Malice

5 CONFESSION ^{OSAMU NONOGUCHI’S ACCOUNT}

For several days I’d had the feeling that the next time Detective Kaga paid a visit to my hospital bed, he’d bring with him all the answers he’d been looking for. Based on what I’d seen of his work so far, it seemed likely: he was precise, thorough, and startlingly fast. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could hear his footsteps’ swift approach. When he found out about Hatsumi, I resigned myself—at least partially—to what was to come. His eyes were far keener than I’d expected. I’m hardly qualified to pass judgment on others, but I think he made the right decision by getting out of teaching.

When next he did come, Kaga was bearing two pieces of evidence. One was a knife, the other, a videotape. To my surprise, the tape was inside a hollowed-out copy of Sea Ghost. How like Hidaka’s sense of humor, I thought. Though one could also interpret it as a tactical move. Had it been any other book, even Detective Kaga might not have arrived at the truth so quickly.

“Please explain what we found on this tape. If you’d like to look at it, I’m sure the hospital has a player we can borrow.”

That was all he needed to say to get the full story out of me because nothing less than the truth would explain the scene captured on that tape.

Yes, I still offered some resistance—refusing to answer, even though I knew it was in vain and wouldn’t put him off. When he saw me clam up, Detective Kaga wasted no time and began relating his own theory. Clearly he’d expected this to happen, and with the exception of a few details, he nailed it.

By way of an epilogue he added, “All I’ve said is pure conjecture at this point. However we feel this is enough to construct a viable motive for your crime. You told me that we were free to create our own motive? Well, I think this will do nicely.”

It was true. If the only other option was confessing the real reason I killed Kunihiko Hidaka, I’d have been perfectly willing to let them make up something. Of course, I’d never dreamed that the story Detective Kaga would “make up” would be the truth.

“It looks like I’ve lost,” I said after a few moments of stunned silence. I spoke calmly, in an attempt to mask my bewilderment. In this, too, I failed.

“Will you talk?” he asked.

“If I don’t, you’ll submit what you just told me to the court?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll talk. Since the cat’s out of the bag anyway, I’d feel better if all the details were correct.”

“Did I get some of it wrong?”

“Hardly anything. It’s quite impressive. Still, there are a few details that should be included. It’s a matter of honor.”

“Your honor?”

I shook my head. “Hatsumi Hidaka’s honor.”

Detective Kaga nodded. He instructed the detective with him to take notes.

“Hold on a moment,” I said. “Do we absolutely have to do it this way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… it’s a long story, and there are parts of it I’d like to get straight in my head. I wouldn’t want things to get jumbled in the telling and detract from the story.”

“I’ll let you look at the finished report.”

“I know, but indulge me. If I’m to confess, I’d like to do it in my own words.”

Detective Kaga was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he asked, “You mean you’d like to write your own confession?”

“If you’ll allow it, yes.”

“Very well. That works out better for us anyway. How long will it take?”

“A full day, I should think.”

Detective Kaga looked at his watch. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” He stood up and they left the room.

That is how I came to write my own confession. I’m working under the assumption that this will be the last full piece I write. You might call it my final opus. When I think of it in this way, I find myself not wanting to waste a single word; yet unfortunately, I lack the time to labor over every turn of phrase.

My reunion with Kunihiko Hidaka came, as I’ve said, seven years ago. At the time, Hidaka had already made his authorial debut. He had received a small publisher’s new-author award two years prior to our meeting. By the time our paths crossed again, he’d published one collection of short stories and three novels. I believe the publisher lauded him as “a brilliant new voice.” Of course, they always say that.

I’d had my eye on him ever since his books started hitting the shelves. Half of me was proud that my childhood friend had made it, while the other half was envious of his success. We’d often talked about becoming writers when we were kids. We both loved books and were constantly recommending our favorites to each other, reading and swapping them when we were finished. Hidaka turned me on to Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin. In return, I gave him Jules Verne.

Hidaka often boasted he would become a better writer than any of them. He was never one for modesty. Though I might never have said it quite as loudly, I shared his dream. So you can see why I was a little jealous of him for having made it out of the gate first, while I hadn’t even taken the first step.

I did genuinely want to congratulate him on his success. More selfishly, I also thought connecting with him would offer me a chance. Through Hidaka, I could reach out to publishers, accessing the publishing industry in a way I’d only dreamed of.

I wanted to contact him immediately, but worried that, so soon after his debut, even words of encouragement from an old friend would be nothing more than a nuisance. So, I cheered him on in silence, reading his stories in the magazines and buying his books whenever a new one came out. In the meantime, inspired by his success, I returned to writing in earnest for the first time since a little bit of light fiction I’d written back in college.

I’d been incubating several ideas for years. I chose one and began to write—a story about a fireworks maker, based on an old man who lived near my house when I was growing up. I visited him several times in the last two years of elementary school and never forgot the fascinating story of how he’d discovered his craft late in life—a salaryman who became enchanted with fireworks after watching a display while on a business trip. It occurred to me that I could expand on that story and make it into a longer work. This became a novel I entitled A Circle of Fire.

Two years had passed when I finally decided to write to Hidaka, telling him I’d read everything he’d written and was a strong supporter of his work. I ended by saying I’d like to meet up with him sometime. To my surprise, his response came right away. He called me.

He remembered our childhood days with fondness. Thinking about it now, I realize that was the first time I’d spoken with him at any length since we went off to separate high schools.

“I heard from my mom you’d taken up teaching. Sounds like a nice, steady job. Better than me. I don’t get a salary or bonuses. I never know what tomorrow’s going to bring.” He laughed an easy laugh. Easy because he knew inside he’d gotten the better deal. Still, I didn’t hold that against him.

We made plans to meet. We picked the place: a café in Shinjuku; and after that, dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I went to our reunion straight from work, still wearing my suit. He was in jeans and a bomber jacket. I remember thinking, So that’s what it’s like to be self-employed, and for some reason, at the time, it impressed me.

We talked about old times and mutual friends, and gradually the conversation turned to Hidaka’s novels. When he found out that I really had read everything he’d written, he was genuinely surprised. According to him, not even the editors who badgered him to write more had read half of his stuff. Now it was my turn to be surprised.

He was in great spirits and talked nonstop, but his face clouded over a little when I asked about sales.

“Sadly, winning the new-author award from a literary magazine isn’t a free ticket to success. You need people talking about your books to really move them off the shelves. Of course, a more prestigious award might have a little more pull. It’s hard to say.”

It must be tough, I thought, making it as a writer only to realize your struggle is just beginning. I believe that even then Hidaka was up against a kind of wall in his career. You might call it a slump. I don’t think he had a clear path out of it, either. Of course, at the time, I had no inkling of any of this.

Then I confessed to him that I, too, was writing a novel and hoped to make my own debut soon.

“What, you’ve got a finished novel?” he asked.

“No, embarrassingly, I’m still working on my first. Soon, though. I’ll be done soon.”

“Well, bring it by when you finish up! I’ll read it, and if I like it, maybe I can introduce you to some editors.”

“Really? That’s really great of you. Puts the ink in my pen, if you know what I mean. I was worried that without any real connections in publishing, I’d have to start sending in submissions blindly and hope for my own new-author award.”

“Oh, don’t bother with those. They’re a pain in the ass. Half of those things are just luck. If what you wrote doesn’t suit the tastes of the underlings reading the slush pile, your novel will simply get cut in the early stages and never even see the light of day.”

“I’ve heard the horror stories.”

