collected, the diaries wouldn't be found. I'd sold what furniture and electronics people

would buy, left the money in an envelope, everything else was boxed up. I'd made the

house spotless. I took my car along the coast. I wanted to

drive that way one last time. I rolled down the window; the salty wind in my face felt

wonderful, and I laughed in spite of myself. The laughter kept bubbling out, and I realised

how light I felt, how free, for the first time in such a long time.

I stopped about halfway along the white bridge over the cove. Sitting on the rail my laughter

dried up and the tears came. A car door slammed. A stranger came to the

rail. He told me: "I was once where you are now."

"What stopped you?" I wanted to know. "I made a friend." He sat with me for about

an hour silently, while I cried, on and off. Finally, he said: "Come on, let's go for a

coffee," and started towards his car. I hopped down and looked at him a moment, before sliding

into the passenger seat. He shut the door after me and I realised that

the interior door handle had been forcibly removed. There was a handcuff dangling from

a piece of the metal frame. He grinned at me from his seat, and reached

to close the cuff over my wrist. As I thought of the suicide note I'd left

with my neatly boxed belongings, white blinding panic threatened to swallow me whole.