A.N// Hi I'm updating this early bc I won't be online later. I hope whoever's reading this has a great day. ❤️

I take a deep breath as I'm escorted up to the stairs of the Spokane police station.

The large stone building blocks the sunlight at this time of the day, casting us into a large, cold shadow.

I'd led up the steps two at a time, wasting no time at all as we step inside the warm building.

The faint smell of coffee drifts over, and I try not to focus on how long it has been since I've put anything besides water in my stomach. My stomach, which conveniently happens to growl and gurgle right as I'm greeted by more officers.

Of course it does.

But then again, what do I care?

I no longer see officers as potential coworkers. I only see them as the enemy.

Which might be a bit dramatic, but do I care?

No. I do not.

My bag is handed off immediately, and I'm led into an interrogation room and sat down in a metal chair at a metal table.

But I'm not handcuffed.

Instead, when the man returns, he comes with a cup of coffee for me.

I only raise an eyebrow in silent reply.

After setting it down in front of me, he tilts his head to the side slightly when I make no move toward it.

Instantly, my mind recalls the many times Vaughn did that, and suddenly all I can think about is him. How is he? Is he still in Chickaloon? Have the people found him yet?

"Miss Eriksen," the man starts. "I'm Detective Garcia. How are you today?"

Silence.

I internally smirk.

I learned from the quietest, after all.

Okay, maybe not, because in the end, Vaughn decided to talk to me, but that's beside the point.

I don't recognize this detective; I'm guessing he's new.

"Do you know why you're here?" Detective Garcia asks.

I close my eyes briefly, deciding to get this over with.

She's dead because of me, after all.

Well, maybe not directly, but indirectly.

I could have at least tried to help her.

I feel guilty, I am guilty.

"Yes," I say, looking him directly in the eyes. "You've brought me in because you think I have a connection to the murder of Fiona Williams."

He looks at me, examining my facial expressions, and more than likely, thinking about my baseline.

"And do you have a connection to her murder?"

"I was there when it happened."

"Okay, walk me through it...Mikaere? May I call you Mikaere?"

I ignore his question, deciding to recount the day's events all over again.

I cover everything from how I was planning on leaving to how I landed on the ground, and every detail about Jack and what he said.

And I talk about Fiona's screams, and how they had stopped.

By the time I'm nearing the end of it, I'm struggling to not cry, and I'm trying as hard as I can to keep my voice steady.

But it's hard.

"I...I ran. I ran away from the fire, even though I knew she was still inside," I tell the detective in front of me. Then, in a quieter voice, I finish with: "I didn't do anything to help her."

Detective Garcia just stares at me for a moment, assessing me.

But, I'm not intimidated.

Vaughn was much more intimidating at first. Still is, last time I checked.

Then, Garcia stands up, walking out of this very uncomfortable room.

I wonder how many murderers have sat in this exact seat before?

I can't help but shudder at the thought.

I'm not exactly sure how long it has been, but before long, Garcia is back, and this time he holds a picture in his left hand.

"I want you to take a look at this."

He sets it down in front of me as he takes a seat, and I immediately freeze.

It's a mugshot of Jack.

Slowly, I lift my head, so my eyes move from the photo to meet the detective's eyes. "...He was arrested for her murder?"

"Not exactly."

I frown, looking back down as the rising hope within me deflates. "I don't understand, why was he arrested then?"

"He was arrested for attempted murder."

I pause. "What?"

"He wasn't arrested for her murder, because she wasn't murdered." He stands up from his seat, grabbing the photo from in front of me. "She's alive."

"You're joking."

Relief is all I feel. Besides disbelief and shock, of course.

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I barely hear the detective when he says, "Mikaere, no one is pressing charges. As I take it, you were just a terrified teenager whose abusive adoptive father scared you into running. And, I heard about your situation up in Alaska, with those two murders being solved. I must say, I'm surprised."

"You heard about that?"

"Read about it, in your report, technically. But, yes. You're free to go."

I'm...free? To go?

I look up in time to watch him walk out of the room, leaving the door behind him as he goes.

No way. I stand up slowly, cautiously making my way out of the room.

Then, after getting my duffle bag, I exit the building, deciding to just sit on the steps outside the station, off to the side to not get in anyone's way.

So, John's murder is solved, as is Rachel's. I'm assuming Henry was arrested. Fiona is alive. Jack was arrested.

And I'm...free?

Free to live my life how I want to, wherever I wish to.

I know what I have to do, though, first, and that's to visit Fiona.

Even if she doesn't want to talk to me, just seeing her one last time would be nice.

But after that, I'm free to return to Alaska, if that's what I really want.

And, it is. Especially after that goodbye with Vaughn. Closing my eyes, I remember how it felt to have one arm around my waist while the other cradled my head gently when he kissed my forehead.

I sigh, hating that I'm so many miles away.

And then, I glance at my bag as a horrid realization comes to me.

His journal...I forgot to give it back to him. I still have it.

Quickly, I rifle through my things before I find it. Opening it up, I quickly flip through the pages without reading any of the words, like before. Except, this time, I stop on the last page that was written on.

The top part of the page contains a small note to himself about a recipe idea, so I ignore that, but at the bottom...

How did I miss this the first time I skimmed through?

Well, I guess that's just it: I skimmed through. Of course I missed it.

At the bottom of the page, in significantly smaller handwriting, are the words:

'Mik,

I'll be returning to Juneau.

If you ever come back to Alaska, go to Freed's Bar in Juneau if you want to see me. Ask the bartender Tommy about me.

But until then, I'll be taking your advice and going to see my family again.

I'll miss you.

Vaughn'

I sit there, mouth open slightly as I process his words.

Oh, boy.

Here we go again.

Once she was gone, he found that he started distancing himself more and more from the cabin.

Because, whenever he was in it, he no longer saw the building that he built, mainly by himself, from the ground up.

Instead, he saw, heard, and felt the memories that took place with her there. He saw her reading incessantly by the fire, he heard her laughing at his marshmallow roasting abilities, and he felt her presence, or lack thereof, in every corner of his home.

For eight years, all he ever wanted to be was alone, to isolate himself as a punishment. For his guilt.

But that feeling ended for him the day he was treed with her by the wolves.

And now, he was alone, and he hated himself for hating it.

Before, he had Moose, too. But now his dog was gone as well.

She was gone, Moose was gone, and others had discovered where their cabin was...so there was no reason for him to stay.

He knew that it was time to go home.

Of course, one thought lingered in his mind for days on end.

'What if she comes back?'

But, deep down, he knew she probably never would.

So one day, he got up. He packed what he needed. He grabbed the duffle bag of her things, just in case he might see her again.

And then he stepped out of the cabin for the very last time and didn't look back as he walked away from the place he was content in for eight years.

That day, however, also happened to be the very same day that Mikaere got in her newly bought truck and started her trip back to Alaska.

THE END.