“Yeah, it’s brutal. No, going straight to the editors is the only way.”

Before we parted that night, I promised I’d let him know when I was done.

With a concrete goal in my sights, my entire attitude toward writing changed overnight. I’d spent more than a year working on the first half of the novel, but it only took me another month to finish it. It ended up being a medium-length work, just under two hundred pages.

I got a hold of Hidaka and told him I’d finished my book. He told me to send it to him, so I made a photocopy and dropped it in the mail. Then all I had to do was wait. I remember going to work that day entirely unable to focus on my lesson plan.

However, no word came from Hidaka. I figured he was busy and didn’t bother him right away. But a part of my mind started to worry that the manuscript I’d sent him was so bad he didn’t know what to say. Bleaker and bleaker scenarios began to form in my imagination.

A full month after I’d sent him my book, I finally decided to call. His response was disappointing, but not in the way I’d feared: He hadn’t read it yet.

“Sorry. I’m working on a really tough assignment right now and just don’t have the time.”

What could I say to that? He was a professional author. The man needed to eat.

“Well, that’s fine. I’m not in any hurry. You do what you need to do,” I said, unsure even as I said it why I was encouraging him to delay even further.

“Sorry. As soon as this is done, I promise to get right to it. I looked over the beginning, it’s about a fireworks maker, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m guessing you based it on that old guy who lived next to the shrine?”

I told him he was right.

“It brought back memories! Anyway, I really want to read it, I just haven’t had the time.”

“How long do you think that assignment’s going to take?”

“Probably another month. At any rate, your book’s next on the list. I’ll call you right away once I’ve read it.”

I thanked him and hung up, my head full of the responsibilities of a full-time writer. I didn’t have a shred of doubt in my mind about Hidaka’s good intentions.

Another month passed without word. I didn’t want to become a nuisance, but I did want to hear what he thought of my writing. Eventually I gave in to the temptation and called again.

“I’m sorry, I still haven’t gotten to it.” My heart sank. “This job is taking longer than I thought it would. Can you wait? I’m really sorry about this.”

“Well, sure.” Frankly, though, it was going to be hard for me to wait any longer. Then I had an idea. “If you’re too busy, maybe you could suggest another reader? Maybe an editor?”

His tone suddenly turned dark. “Editors are busy people. I can’t go sending them something before I know whether it’s good or not. Believe me, they’re sick of getting every crappy manuscript making the rounds thrown on their desk. If I’m going to bring anybody to them, I have to read it first. Unless you don’t want my opinion? Hey, I’m happy to send it back.”

What was I supposed to say to that? “That’s not what I meant. I just—it seemed like you were pretty busy, and I thought maybe there was someone else.”

“Sorry, but nobody I work with has the time to spend reading some amateur’s novel. Hey, but don’t worry. I will read it, I promise.”

“Okay… well, it’s in your hands.” I hung up.

As I feared, another two weeks passed without any word from him. Steeling myself for another disappointment, I dialed his number.

“Hey, I was just about to phone you.” Something a little aloof in his tone worried me immediately.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah, just finished it a couple of days ago.”

I resisted the urge to ask him why he hadn’t then called me a couple of days earlier and instead asked, “What did you think?”

“Well, about that…” The silence on the line lasted more than a few seconds. “It’s hard to talk about over the phone,” he said finally. “Why don’t you come over. We can chat.”

This completely threw me. All I wanted to know was if he liked the book or not. I half felt that I was being led on—except, if he was going to the trouble of inviting me over, that must mean he had taken the time to give it an honest reading and had something of substance in the way of feedback. A little nervously, I agreed.

This is how I first came to visit the Hidakas. I had no idea how that visit would change my life.

He’d just bought the house he would live in until his death. Apparently he’d stashed away quite a bit of money during his time as a salaryman, but I also think an inheritance from his father had a lot to do with it. Still, it was lucky for him that he became a bestselling author soon after that, or I suspect that he wouldn’t have been able to make his mortgage payments.

I brought a bottle of scotch with me as a present.

Hidaka greeted me at the door in sweats. Standing next to him was Hatsumi.

Thinking back on it, I realize it was love at first sight. The moment I saw her, I felt something akin to inspiration. Almost a kind of déjà vu. It was as though I were meeting someone I’d always been meant to meet. For a moment I just stared at her, unable to speak.

Hidaka didn’t seem to notice my momentary disorientation. He told Hatsumi to make coffee and invited me in to his office.

I was expecting him to launch right into what he thought about my book, but he seemed to be avoiding the topic. We discussed current events, and he asked about my teaching work. Even after Hatsumi brought the coffee, he kept the conversation on different topics until, unable to bear it any longer, I blurted out, “What about my story? If it’s no good, please tell it to me straight.”

His smile faded. “It’s not bad. I like the theme.”

“You mean it’s not bad, but it’s not good?”

“Well, yes. That’s what I mean. Good books grab the reader, pull you in. Maybe it’s a case of having the right ingredients but lacking the right recipe.”

“Well, what part in particular doesn’t work?”

“The characters just aren’t compelling. And I think it’s because the story’s a little too… pat, tidy even.”

“Do you mean it feels contrived? The story and the characters lack dimension?”

“Something like that. Don’t get me wrong, for an amateur novel I think it’s quite good. The writing’s fine, and the story elements are all there. It’s just the way those elements are put together isn’t compelling enough to grab the reader’s attention. Or to get published. Technical skill alone doesn’t make a salable product, you know.”

I was ready for criticism, but this crushed me. If my story had a specific failing, I could try to fix it, but what did “it’s fine, but not compelling” mean? It sounded to me like another way of saying I didn’t have talent.

“So maybe I should play around with the story line some more? Try to approach it from a different angle?” I asked, trying to keep my spirits up by focusing on the future.

Hidaka shook his head. “I don’t see any point in clinging to the same story. If I were you, I’d give yourself a blank slate. Otherwise you might end up making the same mistake again. My recommendation is you write something completely different.”

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but his advice made sense.

I asked whether, if I wrote another story, he would be willing to read it.

“With pleasure,” he said.

I started in on my next novel right away. However, my pen seemed reluctant to write. The first time around, I’d completely lost myself in the writing, but this time, I found every little detail bothered me. Sometimes I would spend an entire hour at my desk torturing myself over a single turn of phrase, trying to make it work. Maybe it was because, this time, I had an audience: Hidaka. In a way, that robbed me of my courage. Maybe this was the difference between an amateur and a professional.

Still, I struggled on. In the meantime, I started visiting Hidaka more frequently. You might say our friendship was revived after having lain dormant for so many years. For me, it was fascinating to hear about his life as a working author, and I think Hidaka enjoyed spending time with someone outside his regular circle of editors. He told me once that ever since he’d become an author, he’d felt increasingly isolated from the world around him.

However, I confess I also had an entirely different reason for wanting to visit. I couldn’t wait to see Hatsumi again. In many ways, she was my ideal woman. She always had a warm smile for me, and she looked radiant even in her everyday clothes. I’d never seen her all done up, and she might actually have been a knockout. That, after all, would be more Hidaka’s style. To me, however, she had a simple charm, something much closer to home: an everyday kind of beauty that other women could only dream of.

On one occasion, I visited without calling ahead. My excuse was that I was in the neighborhood and just dropped by. But in truth, I’d been working at home when I was overcome with a sudden desire to see that smile again. I arrived to find that Hidaka wasn’t there. I told myself I was just going to say hello and then go home, since my cover story was that I’d come to see him.

