Lucía continues, “We go back to the car. We wait an hour. Then we call and say they wandered off. Maybe they slipped. Maybe they got confused. They’re old. People will believe it.”
Old.
You are fifty-nine.
Not young.
Not helpless.
Not dead.
Esteban sounds sick. “And the kids?”
“My kids will inherit what should have been mine.”
“You’re insane.”
“No,” she says. “I’m practical.”
Footsteps move away.
Leaves crunch.
For several seconds, neither you nor Arturo moves.
Then he exhales in pain.
“Elena?”
“I’m here,” you whisper.
“Can you move?”
“I don’t know.”
“Phone?”
“Dropped above.”
“My recorder?”
You slowly, painfully reach toward his jacket.
The recorder is still there.
Red light blinking.
Recording.
You almost sob.
Arturo closes his eyes.
“Good.”
Then his face goes slack.
“Arturo?”
No response.
Panic tears through you.
“Arturo.”
His chest moves.
Barely.
You look around the ledge. Your left arm screams with pain. Your right leg is trapped under a branch. Blood runs down your forehead into your eye.
Above, the overlook is quiet.
Lucía and Esteban are gone.
You have one chance.
