Lucía says nothing.
Even from below, you feel the moment he understands.
“You killed him,” Esteban says.
Lucía’s voice becomes cold.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Oh my God. You killed your brother.”
“And now you’re going to help me, because if I fall, you fall. The money you moved from the workshop? The forged invoices? The loans? All of it.”
Arturo’s fingers twitch against you.
The recorder.
Still running.
Please, God.
Still running.
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.
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.