However, to my great surprise, Hatsumi asked me to come in and visit. She said she’d just finished baking a cake and wanted me to taste it for her. I mumbled something about not imposing on her, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I practically fell over myself to accept her invitation.

The following two hours were some of the happiest of my life. I was euphoric and must have talked up a storm. She never frowned at my exuberance, but instead laughed in that bright, girlish way of hers, which sent me even further over the moon. I must have been flushed with excitement because, once I finally left and started to make my way home, I remember how good the cool air felt against my skin.

I continued to drop by, under the pretext of getting writing advice from Hidaka, just to see Hatsumi. Hidaka didn’t seem to notice a thing. He had his own reasons for wanting to see me, but I didn’t learn of those until a while later.

Finally, I finished my second novel. Again, I wanted Hidaka to read it and give me his opinion. Again, I was disappointed. He didn’t like it.

“It just feels like the same old love story,” he told me. “Stories about young men falling for older women are a dime a dozen. You need a new twist to make it work. Also, the woman he’s supposed to be falling in love with doesn’t really work. The character just doesn’t feel real. I’m mean, it’s obvious you’re not writing from personal experience.”

I think that’s what you’d call a harsh review. I was in shock. The worst part was what he said about the woman. The model for my unreal heroine was none other than Hatsumi herself.

I asked Hidaka if he thought I just didn’t have what it took to be a professional writer.

He thought for a moment before saying, “What’s the rush? You have a day job. Keep writing as a hobby. Don’t worry about getting your first book published so fast.”

His advice did little to console me. I was quite fond of what I’d created with my second novel. Now I was worried about what I might be lacking as a writer. Even Hatsumi’s kind words of encouragement were not the salve I needed.

For several days I had difficulty sleeping, and as a result my health quickly deteriorated. I caught a cold and eventually got so sick I couldn’t get out of bed. At times like these one really feels the harshness of living alone. I curled up in bed, wrapped in a cold blanket of misery.

Then I had the most unexpected turn of fortune, as I have already told Detective Kaga. Hatsumi came to visit me at my apartment. When I looked through the peephole in my apartment door, I thought for a moment that my fever had peaked and I was hallucinating.

“I heard from my husband that you’d caught a cold and couldn’t even go in to work,” she told me.

She hardly seemed to notice my excitement at seeing her and went straight into the kitchen, where she began preparing a meal. She’d brought all the ingredients with her. I felt as if I were walking on clouds, and not because of the fever.

The vegetable soup Hatsumi made for me was exceptional. Not that I could taste it at all. It was just that she’d come there for me, that she had cooked it for me. That made me the happiest man alive that night.

I had to take an entire week off work. I was never the healthiest guy, and it often took me a while to recover from colds; but this was the first time I was grateful for my poor constitution. During that week, Hatsumi came over to my apartment three times. On her last visit, I asked her whether it had been Hidaka’s idea that she come take care of me.

“Actually, I haven’t told him,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Well, you know, he’s—” She stopped. “Please don’t tell my husband. I don’t think he’d understand.”

“Fine by me.” I wanted to know what she was thinking, but decided not to push it.

Once I was back on my feet, I wanted to find a way to thank her. I realized giving her a present might raise eyebrows, so I invited her out to dinner.

She seemed hesitant at first, but eventually agreed. Hidaka was due to be away doing research for some project, and she asked me if that would be a good time. It was better than good; it was perfect.

We had dinner at a traditional Japanese place in Roppongi. That night, she came back with me to my apartment.

I believe I previously described our relationship as a fleeting passion. I’d like to correct that statement now. We loved each other from the bottom of our hearts. For me, there was nothing fleeting or momentary about it. From the first time I laid eyes upon her I felt that she was the woman destiny had meant me to meet. That night was the beginning of our love.

The hours flew by; yet toward the end, Hatsumi told me something shocking about her husband: “He’s trying to hold you down, you know.” A terrible sadness was in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s trying to keep you from getting published. He wants you to give up writing.”

“Because my novels are boring!”

“No, that’s not it at all. In fact, I think it’s the opposite. He’s jealous because the books you write are better than his.”

“No way.”

“I didn’t want to believe it myself. But there’s just no other way to explain how he’s acting.”

“How is he acting?”

“Well, for instance, when you sent him your first novel, I don’t think he ever intended to read it seriously—not at first. He suggested that reading some amateur’s boring work would throw off his own writing. He said he’d just skim it and tell you whatever you wanted to hear.”

“You can’t be serious.” What she was telling me was so different from what I’d heard from Hidaka himself. “But, he did read it?”

“That’s just it. Once he started reading, he couldn’t stop. He gives up on things easily, you know. If something strikes him as even a little bit boring, he tosses it away. But there was an… intensity in the way he read that book. I think it must’ve been because the world you created grabbed him in a way he couldn’t ignore.”

“But he said it wasn’t professional-level work.”

“I don’t think he was being honest. I know for a fact he lied to you several times when you called him and he told you he hadn’t read it yet. I think he was still deciding what to do. Eventually, he must have decided to disparage your work and discourage you from continuing writing.”

“Maybe…,” I said, still not believing what I was hearing, “maybe he read it so intently because we were friends.”

“No. That’s not him. That man isn’t interested in anything other than himself.”

This didn’t sound like the sort of thing a wife would say about the husband she’d married after a whirlwind romance. Yet, in retrospect, I wonder if she was looking to me for comfort because she’d grown disillusioned with the man she’d wed. It’s not a thought I care to linger over.

Hatsumi told me that Hidaka had been having trouble with his writing lately and was frustrated at his inability to produce more. Bereft of ideas, his confidence had wavered. That made it even harder to watch an amateur such as myself produce better material.

“I think you should stop bringing your work to my husband. Look for someone who will be honest and supportive.”

“But wait. If Hidaka really wanted to prevent me from being published, why didn’t he just cut me off? Why even read my second book?”

“You don’t understand my husband. He isn’t giving it to you straight because he wants to prevent you from talking to anyone else. He’s trying to make you worry and lose confidence in yourself. Not only that, he’s stringing you on. He has no intention of ever introducing you to any of his editors.” Her voice sounded unusually harsh.

I found it hard to believe Hidaka could be so malicious. Yet I couldn’t believe that Hatsumi was making it up. I told her I wouldn’t do anything immediately; instead I’d give it some time and see how things developed. She didn’t seem satisfied with that, but she didn’t press me.

I visited the Hidakas less after that. Not because I no longer trusted Hidaka, but because I no longer trusted myself to be able to successfully pretend there was nothing between me and his wife. Hidaka had always had a keen eye, and I knew if he caught a meaningful glance, he’d be onto us.

Yet it was hard to go such a long time without seeing her. It was too dangerous for us to meet in public, so after we discussed it in secret, we decided she would come over and visit me at my apartment. As Detective Kaga knows, my apartment building has plenty of empty units, and people probably wouldn’t even notice anyone visiting my place. Even if they did, no one knew who Hatsumi was or would recognize her if they did, so there wasn’t a big risk that rumors would start to spread.

Hatsumi would wait for Hidaka to be out of town on one of his trips before coming to my place. Though she didn’t ever spend the night, she often made dinner for us, which we would eat together. On these occasions, she would wear her favorite apron. (Yes, the apron that Detective Kaga found in my apartment.) When I saw her wearing an apron and standing in my kitchen, I couldn’t help but pretend that we were newlyweds, just moved into our new home.

