I answered.
“Amelia?”
“I’m alive.”
Her exhale came through the speaker.
“Are you injured?”
“Bruised. Cold. I’m on a beach below cliffs. The beacon is active.”
“We have your location. Rescue is coming from the north.”
“How long?”
“Soon. Stay visible, but do not climb.”
I leaned against the rock.
“Richard pushed me.”
There was a brief silence.
“Did you see anyone else in the helicopter?”
“No. The pilot seat was empty.”
Richard had earned his private pilot certification two years earlier. He claimed it was a hobby.
Lena’s voice softened.
“Are you sure you want to speak about this now?”
“I need you to know exactly what happened.”
“I’m recording.”
I described the flight, the route, the open door, and Richard’s final expression. Saying the details aloud made them solid.
When I finished, Lena asked, “Did he say anything before he pushed you?”
“Only that I deserved the view.”
“That may matter.”
“Everything matters now.”
A faint engine echoed above the cliffs.
I stepped from the overhang.
“Someone’s coming.”
“Rescue is approaching by boat, not road.”
My skin tightened.
A dark vehicle appeared briefly along the cliff edge.
Then it stopped.
“Lena,” I whispered.
“Move out of sight.”
I crouched behind a formation of rock.
The engine went silent.
No one appeared at the cliff edge.
Perhaps it was a hiker. Perhaps a ranger. Perhaps Richard had returned to confirm what the ocean had done.
I imagined him standing above me with binoculars.
The thought seemed melodramatic, yet so had the parachute when I packed it beneath my coat.
“Can you see the vehicle?” Lena asked.
“Not anymore.”
“Stay hidden.”
Minutes passed.
I heard gulls, waves, and my own uneven breathing.
Then a second engine approached from the water. A rescue boat appeared beyond the surf, white against the deep blue sea.
Two figures waved.
I stepped from behind the rocks and raised the silver blanket.
The dark vehicle started above me.
By the time the rescue crew reached the beach, it was gone.
Lena arrived at the hospital before the doctors finished examining me.
She entered the room in a charcoal suit, her dark hair tied back, her expression controlled. Only her eyes revealed how frightened she had been.
“You look terrible,” she said.
I laughed once, then began crying.
She held me carefully, mindful of the monitors and my bruised shoulder.
“You survived,” she whispered.
“The baby?”
“The doctor said the heartbeat is strong.”
“I need to hear it again.”
“You will.”
She sat beside the bed while a nurse adjusted the fetal monitor. The rapid, steady rhythm filled the room.
My child’s heartbeat.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since the fall, I allowed myself to believe we might both live through the day.
Daniel arrived twenty minutes later carrying a laptop and a folder. He was in his forties, quiet, and usually unshakable. Today, his tie was crooked.
“The authorities found the helicopter,” he said.
“Where?”
“At a private airfield outside Santa Maria.”
“And Richard?”
“Gone.”
I looked toward Lena.
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“We have not corrected that assumption,” she said.
A doctor entered before I could respond. She explained that I had mild hypothermia, strained muscles, and bruising, but no sign of serious injury. She wanted me observed overnight because of the pregnancy.
After she left, Daniel placed the folder on the table.
