James downed the rest of his coffee, tossing the empty Styrofoam cup onto the floor of the passenger side, rubbing his eyes. The last two days had been a drunken blur as he sought to suppress thought, spending nights drifting in and out of sleep, consumed by the constant memories that he struggled to banish from his mind. His head was pounding, and there was a dryness in his throat that the coffee wasn’t doing much to dissipate.

               It was three nights ago when he had driven up here to Anchorage, though he remembered little of it now. A quick glance at the dashboard informed him it was 9:54 a.m. James held his hand out horizontally before him—it was shaking uncontrollably. There was a tingling across his skin and his head was buzzing from the several cups of coffee he had consumed to waken from his troubled sleep, but mostly there was the anticipation of finally receiving some kind of information, and the opportunity of getting to talk to the detective.

               He stepped out of the car and looked at the large square glass building, about six stories high, which was the Anchorage Police Department, situated right up against the street in the middle of the downtown area. James looked at a bar and a souvenir shop directly across the road, seeing a little girl pulling ahead of her parents eagerly pointing toward a food truck at the intersection. An elderly couple were looking over a brochure, likely discussing some attraction they could go to later and planning out their day. The sidewalks were beginning to fill with tourists, people eager to explore what the city offered and going about their daily lives.

               He stuttered his name out to the receptionist at the front desk, furtively glancing at the large police shield painted on the wall behind her, then swept his gaze toward the clock, almost jumping when the young girl told him to have a seat and wait. It seemed oppressively hot as he sat there in the lobby, absently pulling at a loose string at the hem of his shirt. Ten minutes later, a man entered the area and called James to follow him. He had medium short graying hair that was hastily tossed to the side and was wearing a white shirt with a loose tie that was cocked to the left. The hallway they were walking down seemed to go on and on as they passed by many offices and cubicles before the man in front of James finally entered his own small office. This was the first time meeting the man now in front of him, as James had spoken to a different detective on that previous morning.

               “Thank you for coming back in, James. I’m Detective Aiden Smith, homicide,” the man said as he shook James’s hand. “Take a seat.”

               Homicide. His entire body seemed to lock up for a moment as the word sent a shock throughout his senses. He knew he shouldn’t have such a reaction, because who should he be speaking to if not a homicide detective? The man seemed to sink behind his desk as he sat down. He appeared to be somewhere in his forties, and the lines in his face told of his many years in this occupation, which had now taken its weary toll on him.

               “As I informed you when we talked over the phone, I’ll be taking over the case now.” Detective Smith took a sip of coffee from a mug with an APD logo on it before placing it back down next to an old and grubby fedora. “I’ve been going over the transcripts of your interview, and there are a few points I want to go back over, just to make sure I have everything straight.”

               “Yes… That’s fine.” James’s head was pounding again as he felt a wave of discouragement move through him. This is okay, it’s just protocol. Let him ask a few questions, and then I will get the answers I came here for. He took a few deep breaths trying to calm his nerves.               

               “Again, there are a few facts I need to get straight.” The detective shuffled some papers about his desk. He arched an eyebrow, looking up at James. “You said that she did take her own life, correct?”

               “Elena? Yes technically, but—”

               “And you saw all this happen yourself?” the detective asked, cutting him off.

               “Yeah, but as I told the other detective—”

               “Yes, yes, it’s all in the transcripts and we’ll get to all of that,” Smith said, interrupting him again. “Let’s see now. She didn’t have any identification on her, but a fingerprint match came back. Elena Eckridge, twenty-four-years old, born in Homer Alaska, last known address was here in Anchorage.”

               Elena Eckridge. For the first time, he realized he had never known her last name. The veins in his neck and temples strained against his skin at this minor revelation, and he could feel his pulse rising. This brought the question which had been ever pressing upon his mind over the last two days to the forefront of his thoughts. “Did you talk to him? What did he say? Did you arrest him?”

               Detective Smith raised his hand to stop him. “Let’s back up for a minute.” He took another sip of coffee. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he offered.

               “No, I don’t need any damn coff… sorry.” James stopped, breathing in deeply as he tried to ease his agitation. “A coffee would be great, thank you.”

               The detective grabbed the pot of coffee which was tucked into the office's corner and filled a Styrofoam cup before sitting at his desk again. “I wanted to ask, why did you drive all the way up here that night, instead of going to the much closer Seward Police Station, or simply call 911, once you had cell reception?”

               “I… don’t… I just don’t know. That night’s still blurry to me. I just had to get out of there, and I think I thought about how small the Seward PD must be, and that you would have a lot more resources up here to handle the case. And what good would calling 911 be if I was just heading over here, anyway? There wasn’t an active emergency any longer at that point.”