As much as our time together was full of happiness, our partings were miserable. Whenever the time came for her to go back home, we would both become taciturn, shooting reproachful looks at the clock on the wall.

I often thought how wonderful it would be if we could spend two or three days alone together. We even talked about it, although I think both of us knew it was impossible. That is, until an opportunity came along that we couldn’t afford to pass up. Hidaka was scheduled to go to America on an assignment for a whole week. He was going with one of his editors, and Hatsumi would be staying at home.

This was what we’d been waiting for. We talked endlessly about how we could spend our time together, giggling like schoolchildren. Eventually, we decided on a trip to Okinawa. I even went to a travel agent and paid for the tickets. It would only be for a short time, but on that trip, we would be husband and wife. I was delirious with joy.

In retrospect, I think our happiness peaked during those days of anticipation. As you know, the trip to Okinawa never happened. The magazine canceled Hidaka’s assignment only a few days before he was supposed to leave for America. I don’t know the details. Hidaka was crestfallen, but his disappointment was nothing compared to our despair.

To be so close to paradise, only to have it ripped from under my feet, made me mad with desire and determined to see her. As much as this had been true before, now I was even more driven. Our meetings felt too brief, and as soon as we parted, I needed to be with her again.

Yet, her visits dropped off sharply. When I asked why, her answer made me blanch. She was afraid her husband was onto us. Then she said the thing I feared most of all. She thought we should probably end our affair.

“If he finds out about us, he’ll take revenge somehow. I can’t let you suffer because of me.”

“I don’t care about that,” I told her; but in truth, I didn’t want her to suffer, either. Given what I knew of Hidaka’s character, I didn’t think he’d be eager to sign any divorce papers. Still, I couldn’t imagine letting her go.

I struggled with this for several days, letting my teaching duties fall by the wayside as I turned an endless series of plans over in my mind. Finally, I decided. Detective Kaga has already figured out what plan I settled on. I decided to kill Hidaka.

Writing it like that makes it sound like the strangest thing in the world. Yet I was quite sure of myself and hardly wavered at all once I’d made up my mind. In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess that on numerous occasions before then I’d hoped Hidaka would die. I couldn’t bear his being married to my Hatsumi. I suppose that only shows how self-delusional we humans can be, since I was clearly the one intruding on someone else’s territory. Still, as often as I’d hoped Hidaka would die, until that moment I never imagined killing him with my own hands.

As one might expect, Hatsumi was strongly opposed to my idea. She cried, saying she couldn’t let me do something like that. The crime was too great, and the potential punishment too severe. Yet her tears only heightened my madness. I began to feel I truly had no other choice.

“Don’t even think about helping,” I told her. “I’m doing this by myself. If I fail, if the police take me in, I’ll make sure nothing ever implicates you.” You might argue that, by this point, I’d lost the capacity for rational thought.

Perhaps because she had realized I was determined, or perhaps because she knew there was no other way for us to be together, Hatsumi eventually agreed. She even insisted on taking part. I didn’t want her to endanger herself, but she made her opinion clear: we’d do it together, or not at all.

Together we planned the death of Kunihiko Hidaka. It was not, I feel, a competent plan.

We decided to make it look like the work of a thief. December 13 was to be the day.

I waited until late at night, then snuck into Hidaka’s garden. Detective Kaga already knows what I was wearing at the time: black pants and a black jacket. If I had worn a mask, I might not be here now, writing this confession. Yet at the time, it never crossed my mind.

The lights in Hidaka’s office were out. Fearfully, I put my hand to the window and pushed the sash to one side. It slid open easily. Holding my breath, I crept inside the room.

I could see Hidaka lying on the sofa in the corner. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, breath regular, sound asleep. We’d picked that night to carry out our plan because he had work due the next day, and Hatsumi knew he was likely to spend the entire night in his office.

I should explain why he was sleeping even though he was on deadline. Hatsumi had mixed sleeping pills in with his dinner. Hidaka used these sleeping pills from time to time, so even if an autopsy found them in his bloodstream, no eyebrows would be raised. When I saw Hidaka lying there, I knew everything was going according to plan. Hidaka had been working when fatigue suddenly crept over him, and he lay down on the sofa, surrendering himself to sleep. Hatsumi came in to check on him, saw him sleeping, and turned off the lights in the office, first making sure that the window was unlocked.

The rest was up to me. With a trembling hand, I pulled the knife from my jacket pocket—the same knife the detectives found among Hidaka’s belongings.

To be honest, I preferred strangulation. Just picturing myself stabbing him terrified me. Yet I thought that using a knife would be far more believable. What burglar worth his salt would break into someone’s house without a proper weapon?

I wasn’t entirely sure where the best place to stab him was. Standing there over him, I decided on the chest. I took off the gloves I’d been wearing, to get a better grip on the knife handle. After all, I reasoned, I could wipe my fingerprints off later. Then, grasping the knife in both hands, I brought it up over my head, ready to plunge it into Hidaka’s heart.

That very instant, something unbelievable happened. Hidaka’s eyes opened.

I froze. I couldn’t swing the knife. I couldn’t even speak.

Hidaka, however, moved quickly. By the time I knew what was happening, he was pushing me facedown into the carpet. The knife was already out of my hands. I remember the thought that he’d always been more of an athlete than I was flashing through my mind.

“What’s this all about? Why are you trying to kill me?” Hidaka yelled.

But I had no reply.

Eventually he shouted for Hatsumi. I turned my head to see her as she came in, face pale. She must’ve realized what had happened the instant she heard him call.

“Call the police, there’s been an attempted murder!” Hidaka barked.

Hatsumi didn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Don’t stand there fidgeting. Get the phone!”

“But, that’s Mr. Nonoguchi.”

“I know who it is! But that doesn’t change the fact that he tried to kill me!”

“No, Kunihiko. It wasn’t him—” Hatsumi began, about to admit her complicity.

Hidaka cut her off. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

I don’t know how, but Hidaka had caught on to our whole plan. He’d only been pretending to sleep, waiting for me to do something irrevocable, to make my move, before he leapt into action.

“Hey, Nonoguchi,” he said, pressing my face down into the carpet, “you ever read the laws about home invasion? There’s a bit in there about the right to self-defense. That means that if you come onto my property with the intent to harm me, and I mistakenly kill you, I don’t get in trouble. That seems a lot like the situation we have here now. I could kill you and no one would say a word.”

His icy tone sent shivers through my body. Even though I didn’t believe he would actually do it, I started to dread what he would do instead.

“However, lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. And frankly, killing you does nothing for me. Guess I’ll just turn you over to the police—” He looked over at Hatsumi and smiled before turning his sharp eyes back to me. “But how would having you in prison do me any good either?”

I had no idea what he was getting at, which made it even more unpleasant.

I felt his grip soften and a moment later he stood up, releasing me. He went over and picked up the fallen knife with a blanket from the sofa wrapped around his hand.

“Rejoice, Nonoguchi. I’m letting you go. You can leave through that window.” He was grinning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Now you’d better leave before I change my mind.”

“What are you thinking?” My voice was trembling.

“That’s not your concern right now. Leave. Oh”—he brandished the knife—“I’m keeping this as evidence.”

I wondered if that knife would hold up as evidence, even with my fingerprints on it. It seemed he’d anticipated my thought, because he added, “You should know this knife isn’t my only evidence. I have another trick up my sleeve—something you’ll never be able to explain your way out of. I’ll even show it to you, when the time is right.”

