Page 30 of Falling For Alaska

His grip tightens on the wheel. "Told you. Not my place." We take a left toward the front porch of a man named Patton Hallow, a witness in one of the cold cases Jared and I reopened. Hallow was the last person to see a woman before she vanished two decades ago. His statement wasn’t detailed enough. I want to talk to him, maybe get something he didn’t say back then. He’s eighty-five now, terminal cancer, wheelchair-bound. But people facing the end tend to open up. Anyway, cold cases duties.

"You keep s-saying that, and still won’t talk 'bout it," I mutter.

"Yeah, you're right. Sorry. It’s just... I’ve known her forever. Bella and Alaska were always glued together. You should've seen them as kids, always laughing, always getting into trouble. I remember one time, they put pots and pans on their heads, pretending they were royalty or something. Put on a whole show after dinner. Music, dancing, all the works. Took a whole hour. My parents made me sit through the entire thing." He chuckles, eyes in the rearview. "They were so carefree back then... before the incident." His tone shifts. "Point is, she’s a good person. Like a little sister to me. So...just be careful, alright? Don’t wanna see her get hurt again." I remain silent, but I commit every word to memory.

Carefree. Laughing. Silly.

Is he talking about the same Alaska?

"What about her b-brother? What’s he like?" I ask. Jared starts to answer, but another radio alert cuts him off. "Roger that," he replies. The moment passes. "It’s..." I clear my throat. "It’s kind of one step f-forward, two steps back anyway."

He lets the silence hang as he kills the engine and unbuckles. "That’s probably how it has to be if you want a real shot with her. But...if you can't handle that, you won't be able to handle her story either." He winces. Regret crosses his face like he’s said too much. We both step out of the car, heading toward the porch.

"Patton’s an old-timer. Might be best if I do the talking," Jared murmurs.

"Why?"

"'Cause you’re an outsider. That’s why."

"Noted." Cracking my neck, I follow him up the steps to the small cabin-like home. White porch, two windows, quiet street. Looks like a set in a Hallmark movie. As our boots hit the wood, the door swings open.

"Jared," a woman greets, maybe mid-sixties, wrapped in a thick brown cardigan. Gray hair cropped short, kind face. It must be his daughter. Hopefully, the man can still talk.

“Ma’am,” I say, running a hand in my hair.

“Nice seeing you, Ginny,” Jared says with a forced smile. “Is your dad around? We’ve got a few questions we’d like to ask him.”

“Um…what’s this about?” she asks, her eyes flicking to me. “He’s very tired. I don’t know if he’ll have the energy to speak with both of you.”

“He’s fine, Ginny,” Jared reassures her. “This is Jack, he’s new to our department. We won’t take much of your dad’s time. It’s about the disappearance of Mila Grey twenty years ago. Just following up, seeing if anything new comes to mind.” Her fingers tighten on the doorframe, her mouth pulling to the side.

“He hasn’t talked about it in years. I doubt he even remembers.”

“Still, if he has a few minutes, we’d really appreciate it,” Jared pleads, flashing his easy, local-boy charm. I stay quiet, watching him work. His approach is the polar opposite of what I’m used to back in Minneapolis; there, people either cooperate or we get a warrant. You get a lot more yelled at, but it’s really effective.

Ginny sighs and steps back. “Alright, but keep it short. The nurse will be here soon. He’s not as strong as he used to be.” We step inside. The walls are lined with sepia-toned family portraits, dusty shelves filled with old books and knick-knacks. A faint smell of coffee lingers. White curtains block most of the morning light, leaving the place dim and still. A grand, black shiny piano dominates the living room.

“Dad taught piano lessons after he retired from the Army,” Ginny explains, catching my look. “Kids, teenagers. He was good; everyone wanted to learn from him.” She folds her arms. “I’ll wait here.”

An old man sits in an oversized leather recliner facing the TV. His daughter walks ahead of us and bends slightly toward him. “Dad, it’s Jared. He has a few questions about Mila Grey.” She raises her voice a bit. “I told them you probably didn’t have much more to say, but they insisted. Do you want to talk to them?” His skin is pale, his hands spotted with age, and he has a white beard resting on his sweater. His slippers are plaid, the kind older men live in. Jared glances at me, his shoulders loosening when the old man gives a slow nod. Mr. Hallow lifts one trembling hand from the chair’s armrest, motioning for us to come closer. We move over to the sofa beside him.

“Thank you for seeing us, sir.” Mr. Hallow gives a weak bow of his head to Jared, then his gaze shifts on me, sharp despite the cloudiness.

“This is Officer Parkson,” Jared explains. “He’s new.”

“Officers,” the old man rasps, his voice brittle, like paper in the wind.

“We’re reviewing a few unresolved cases, kind of like searching for a needle in a haystack, but…” Jared begins, running a hand on his nape. “You reported seeing Mila Grey the day she disappeared, walking your dog near a forest trail. You mentioned she was running, in a black dress, with no one behind her, but years later, you changed your statement, saying you weren’t sure. Do you still remember what you saw?”

Patton Hallow lifts a shaky hand. “I…I remember everything.” His voice comes thin, eerie. A chill crawls up my spine. He’s got the look of someone who’s seen death too many times, an army vet, it makes sense.

“She was…running,” he murmurs, “fast. Really fast. A good woman this Mila. Used to water my plants when I was deployed. Heard later, she wanted to leave Lakeside. Acting, I think.’ He pauses. “Too young to die.” His lips press together. “That lake takes ’em all, one way or another. Doesn’t care how young they are.” His eyes rise to meet mine. “Don’t…go near it,” he warns, fingers twitching on the armrest. “Haunted,” he whispers. “First Mila Grey…and then…the other one.”

The other one?

My pulse jumps. Could he be talking about the case file with no name? The one tied to that photo I keep in my jacket, the picture of a dark, soaked piece of fabric? Suddenly, this conversation takes a new turn. Not that I don’t care about Mila’s case, but something tells me it’s not the only story buried here. Maybe not even the biggest one.

“Wh-what about it? Th-the other one?” I ask.