               “Okay, fair enough, so getting back to your interview. You say the first time you met her, Elena, was when she—what was it you said exactly,” he looked through several pages of paper, the transcript of James’s previous conversation with the other detective. “Ah yes, ‘she jumped into the ocean from a cliff.’” Smith looked right at James now. “And it was just a coincidence that you were there when this happened?”

               “Yes, that’s right,” James said, ignoring the sarcasm in the detective’s voice and trying to keep the desperation he was feeling out of his own words. “But like I said before, it wasn’t coincidence at all in the—”

               “I know, it’s all right here,” he tapped his fingers on the papers laying across his desk. “So, you jumped in to save her life, and then brought her to the house you were staying at. We’ve now verified this, and that house does belong to a George and Anna Green. We have not yet been able to locate them and are currently in the process of contacting their close relatives in order to gather more information on what might have happened to them. Given the circumstances, we have officially opened up a missing persons case on them.”

               “Missing persons? He killed them, he told me himself. And Anna’s diary makes it clear enough what happened.”

               “Yes, I’ve seen the diary. But If I may point out, it was you that was living in their house.”

               “But—”

               The detective raised his hand again to stop James from making another outburst. “Okay, so the two of you lived there together for a few days… and then things get quite interesting. You say here, and I’m paraphrasing, that Elena now tells you of this vast conspiracy involving Cole Bontone getting her to bring you back up to him, so… that he could presumably kill you. Is that about right?” Detective Smith leaned back in his chair. “Now you have to admit, it all sounds a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

               Listening to the detective, James couldn’t help but see his point. Even when he initially gave his story to the first detective, he was aware of the unusual quality of the events that transpired. Despite his state of mind, he had questioned whether he should alter his narrative into a more believable story or not, but he trusted that the facts and evidence would bring forth the truth of his story in the end. And ultimately, he was not a good liar. Right now, he was again questioning his decision to tell the whole truth, regardless of his innocence. He thought back to that prior morning, when he had first parked on the side of the road in front of the main entrance while it was still dark outside, waiting until they finally opened. The look on the young police officer’s face—who James finally got to come out with him—when he looked at the body of Elena lying in the back seat, pale and motionless, her clothing covered in blood. His complexion going white as he stared into the car with his mouth hanging open.

               “I know it sounds crazy… but that’s how it happened,” James said, the pitch and volume in his voice rising. “Did you go up there? Was he there? If you talked to him—if you searched his house—I’m sure there would be some kind of evidence. She wasn’t his only victim.”

               “You say the two of you went up to his house on your own to confront him.” Detective Smith paused. “So, what were you planning to do to him? Kill him? If you would’ve come to us in the beginning—but yes, I know, you had gone over why that wasn’t an option.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “Anyhow, you say that he thwarted your plan, and after subduing you, he forced the two of you to make a choice. That if one of you killed yourself, the other would be free to go. Am I right?”

               “Well… look, I know how it sounds… but yes, that’s essentially what happened.”

               “Then Elena kills herself so you can go free. That is when you come to us.”

               “Did you talk to Cole or not?” James couldn’t keep the hostility out of his voice, tired of listening to the detective evade his questions. His right leg swayed side to side while his hands picked at the Styrofoam cup he was holding.

               “James, we have a dead woman—even if it is only a suicide—and a missing couple right near where Cole lives. Beyond this, we now have your story of what happened, which we do take seriously. My partner and I went up to his house yesterday. Cole was there, he even admitted to knowing Elena. He said that he had been seeing her for several weeks until they broke up, which he stated had been about two weeks ago. According to him, she had been severely depressed, and he was worried about her. He fell apart when we informed him of her death, blaming himself for not doing more to help her when he knew the precarious mental state she was in.”

               The detective stared at James in silence for a moment and then continued, “Naturally, he denied your story completely, and also claims that he doesn’t know who you are. We didn’t have enough evidence to go to a judge for a search warrant based on your statement alone, but Cole did consent to let us inside his house, as long as we didn’t go searching through all the different rooms. As far as Mr. and Mrs. Green go, Cole said that he had only briefly met them once and wasn’t aware they were missing.”

               James sank back into his seat, lowering his head, aware that he wasn’t going to get the answers he was looking for.

               Detective Smith leaned forward toward James, and went on, “Now, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to tell it to you straight. We don’t have any physical evidence right now on Cole Bontone that ties him to Elena’s death, or to the disappearance of George and Anna, or to anyone else. And with you being the only witness, it doesn’t make things cut and dry. We’re still waiting for some tests from Elena’s autopsy to come back, but I don’t expect to have anything returned that will connect to Cole. The coroner has officially ruled her death a suicide, and whilst slashing one’s own throat is an unusual way to go, you yourself say that she committed the physical act herself. As far as Cole indirectly forcing her hand, we can’t arrest him on your word alone.”