I wondered what he could possibly be talking about, but I didn’t dwell on it then. Instead I looked at Hatsumi. Her face was white, with only the edges of her eyes gleaming red. I don’t think I’d ever seen a person look so sad before. Nor have I since.

I climbed back out the window and made my way home in a haze. Several times, I thought about running, just disappearing entirely. But I didn’t because I was worried about what would happen to Hatsumi.

I spent my days in fear. There wasn’t a chance in the world that Hidaka would forgo his revenge. Yet not knowing what form that revenge would take made me all the more terrified. I no longer went to the Hidakas, nor did I see Hatsumi. Our only communication was a furtive phone call she made when he’d stepped out for work.

“He doesn’t talk about that night at all,” she confided to me. “It’s like he’s forgotten all about it.”

Of course, we both knew he hadn’t. I grew even more uneasy.

Several months later I finally learned the nature of his revenge. I discovered it in a bookshop. As I’m sure Detective Kaga will have realized by now, it was none other than Hidaka’s breakthrough novel, An Unburning Flame. He had taken the novella I had first shown him and expanded it into his masterpiece.

I couldn’t believe it, I didn’t want to believe it. It was a nightmare. For me, who had dreamed of becoming an author for so long, it was like having my heart torn to shreds. Only Hidaka could have devised a punishment so cruel and shocking.

To an author, his writing is a part of himself. In many ways, it’s his child. As parents love their children, so do authors love the work they create.

But Hidaka had stolen my work from me. Once he published it under his own name, An Unburning Flame would forever be known as a novel by Kunihiko Hidaka. Unless I said something, but Hidaka knew I would never do that.

That’s right. Even though I’d been badly bruised, I held my tongue. I knew that if I made the slightest sound, he’d say, “Be quiet or you’ll go to jail.”

If I was going to expose his plagiarism, I’d have to be prepared to admit I’d snuck into his house and tried to kill him.

I thought about turning myself in to the police and, at the same time, announcing that An Unburning Flame was mine. I thought about it constantly. Once I even picked up the phone and started to dial the local police station. But in the end, I didn’t. A small part of it was that I was afraid of being arrested for attempted murder. But it was mostly because I was terrified that Hatsumi would be charged as my accomplice. I knew that no matter how much I insisted I’d done it all myself, the cops would realize I’d needed help to get as far as I did, and she was the only one who could have done that. Besides, I couldn’t picture Hidaka letting her get away with it. Either way, there was no way to keep her safe if I confessed. So I let him publish my work. Even though the pain made a wreck of me, I couldn’t risk any more misfortune coming to Hatsumi on my account. I’m sure Detective Kaga is laughing to himself as he reads this. Here I am, a confessed murderer, trying to make myself look noble. I’m sure that I was more than a little self-delusional at the time. Yet I needed that delusion to keep me from going even more insane.

Hatsumi had no words to ease my suffering. She would occasionally call when Hidaka was out, but the phone calls were just long stretches of painful silence, interrupted by meaningless, empty words.

“I never imagined he’d do something so horrible. To steal your work, it’s—”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

“But I feel so bad about it….”

“It’s not your fault. I was a fool, that’s all. I’ve reaped what I sowed.”

These chats with the woman I should have loved did nothing to lift my spirits or give me hope. I just felt my heart sinking lower and lower.

As fate would have it, An Unburning Flame was well received. Every time I saw it featured in a magazine or a newspaper, I felt as if something were chewing away at my heart. For a fleeting moment, I was happy to see the work praised. But then I’d snap back to reality and realize that as far as anyone else knew, it wasn’t my work being praised.

On the strength of this book, Hidaka went from being talked about everywhere to receiving a prestigious literary award. I wonder if anyone can understand my pain when I saw his face beaming proudly from the pages of the newspapers. I wasn’t able to sleep for several nights.

My nightmare continued unabated until one day my doorbell rang. When I looked through the peephole, I thought I might choke. Standing on the other side of my door was Kunihiko Hidaka. It was the first time I’d seen him in person since the night I broke into his house. Even though I hated him for stealing my work, the guilt I felt for what I’d done was stronger. For a second, I wondered if I should pretend not to be at home.

Finally I realized there was nothing to gain by running away, so I opened the door.

Hidaka smiled thinly. “Were you sleeping?”

“No.” It was Sunday. I was still in my pajamas.

“Great, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep.” He took a look inside. “Mind if I come in? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure… I haven’t cleaned up in a while.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not like we’re taking publicity photos.”

Not like the publicity photos all the newspapers were taking of him.

“Also”—he looked at me—“I thought you might have something on your mind. Something you wanted to talk to me about.”

I said nothing.

We sat facing each other on the living-room sofa. Hidaka took a long look around my apartment. I grew nervous, afraid that he might spot something of Hatsumi’s. I was glad I’d washed her apron and put it away.

“The place looks pretty tidy for a bachelor pad,” he said finally.

“I guess.”

“Do you have someone come in and clean up for you?”

I looked at him, startled. He still had that same cold smile on his face. It was clear what he was suggesting.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Don’t be in such a rush.” He lit a cigarette. He began making small talk, something about the latest political scandal. I’m sure he was doing it just to see me sweat.

I was on the verge of raising my voice when he said, in the same casual tone, “So, about An Unburning Flame…”

I straightened up on the sofa, waiting for his next words.

“I thought I should apologize for the similarities to that piece you wrote, coincidental though they are. What was your book called again? A Circle of Fire, was it?”

I glared at him. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Had he no shame? Coincidental similarities? If that wasn’t plagiarism, they should remove the word plagiarism from the dictionary.

He continued, “And let’s be honest. I’m sure there are some parts you can’t write off as coincidence. I can’t deny that I happened to read your book in the middle of writing my own, and it could well have influenced me. No doubt some things were planted in my subconscious and ended up coming out in the finished work. The same thing happens to composers all the time, you know. Even though they don’t mean to, they end up writing a song that sounds a lot like another one.”

I listened to him in shocked silence. Did he expect me to believe a word he was saying?

“So that’s why I’m glad you didn’t raise a fuss when you found out about the book. And you know what, it’s good you didn’t. We’re not strangers and we have a relationship that was built over years. The fact that you didn’t do anything impulsive, that you remained mature about the whole thing, was really for the best. For both of us.”

Translation: You were smart not to raise a fuss. Keep quiet, and in exchange, I won’t tell anyone you tried to kill me.

“That’s all good, but I really came to talk to you about something else.”

I looked up at him, wondering what new insanity he was preparing to unveil.

“A lot of things came together to make An Unburning Flame the success that it is. Now a lot of people have read it and more will read it in the future. Not to mention the prize it was awarded. I just thought it would be unfortunate if the momentum was to die out after just one novel.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face. He was going to do it again. He was going to use my second book as the basis for his own next novel. He already had a copy at his house.

“So you’re going to plagiarize that one, too?”

Hidaka frowned. “Now that’s a word I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Why pretend? No one else is here to hear us. You can call it what you want, pretend what you will, but plagiarism is plagiarism.”

His face completely calm, Hidaka said, “It appears you don’t understand what plagiarism means. Look it up in your dictionary. I’m sure you’ll find that it says something like ‘the use of all or a portion of another person’s work, presenting it as your own, without their permission.’ You see what I’m getting at? If you use it without permission, it’s plagiarism. If you have permission, it’s not.”

I never gave you permission, I thought. “You’re saying that if you use another of my works, you don’t want me complaining?”

He shrugged. “You’re still misunderstanding me. I’m offering you a deal. A pretty good deal, I might add.”

