But it's hard to hold a grudge against the dead. I couldn't stay angry with Sean. And the only way to alleviate the anger was to doubt the story. And so the cycle would begin again. Denial, acceptance, anger. Denial, acceptance, anger.

On my last day in Telluride I called Wexler. I could tell he didn't like hearing from me.

"Did you find the informant, the one from the Stanley?"

"No, Jack, no luck. I told you I'd let you know about that."

"I know. I just still have questions. Don't you?"

"Let it go, Jack. We'll all be better off when we can put this behind us."

"What about SIU? They already put it behind? Case closed?"

"Pretty much. I haven't talked to them this week."

"Then why are you still trying to find the informant?"

"I've got questions, just like you. Just loose ends."

"You changed your mind about Sean?"

"No. I just want to put everything in order. I'd like to know what he talked about with the informant, if they even talked. The Lofton case is still open, you know. I wouldn't mind nailing that one for Sean."

I noticed he was no longer calling him Mac. Sean had left the clique.

The following Monday I went back to work at the Rocky Mountain News. As I entered the newsroom I felt several eyes upon me. But this was not unusual. I often thought they watched me when I came in. I had a gig every reporter in the newsroom wanted. No daily grind, no daily deadlines. I was free to roam the entire Rocky Mountain region and write about one thing. Murder. Everybody likes a good murder story. Some weeks I'd take apart a shooting in the projects, telling the tale of the shooter and the victim and their fateful collision. Some weeks I'd write about a society murder out in Cherry Hills or a bar shooting in Leadville. Highbrow and lowbrow, little murder and big murder. My brother was right, it sold papers if you told it right. And I got to tell it. I got to take my time and tell it right.