               James forced himself to look at the detective waiting for him to finish, continuing to pick away at the cup in his hands, the little Styrofoam pieces laying on the ground by his feet

               “Concerning Anna’s diary,” Smith continued, “it’s mostly filled with tormented dreams and feelings, which she then tried to connect to reality. Based on what she wrote, she seemed troubled and probably needed more help than what George could give her. We are looking into people that may have known the Green’s and trying to find out what happened to them. Again, all we have is your word that Cole had killed them, and the fact that you were the one staying at their house during this time makes you as much of a suspect in their disappearance as he is. We will continue to investigate this situation and keep an eye on Cole Bontone. With his proximity to the Greene’s as well as his own acknowledged relationship with Elena, and then with your allegations regarding what he did, he is definitely a person of interest at the very least, but we cannot arrest him at this point. I’m sorry.”

               “But he’s lying! You have to believe me. Elena didn’t just kill herself.”

               “I can point out that there is an alternative theory to what is happening here. That perhaps you had been in a relationship with Elena, and then she left you for Cole. And when she killed herself, you blamed him. You blamed him to such a degree that you created an elaborate story to say that he killed her.”

               “But that’s ridiculous,” James said as he shot up from his chair, leaning his hands against the desk in front of him. “You can’t tell me you actually believe that?”

               “It’s less ridiculous than the story you’re giving us,” the detective shot James an icy glare that made him sit back down. “Regardless, we have to look at it from all angles. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but it isn’t over. As we continue to investigate this case, eventually we’ll uncover the facts relating to what happened, and if it’s as you say that Cole is behind it all, we will get him and bring him in. These things take time, though.”

               “Okay, I guess there’s nothing else I can say. Can I leave now?”

               “Yes, of course. But before you do, I want to make myself explicitly clear that you stay away from Cole Bontone. Stay as far away from him as you can. Now is not the time for vigilantism, the law will do its job here. I’ll keep in touch with any fresh developments.”

               James felt his anger seething within as he walked out of the police department. He slammed his car door shut after getting in, then pounded his fist against the dashboard several times. How was he supposed to let it all go, with Cole remaining up on that hill unscathed through it all? And now that Cole knew James had gone to the police, what would he do?

               It was late morning as James drove away from the police station. The highway system in Alaska differed from the rest of the United States in that there were very few roads which cut across the vast state. Anchorage bordered along the Cook Inlet in south-central Alaska, and there were only two roads that lead out of the city. There was the Glenn Highway which initially went north-east, before eventually turning more south-east and going into Canada. The other option was the Seward Highway, which lead south into the Kenai Peninsula, and back to where Cole lives.

               James knew what he wanted to do at that moment, but he was in no condition to be making that kind of decision right now, not with how hot-headed he was. He drove a few miles south-west to the Far North Bicentennial Park and walked along on some trails there. He talked the situation over with himself for a while until he got sick of hearing his own voice. Then he put on some earbuds and listened to music.

               He returned to his car a few hours later, feeling refreshed and clear headed. The hike had sobered him up—even if still a little hung-over—for the first time since getting back into Anchorage, but he was now even more unsure of what to do.

               Time passed, and it was late afternoon, fast approaching evening. Not knowing what else to do, James drove several miles south of the city along the Seward Highway. Here the road ran between a stretch of water which was a branch of the Cook Inlet called the Turnagain Arm on one side, and the abrupt rise of a mountain range on the other. He stopped at a deserted pull-off along the road, where there was a rocky shoreline, as opposed to the mud flats which bordered along much of the inlet. After walking along this shoreline for some time, a deepening sense of anguish and anger was building up within James again. He looked out over the inlet, at the mountains still topped with snow bordering the shoreline, but found no calming effect in their beauty. Gazing out over the water, James let out a scream, the sound carrying out across the inlet before finally fading away in the distance. Standing there, he silently called out for guidance, for some form of direction, yet knew that he would receive none.

               When James was back in his car, he opened the glove box and grabbed his new handgun. He briefly recalled how on that dark night, just after Elena died, he had dropped his previous gun over a cliff and lost it. Then, yesterday, while he was waiting to hear back from the detective, he visited a gun store and bought a cheap 9mm semi-automatic handgun and a box of ammunition. He didn’t know if he would need it or not and had no actual plans of doing anything with it. Placing the gun back in the glove box, he gazed past his dashboard and across the water. He knew he had two options. One was to drive back up past Anchorage and along the Glenn Highway, which would turn east and lead into Canada, where he could then make his way south through Canada and back into the lower forty-eight of the United States. The other option was to continue south along the Seward Highway he was currently on, and drive to where Cole lived. James turned the key, put the car into drive and pulled it to the edge of the highway. Pausing for a moment, he turned the steering wheel and got back onto the road.