“I know the deal. If I close my eyes to your theft, you won’t turn me over to the police and tell them about that night.”

“Don’t get so hot under the collar. I chose to let you off the hook ‘that night.’ The deal I’m talking about is more forward thinking.”

I didn’t see how “forward thinking” or thinking in any direction could possibly save me, but I waited for him to continue, silently watching his lips.

“Look, Nonoguchi, you do have talent. But having talent and actually becoming a published author are two different things. Don’t even talk to me about becoming a bestselling author, because that certainly has nothing to do with talent. To get there, you need a special kind of luck. What that luck is, and how to get it, is a hard thing to pin down. Everyone wants it, everybody has a plan to get them there, but it still never goes how you think it will.”

I saw the sincerity in his face as he talked, and it occurred to me that he was thinking about his own time as a struggling author.

“I bet you think An Unburning Flame made such a big hit because it was a good book, right? I won’t deny that it is. But that’s not everything. Let me give you an extreme example. What if that book had come out not in my name, but under yours? What if it said Osamu Nonoguchi on the cover instead of Kunihiko Hidaka? Do you think it would have sold?”

“We won’t know until we try.”

“No, we do know. It wouldn’t have gone anywhere. It would’ve been ignored and soon forgotten. You would’ve felt like you’d just thrown a pebble into the ocean.”

It was a harsh assessment, but I couldn’t refute it. I knew too much about the publishing world to do that.

“So you’re saying that’s why you published it under your own name?” I demanded. “Are you trying to justify doing what you did?”

“What I’m saying is as far as that book is concerned, it was better that it was published under my name. If it hadn’t been, not nearly as many people would’ve read it.”

“You act as though you’ve done me a favor.”

“I’m not trying to act like anything. I’m merely telling it like it is. Believe me, there are a disheartening number of conditions that have to be met before a novel can really become a bestseller.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“No, you clearly don’t. Because if you did, then you’d understand what I’m trying to tell you. See, I want you to become the author Kunihiko Hidaka.”

“I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you just say you want me to be you?”

“Don’t look so shocked. It’s no big deal. Of course, I’ll still be me, too. Think of it this way: Kunihiko Hidaka isn’t a person’s name, it’s a trademark we’ll use to sell books.”

Finally, I understood. “You want me to be your ghostwriter.”

“Not my favorite word. It has a ring of cowardice to it. However, you could put it that way, yes.”

I glared at him. “You have some nerve, you know that?”

“It’s really not that outlandish a request. Like I said, it’s not a bad deal for you.”

“I can’t think of a worse deal.”

“Oh? Let’s pretend you’ve written a novel for me to publish. How about, when that novel goes into paperback, I give you twenty-five percent of all royalties. Is it sounding good yet?”

“Twenty-five percent? I’m writing the damn thing and I don’t even get half? What kind of terms are those?”

“Well, let me ask you this then. Say you published a book under your own name. How well do you think it would sell? Do you think it would sell more than a quarter of the copies it would sell if it was published under my name? Under the name of Kunihiko Hidaka?”

He had a point. I wasn’t confident a book published under my own name would sell even a quarter of the copies. It might not even sell a fifth or sixth.

“At any rate,” I said, after thinking about this for a while, “I’ve no intention of selling my soul for cash.”

“So you refuse?”

“You’re damn right I refuse.”

“Well!” Hidaka looked surprised. “I really wasn’t expecting that response.”

Something about the languid way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. A dark light crept into his eyes.

“I was hoping to keep our relationship civil, but seeing as how you’ve no such intentions, I can’t go on bending over backward to make things work.” Hidaka reached into the bag at his side and pulled out a small, square package. He placed it on the table. “I’ll leave this here. I encourage you to watch it once I leave. I’ll call soon, and I hope by then you’ll have changed your mind.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.” Hidaka stood. He left my apartment without saying another word or sparing even a single glance back at me.

After he had left, I sat unmoving on the couch, staring at the package sitting on the table. Finally I picked it up and opened it. It contained a VHS tape. An uneasy feeling crept into my chest as I put the tape in my VCR.

Detective Kaga is already aware of the contents of that tape, but I was seeing it for the first time. I found myself watching a video of the Hidakas’ garden. I noticed the date stamp at the bottom right of the screen, and my heart froze. It was the day I’d tried to kill Hidaka.

Eventually, a man appeared on-screen. He was wearing black clothes, so as to better blend into the darkness, but his face was clearly visible. What a farce! Why hadn’t I thought to wear a mask?

Anyone could see clearly that the intruder caught on tape was none other than Osamu Nonoguchi. Completely oblivious to the camera, the Nonoguchi on the tape went over to the office window facing the garden and climbed in.

That was the only thing on the tape, but it was enough. Even if I denied the attempted murder, I had no explanation for why I’d tried to sneak into his house.

I sat there numbly, the words Hidaka had said on the night I’d tried to kill him playing through my head. So this tape was his “other piece of evidence.”

As I sat there, unsure what to do, the phone rang. It was Hidaka. His timing was perfect, as though he had been watching my every move.

“Did you watch the tape?” I could tell he was enjoying this.

I told him I had.

“So, what did you think?”

“You knew, didn’t you?” I said, blurting out the first thing that was on my mind.

“Knew what?”

“You knew I was going to sneak into your office that night. That’s why you set up the video camera.”

I thought I heard him guffaw. “How the hell would I know that?”

“Well, I—”

“Wait!” he said, cutting me off. “Did you tell someone about your plan? Did someone else know you were coming to kill me that night? If you had, I suppose word could have reached me. They say the walls have ears, you know.”

It occurred to me that Hidaka was trying to get me to admit to Hatsumi’s complicity. Or rather, since he knew I would never give her up, he was toying with me. I didn’t respond.

After a while, he said, “The reason I had that camera running is that I was having trouble with animals getting into my garden and wreaking havoc. I wanted to catch whatever animal was responsible, but I never expected that animal to be you, Nonoguchi.”

That story was unbelievable, but I wasn’t about to start an argument over it. “So? What did you hope showing me the video would prove? What do you want me to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Surely you’re not that dense. Oh, I should mention that the tape you have is only a copy. I have the original here safe with me.”

“Are you honestly trying to blackmail me into being your ghostwriter? Writing is hard enough when I’m inspired. I can’t imagine having to force it.” As soon as I said that, I wished I hadn’t, because it sounded as if I’d taken the first step toward acquiescing to his demand. Yet what choice did I have?

“Actually, I have faith you’ll come around.” I could tell from his voice that he thought he’d already won. My defenses were shattered. “I’ll call again soon,” he said, and hung up.

For the next several weeks I drifted around like a ghost. A ghost writer. I had no idea what I was going to do. I went through the motions of going to work, yet teaching was the furthest thing from my mind. Some of the students must’ve complained because the headmaster called me into his office and chewed me out.

Then, one day in a bookshop, I found it: a blurb in a literary magazine about the new novel from Kunihiko Hidaka, his first since An Unburning Flame.

Unable to stop my hands from shaking, I found the book on display and quickly skimmed it. I felt dizzy; I almost collapsed right there in the bookshop. It was as I’d feared. The novel was heavily based on the second book I’d given Hidaka to read.

