Chapter 1: The Fog Below My Feet
The first thing I noticed after the man pulled me back from the edge was the sound of my own breathing.
It came in short, uneven pulls, too loud against the mountain wind. My flats slipped on loose stone. The bald man’s hand locked around my arm, and the pressure of his fingers traveled up through my shoulder. Behind him, the bearded man watched me with the same hard focus he’d had when he said, “Your husband sends his regards.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t make my mouth work.
The fog moved below us in slow white folds. For one second, it covered the drop completely. Then the wind opened a gray seam, and I saw nothing beneath it but distance.
The dark-haired man stood across the trail. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t touched me. He watched the other two men as closely as he watched me, his face unreadable beneath the cold mountain light.
The bald man shifted his grip.
That small movement broke the stillness.
I drove my heel down onto his foot.
He cursed and loosened his hold. I twisted toward the wider side of the trail, caught the edge of my cardigan on a thorny branch, and kept moving. The bearded man reached for me, but his hand closed on air. Loose gravel slid under my flats. I dropped hard onto one knee, scraping through the fabric of my dress, and grabbed a low rock with both hands.
Nobody spoke.
The silence was worse than shouting. It made every movement feel considered.
I pushed myself up and ran.
The trail narrowed before it widened again near a cluster of dark boulders. I stumbled behind them and pressed my back against the cold stone. My hair had come loose around my face. I held it away from my eyes and listened.
Footsteps approached, then stopped.
The bearded man said nothing. The bald man breathed heavily. The dark-haired man remained silent.
A pebble clicked down the slope.
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
The men moved away, not quickly. They weren’t searching in panic. They were leaving as if they’d completed what they came to do.
I waited until the sound of their steps disappeared into the wind. Then I stayed another minute.
My arm throbbed where the bald man had held it. I looked down at the marks forming beneath my cardigan sleeve and pulled the fabric over them. The gesture was automatic, almost polite. I hated that about myself. I hated that some part of me was already preparing an explanation.
The trail behind the boulders curved toward a rough access road. I had noticed it on the way up, a strip of packed dirt between the trees. I walked toward it slowly, one hand against the rock wall whenever the ground shifted.
At the road, I saw a dark thread caught on a sharp branch.
It was fabric, black and synthetic, no bigger than my fingernail.
I reached for it, then stopped.
The bearded man wore black. So did the other two. It could have come from any of them. It could have come from my own dress. But I took it anyway and folded it into the inside seam of my cardigan.
I didn’t know why I did that. I only knew I wanted one thing from the mountain that belonged to the truth and not to my fear.
A vehicle passed somewhere below. I couldn’t see it through the trees, but the sound gave me a direction. I followed the access road downhill until my knees began to shake.
At the first bend, I sat on a flat stone and took off my flats. My feet were numb. Dirt clung to the soles, and one strap had torn loose. I held the shoes in my hands and walked the rest of the way barefoot.
By the time I reached the parking area, the fog had thinned enough for me to see my car.
I stopped beside it.
The driver's door was closed. Nothing appeared broken. The windshield reflected a pale strip of sky. For several seconds, I couldn’t make myself touch the handle.
If the men had followed me, I would have seen them.
That was what I told myself.
I unlocked the car and got inside. The heater blew cold air at first. I put both hands around the steering wheel and watched them tremble. My cardigan sleeve had slipped back again. The marks on my arm looked darker now.
I covered them.
Then I started the engine.
I drove away without calling anyone.
At the first gas station on the county road, I parked beneath the bright canopy and sat there with the engine running. People moved behind the glass doors. A man in a work jacket carried a cup of coffee to his truck. A woman stood beside a pump, checking her phone.
Ordinary life continued within ten feet of me.
I reached for my phone. My husband’s name was near the top of my recent calls. I stared at it until the screen dimmed.
The bearded man’s voice came back to me.
Your husband sends his regards.
I opened the message thread instead. There was nothing new. No explanation. No threat I could show anyone. Just the old sequence of ordinary messages, each one suddenly looking deliberate.
I took a screenshot of the thread and sent it to an email account my husband didn’t know about.
Then I photographed my arm.
I photographed the torn shoe strap, the dirt on my feet, and the black thread folded into my cardigan.
Only after that did I turn off the engine.
I went inside and bought a bottle of water. At the counter, the cashier glanced at my torn cardigan and lowered her eyes again.
I didn’t tell her what happened.
May you like
I didn’t tell anyone.
But I kept the receipt.
