in my voice, but I didn't know　　if he could as well.　　"A very dangerous one," he murmured.　　We were both silent then. I watched the headlights twist with the curves　　of the road. They moved too fast; it didn't look real, it looked like a　　video game. I was aware of the time slipping away so quickly, like the　　black road beneath us, and I was hideously afraid that I would never have　　another chance to be with him like this again — openly, the walls between　　us gone for once. His words hinted at an end, and I recoiled from the　　idea. I couldn't waste one minute I had with him.　　"Tell me more," I asked desperately, not caring what he said, just so I　　could hear his voice again.　　He looked at me quickly, startled by the change in my tone. "What more do　　you want to know?"　　"Tell me why you hunt animals instead of people," I suggested, my voice　　still tinged with desperation. I realized my eyes were wet, and I fought　　against the grief that was trying to overpower me.　　"I don't want to be a monster." His voice was very low.　　"But animals aren't enough?"　　He paused. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd compare it to living on　　tofu and soy milk; we call ourselves vegetarians, our little inside joke.　　It doesn't completely satiate the hunger — or rather thirst. But it keens