My whole world was spiraling out of control. I spent weeks chastising myself for my stupidity on the night of the attempted murder. Again, I thought about running away somewhere and disappearing. Yet I lacked the spine. If I wanted to escape Hidaka altogether, I’d have to go far away and not register my new address. That would mean I wouldn’t be able to work as a teacher. How would I live? I wasn’t in good enough health for physical labor. Never had I felt my own lack of value to society more acutely than I did then. In any case, I couldn’t bring myself to leave Hatsumi behind. I imagined her suffering in that house, by his side, and it agonized me.

Hidaka’s new novel quickly hit the shelves in paperback and seemed to be selling well. Every time I saw it on the bestseller lists, I felt divided, because somewhere in that ocean of regret inside of me bobbed a tiny acorn of pride. Indeed, when I looked at the situation as objectively as possible, a cold, analytical part of me had to admit that, had I published the book under my own name, it probably wouldn’t have sold.

Several more weeks passed until, one Sunday, Hidaka returned. He walked into my apartment as though nothing were the matter and sat down on my sofa.

“As promised,” he announced, placing an envelope on the table. I picked it up and looked at it, finding it was stuffed with bills. “That’s two million yen. That’s almost a year’s salary for some people.”

“What’s this for?”

“I told you, if the book sold, I’d give you your cut. That’s a quarter of the royalties, as promised.”

I looked inside the envelope again and shook my head. “I told you I wasn’t going to sell my soul.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Just think of what we’re doing as a collaboration. It’s not uncommon to collaborate on a novel these days, and you have a right to be paid for your work.”

“This isn’t collaboration.” I stared at Hidaka. “This is rape. You’re having your way with me, and then you’re trying to pay me off like I was a prostitute.”

“How vulgar. And untrue.”

“Is it?”

“No one being raped sits still. But you did.”

To my shame, I couldn’t think of a retort. “Regardless,” I said with great effort, “I can’t accept this money.” I pushed the envelope back toward him.

He looked down at it, but made no move to pick it up. It remained sitting on the table.

“Actually, what I really wanted to talk about was what comes next.”

“Tell me then, what does come next?” I said with as much sarcastic faux enthusiasm as I could muster.

“Our next novel. I’m supposed to be writing a serialized story for a monthly magazine. I was hoping we could toss around some ideas.”

He said it as though I’d agreed to his terms and to be his ghostwriter.

I shook my head. “You’re a writer. You should understand. How am I supposed to think up any kind of story in my current mental state—let alone a good one! You can’t force it. It’s physically and mentally impossible.”

But he didn’t back down. Instead, he said something unexpected. “Of course I don’t expect you to sit down right now and write something. But surely you could go find something you’ve already written? That wouldn’t be so hard.”

“I don’t have anything else written. You’ve already seen everything.”

“Don’t be coy with me. What about that stuff you wrote for the school magazine?”

“What, that?” I said, truly surprised. “I don’t have any of those anymore.”

“Bull.”

“It’s the truth. I got rid of them a long time ago.”

“See, I don’t believe you. Writers always hang on to their drafts and stories. If you insist, I’d be happy to search your house for them. I’m sure it won’t take long. You’ve probably got them all stashed on a bookshelf or in a desk drawer.” He stood and went into the next room.

I panicked. All of my early stories were in spiral-bound notebooks on my bookshelf.

“Wait a second,” I called out. “It won’t do you any good. I wrote those stories when I was a student. The writing’s a mess, the plot structure is all over the place. They’re certainly not the work of an adult writer.”

“Let me decide that for myself. Besides, I’m not looking for finished works. Just some raw material that I can polish into a salable product. After all, An Unburning Flame wouldn’t have been one for the literary history books if I hadn’t given it my touch.”

I couldn’t understand how he could be so proud about stealing my work.

I told him to wait on the sofa and went into the next room. Eight of my old notebooks were on the top shelf in my office. I chose one. At that very moment, Hidaka entered the room behind me.

“I told you to wait.”

Without a word, he stepped up, snatched the notebook out of my hand, and quickly leafed through the pages. Then he glanced over at the bookshelf and quickly grabbed the remaining notebooks.

“Trying to trick me, were you?” He grinned. “You picked the notebook with your rough draft of A Circle of Fire, didn’t you? Did you think you could brush me off with that?”

I bit my lip and looked down at the floor.

“Whatever. I’ll be taking these. All of them.”

“Hidaka.” I looked back up at him. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Has the well of your talent run so dry that you feel compelled to steal something I wrote as a student?”

I wanted my words to hurt, even if only a little. It was the best attack I could muster.

And my words did have an effect. Hidaka’s eyes flashed and he grabbed me by the collar. “You have no idea what it’s like to be an author!”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I can say this. If it means having to do what you’re doing, I don’t want to be an author.”

“What happened to the dream?”

“I woke up.”

He let me go. “You’re probably better off for it,” he muttered under his breath, and left the room.

“Wait, you forgot something.” I picked up the envelope with the 2 million yen in it and held it out to him.

His gaze shifted between my face and the envelope for a moment; then he shrugged and took it.

His serialized novel began two or three months later. I read it, realizing it was based on one of my stories. However, by that time I suppose I’d given up—or at least, I was ready for it, because it didn’t come as the same sort of shock the first two books had. I’d already given up ever becoming an author in my own right, so the thought that at least my stories were out there and being read made me glad.

I still received the occasional call from Hatsumi. In our conversations, she would disparage her husband and apologize to me. Once, she said, “If you ever decide to turn yourself in for what happened, I will gladly share whatever punishment comes.”

I realized she was telling me this because she knew Hidaka was holding our relationship over my head and she wanted to give me a way out. I almost wept with happiness. Even if we hadn’t seen each other for a long time, I felt as though our hearts were still connected.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I told her. “I’ll do something. I’ll find a way out of this.”

“But you’ve already gone through so much.” I could hear her crying on the other end of the line.

I tried consoling her, but the truth is, I didn’t know what I was going to do. My promise to find a way rang hollow even to my ears, and it made me miserable.

Whenever I think back on that time, I’m filled with regret. I wonder why I didn’t do what she suggested. If we’d turned ourselves in, my life would be entirely different now. At the very least, I would not have lost the thing most important to me in this world.

I learned of the accident in the newspaper. Because she was the wife of a bestselling author, the article was more prominent than a typical accident report.

I don’t know how deeply the police investigated, but I never heard anyone suggest that Hatsumi’s death was anything other than an accident. Yet, from the first moment, I knew that it wasn’t. She took her own life. I need hardly say why.

In a sense, I killed her. If I hadn’t gone mad and tried to kill Hidaka, none of this would have come to pass.

Call it nihilism, but at the time I was barely alive. I was just going through the motions, an empty shell. I didn’t even have the strength to follow Hatsumi into death. I fell ill and was frequently absent from work. Hidaka, however, kept writing. In addition to the novels he wrote using my work as a basis, he also turned out a few originals. I never bothered to find out which of the novels received more praise.

Roughly half a year after Hatsumi’s death, I received a package in the mail. The large envelope contained about thirty printed pages. I thought it might be a story, yet when I started reading it, I realized it was something far more sinister. It appeared to be a journal written by Hatsumi, woven together with an account by Hidaka. The journal section described Hatsumi’s falling into a special relationship with a man she called N (myself), with whom she eventually conspired to kill her husband. Hidaka’s account described in unemotional terms the sorrow of a husband who comes to realize his wife has stopped loving him. Then came the attempted murder. Up to that point, I believe everything was more or less the truth, but what followed was clearly fiction, merely invention. Hatsumi was portrayed as deeply regretting her mistake and begging for forgiveness. Hidaka, in turn, spends long hours talking with her, and together they decide to try again. Just when things are looking up for the couple, Hatsumi has an unfortunate accident. The story ended with her funeral. As a piece of fiction, it wasn’t bad. For some readers, it might even have been moving.

