His final words.
The push.
The water.
I told her how he watched me fall.
When I reached that part, my voice began to shake.
Detective Ortiz waited.
I stared at the blanket over my knees.
“I keep thinking about his face,” I said.
“What about it?”
“He didn’t look angry.”
“How did he look?”
I searched for the right word.
“Relieved.”
She didn’t interrupt.
“He looked like he’d finally finished something difficult.”
The detective wrote something down.
Then she asked me to describe exactly where we’d been standing and how Daniel had held me.
I demonstrated as best I could without moving my injured shoulder.
She asked whether I had slipped before he touched me.
“No.”
“Did the rock give way?”
“No.”
“Did he try to catch you?”
I looked straight at her.
“He pushed me with both hands.”
She held my gaze.
“All right.”
I told her about hearing him shout that I had slipped.
“Someone else was up there,” I added.
“I heard another man asking what happened.”
“That gives us something to follow up on.”
She explained that the authorities had already begun treating my account as a serious assault allegation.
The local sheriff’s office would be involved, and investigators would collect my medical records, document my injuries, and interview the people at the gorge.
Then she asked a question I hadn’t expected.
“Does your husband know you survived?”
My heart lurched.
“I don’t think so.”
“Who have you contacted since the ambulance picked you up?”
“No one.”
She leaned back slightly.
“All right.
We can keep your hospital information private, and we’ll coordinate with the investigating sheriff’s office.
But I can’t promise he won’t find out.
People are searching for you, and this won’t remain quiet indefinitely.”
I nodded.
I understood.
Somewhere beyond the hospital walls, rescue workers were probably searching the river for a dead woman.
My husband was probably standing beside them, pretending to hope for a miracle.
And I was lying in a hospital bed, listening to my daughter’s heartbeat.
The contrast made me feel almost dizzy.
“Can I ask you something?”
I said.
“Of course.”
“If he thinks I’m dead, what will he do next?”
The detective watched me for a moment.
“That’s hard to predict.”
I turned my face toward the window.
I already had an idea.
Daniel would cry.
He would tell the story of our wonderful marriage.
He would accept sympathy from friends who didn’t know what happened behind our closed doors.
And sooner or later, he would begin asking questions about the money.
I knew it.
Because he had spent months asking those questions while I was alive.
I spent the night listening to the steady sounds of the hospital.
Footsteps in the hallway.
A distant telephone ringing.
The soft electronic beeping of machines.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the cliff again.
I felt Daniel’s hands against my arms.
I heard his voice whispering about my inheritance.
The memory was so clear that I could almost smell his cologne.
At two in the morning, I woke with a gasp and grabbed the bedrail.
A nurse hurried to my side.
“Claire?
What’s wrong?”
I shook my head.
“I thought I was falling.”
She checked the monitor, reassured me that Lily’s heartbeat was steady, and stayed until I could breathe normally.
When she left, I stared at the ceiling.
I thought about our wedding.
I remembered walking down the aisle toward Daniel in a white dress my mother had helped me choose.
I remembered the look on his face when he saw me.
He had cried.
Actual tears.
At least, I had believed they were real.
“I promise to protect you,” he had said during his vows.
“Through every storm, every hardship, every day of our lives.”
I had believed him so completely that I hadn’t hesitated before saying my own vows.
Now I wondered how much of our marriage had been real.
Had he ever loved me?
Had he loved me until the money appeared?
Or had I been too eager for a happy ending to notice that he was always watching for an opportunity?
The questions hurt more than my injured shoulder.
Because there were memories I still treasured.
Late-night conversations.
Sunday mornings.
The way he had whispered, “We’re going to be parents,” when we first saw Lily’s heartbeat on an ultrasound.
Were those memories false?
Or had something in him changed?
I didn’t know.
But I knew one thing.
Whatever love Daniel had once felt, it hadn’t stopped him from pushing his pregnant wife toward certain death.
That was the truth I had to live with.
And the truth I intended to make him face.
The next morning, Detective Ortiz returned.
She had spoken with investigators in our county.
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