“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.
With your good hand, you dig into Arturo’s pocket and find his emergency whistle. He always carried one on hikes. You used to tease him for it.
You put it to your lips and blow.
The sound rips through the valley.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Voices answer from above.
Not Lucía.
Strangers.
A man shouts, “Hello? Is someone down there?”
You blow again until your vision goes black at the edges.
Then a voice you do not know says, “Call rescue! There are people below!”
You let yourself cry then.
Only a little.
Enough to prove you are still alive.
The rescue takes forty-seven minutes.
Later, they tell you that a family heard the whistle from the main trail. A teenage boy climbed close enough to see your red scarf caught in the brush. Park rangers arrived first, then search and rescue, then paramedics.
Lucía and Esteban return to the overlook just as the rescue crew is lowering ropes.
Your daughter screams when she sees you alive.
Not in relief.
In terror.
You are strapped to a rescue board, neck braced, face covered in blood, but your eyes are open when they carry you past her.
You look straight at her.
She goes white.
A sheriff’s deputy notices.
Good.
At the hospital in Charlottesville, you learn your injuries like a list of places your daughter failed to finish killing you.
Two cracked ribs.
Dislocated shoulder.
Concussion.
Deep lacerations.
Sprained ankle.
Arturo is worse.
Internal bleeding.
Broken arm.
Three fractured ribs.
He is taken into surgery while you lie in a hospital bed with dried blood in your hair and a state police investigator beside you.
Marcus Hale.
Grace’s retired state police contact.
He has kind eyes and the stillness of someone who has seen people lie over bodies.
“Mrs. Morales,” he says gently, “your attorney called when you missed the check-in. She also sent me the background concerns you gave her.”
Your throat is dry.
“Recorder.”
He leans closer.
“What?”
“My scarf. Recorder.”
A nurse helps remove the scarf.
The tiny device is still tucked inside, cracked but intact.
Marcus places it in an evidence bag like it is made of glass.
“My husband’s jacket,” you whisper. “Another one.”
“We have it.”
“Lucía confessed.”
His eyes sharpen.
“On the recording?”
You close your eyes.
“Yes.”
Marcus stands.
“Then you rest. We’ll handle the rest.”
But rest does not come.
Because your daughter is in the waiting room pretending to cry.
You can hear her once.
A wail, high and practiced.
“My parents slipped! We tried to find them!”
The sound makes you want to tear out your IV and crawl down the hallway.
Instead, you lie still.
Alive.
Listening.
Hours later, Marcus returns with Grace Whitman.
Grace takes your hand.
“Arturo is out of surgery. Critical but stable.”
You break then.
Not loudly.
Just enough for tears to slide into your hair.
Grace squeezes your hand.
“They arrested Lucía.”
Your eyes open.
“And Esteban?”
“Detained. He’s cooperating.”
Of course he is.
Cowards often become honest when the ground opens under them.
Grace’s face tightens.