I was speechless, and confused. What was I supposed to make of this?

That night, Hidaka called. “You read it?”

“What’s this all about? Why did you write this?”

“I was thinking of giving it to my editor next week. It’ll probably appear in the magazine next month.”

“Are you crazy? Do you know what this would do?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” he said, utterly calm.

“If you write that, I’m telling the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“You know as well as I do. That you stole my work.”

“Did I now?” he said, entirely unfazed. “And who would believe that? You don’t have any proof, do you?”

“Proof?” I gasped. How would I prove he had stolen my work when he had my notebooks? I had copies of my two novels—the ones he’d plagiarized—on my word processor, but what would that prove? That was when I realized that the death of Hatsumi meant the death of the only witness to all that had happened between Hidaka and me.

“Of course, if now doesn’t work for you, I don’t have to give that story to my editor tomorrow. I could always wait for a better time.” I got what he was aiming at before he actually said it. “Fifty pages. Give me a story fifty pages long, and I’ll turn that over to my editor instead.”

This, then, was his plan. To create a situation in which I’d be forced to write for him. And I had no way to resist. I couldn’t let him publish those journal entries. For the sake of Hatsumi’s memory, I couldn’t.

“When do you need it by?” I asked, my voice flat.

“Next weekend.”

“This is the last time?” It was only half a question at best, and he didn’t even bother to respond.

“Let me know when you’re done.” He hung up.

That was the day that I became Kunihiko Hidaka’s ghostwriter. Since then, I’ve written seventeen short stories and three novels for him. These were the computer files the police found.

I’m sure if he’s reading this, Detective Kaga must be wondering why I didn’t put up more of a fight. To be honest, I’d grown weary of the constant psychological warfare between Hidaka and me. It seemed easier to just write what he needed and, by doing so, keep my past with Hatsumi private.

Oddly enough, over the next two or three years, the relationship between Hidaka and me developed into that of genuine collaborators. He introduced me to a publisher of children’s literature because he had no interest in the genre. He also probably felt a little guilty by then. Finally, one day, he said the words I’d been waiting to hear.

“Once this next novel’s done, you’re free to go. Our working relationship is over.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Really?”

“Really. But I only want you writing books for kids. Stay out of my territory. Understood?”

I thought I was dreaming. One last book and I would be free.

A short while later, I understood the reason behind Hidaka’s change of heart. His marriage to Rie was in the works and they were considering moving to Vancouver. In packing up his things, Hidaka clearly wanted to jettison some of his other baggage as well.

I believe I was looking forward to the day the newlyweds moved to Vancouver even more than they were.

Then the day arrived. Bringing a disk with the next installment of The Gates of Ice on it, I headed to Hidaka’s house. This would be the last time I handed him a computer file. Since I didn’t have a computer, after he moved to Canada I would have to send the rest of the manuscript by fax. Once The Gates of Ice was done, so were we.

Hidaka was in high spirits when I handed him the disk. I let him rattle on about his new place in Vancouver before asking, “You’ll be giving me my things back today, right?”

“What things?” Even though there was no way he’d forgotten, it wasn’t in Hidaka’s nature to make anything easy.

“My notebooks. You know the ones.”

“Notebooks?” He made a show of not understanding, then said, “Ah, I remember. Sorry. It’s been a while since I looked at them.”

He opened up the drawer to his desk and pulled out eight spiral-bound notebooks.

I clutched the prodigal notebooks to my chest. This, I thought, made us even. Now I would be able to prove his plagiarism.

“You look happy,” he said.

“I guess I am.”

“Great. Though I wonder—why do you want those notebooks back so badly?”

“Isn’t it obvious? These prove that those books you wrote were based on my stories.”

“See, that’s the thing.” He smiled again. “Couldn’t someone interpret it the other way around? What if you read the books I published, and then wrote your versions in those notebooks based on them?”

“What?” A shiver ran down my spine. “Is that how you’d try to spin it?”

Hidaka looked surprised. “Why would I have to explain myself to anyone? I suppose, if you were to show those to a third party, I might have to say a few words in my own defense. It would be up to that third party to decide whom to believe. Not that I want to argue with you about this now, but I want you to understand that having those notebooks doesn’t give you an advantage over me—not in the slightest.”

“Hidaka”—I glared at him—“I’m not your ghostwriter anymore—”

“I know, I know. The Gates of Ice is the last one. That’s fine.”

“So what’s this all about then?”

“Nothing. Just remember: there hasn’t been any change in where things stand between us.”

When I saw the cold smile on his face, I understood. He had no intention of ever letting me go. When the time came that he needed me, he would use me again.

“Where’s the tape and the knife?” I asked.

“What tape and knife?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh those. I have them in a safe place. Only I know where.”

At that moment, a knock came at the door. Rie poked her head in and told us that Miyako Fujio was there.

I think Hidaka agreed to see her because he wanted an excuse to shoo me out of his office.

Concealing my anger, I said good-bye to Rie and left the house. She saw me only as far as the door, as Detective Kaga so astutely figured out.

Once outside, I went around to the garden and over to Hidaka’s office window. Then I hid beneath the window and listened while he spoke to Miyako Fujio. As I expected, he was vague and noncommittal in response to her complaints. Of course, considering that the novel she had a problem with, Forbidden Hunting Grounds, was one I’d written, there wasn’t much of substance he could say about it.

Eventually, Fujio departed, obviously irritated. Rie left for the hotel immediately afterward, and Hidaka stepped out of his office, apparently to go to the bathroom.

Thinking that this was my chance, I made up my mind to go after him—to end it once and for all. If I didn’t act immediately, I might never be free from Hidaka’s clutches.

It was my good fortune that the window was unlocked. Sneaking in, I waited behind the open door, the brass paperweight clutched in my fist.

I don’t need to describe what happened next in detail. Suffice it to say, as soon as he walked in, I hit him in the back of the head as hard as I could. He crumpled to the floor. I then strangled him with the phone cord, just to be sure.

What happened from there was just as Detective Kaga surmised. I created an alibi using Hidaka’s computer. The trick I used was one I’d thought up while plotting out a young-adult mystery novel. Yes, that’s right—it was a trick intended to fool children. Go ahead and laugh if you like.

Still, I prayed that it would be good enough to eliminate me as a suspect. I prayed that my earlier attempt to murder Hidaka wouldn’t come to light. That’s why I asked Rie to let me know when Hidaka’s videotapes were returned from Canada.

Yet Detective Kaga was efficient in uncovering all of my secrets. His keen powers of deduction are impressive, as much as I might loathe them. Not that the detective is in any way to blame.

As I wrote at the beginning of this confession, I was startled to find that the tape bearing the evidence of my folly had been kept in a hollowed-out copy of Sea Ghost. Sea Ghost is one of the few novels Hidaka wrote himself, and as I’m sure the reader of this account is aware, the scene within the novel describing an attempt on the main character’s life by his wife and her lover was based on actual events. I believe that the image of me coming in through the window was the clue that guided Detective Kaga to the truth. Even in death, Hidaka persevered in his efforts to destroy me, and finally he’s succeeded.

Now I’ve said all there is to say. I’m afraid I concealed my motive because I wanted to hide the truth about Hatsumi. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, but I hope this account helps you understand how I felt.

I am prepared to accept whatever punishment I am due.