A sharp snap sounded above me. Fabric burst from the compact pack beneath my coat, lines whipped into the air, and my body jerked so violently that pain flashed across my shoulders.
Then I was no longer falling.
Not exactly.
The emergency parachute opened unevenly, one side twisting in the wind. I spun above the water, fighting nausea as the harness tightened around my ribs.
“Come on,” I gasped. “Come on.”
Weeks earlier, a former military rescue specialist named Lena Ortiz had taught me how to steer the compact canopy.
I had hated every lesson.
I had hated the warehouse where we practiced emergency deployment. I had hated the bruises, the straps, and the cold certainty in Lena’s voice when she said, “Preparation only works if you can act while terrified.”
Now her words were the only calm thing left in my mind.
I pulled the left control line.
The spinning slowed.
Below me, waves broke near a narrow strip of rocky beach. Farther inland stood steep cliffs covered in dry grass and coastal shrubs. I could not tell exactly where Richard had taken us, but I recognized the isolated stretch north of Santa Barbara.
The wind carried me toward the cliffs.
That was bad.
Landing in the ocean would be dangerous, but hitting rock would be worse.
I adjusted the lines, angling toward the water close to shore. Every movement sent pain through my arms. My baby moved inside me, a small, sudden flutter that nearly broke my concentration.
“I’m here,” I whispered, though I did not know whether I was speaking to the child or myself. “I’m still here.”
The surface rushed upward.
I crossed my arms over my stomach as Lena had taught me and struck the water feet first.
Cold swallowed everything.
The parachute collapsed on top of me, dragging across my face. Saltwater filled my mouth. I kicked upward, found only tangled fabric, and forced myself not to panic.
My fingers located the harness releases.
One buckle opened.
The second stuck.
I pulled until my nails bent, then remembered the knife sewn inside my sleeve. I drew it, cut through the strap, and surfaced beneath a sky that seemed painfully bright.
I gasped for air.
The helicopter was gone.
For several minutes, I could do nothing except float. My legs felt weak, and the soaked jacket dragged at my shoulders. The shore looked close enough to reach, but the current kept pulling me sideways.
I removed the jacket and let it sink.
Underneath, I wore a lightweight flotation vest hidden beneath a loose cream blouse. Richard had teased me that morning for choosing such an unfashionable top.
“You’re dressing like someone’s nervous aunt,” he had said.
I had smiled and told him pregnancy changed a woman’s priorities.
He had kissed my forehead.
Now the memory made me shiver more than the cold.
I began swimming toward shore.
Each stroke felt slow and heavy. The waves pushed me forward, then pulled me back. I focused on the dark sand between two clusters of rocks and refused to look at the cliffs above.
A wave lifted me and carried me farther than the others. My knees struck the bottom. I crawled until the water no longer reached my waist, then collapsed on wet sand.
For a long time, I listened to my own breathing.
I touched my stomach.
No pain.
No bleeding.
The baby moved again.
A sob escaped me, small and raw.
I had spent months imagining Richard might try to harm me. Even after I arranged the parachute, the flotation vest, and the tracking beacon, some part of me had believed the precautions were irrational.
Perhaps that was why I had agreed to the flight.
I had needed to know whether the man beside me was still my husband or only someone waiting for an opportunity.
Now I knew.
The knowledge brought no triumph.
It brought grief.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my palm into the sand.
“Beacon,” I whispered.
The tracking device was attached to the band around my ankle. I reached beneath my damp trousers and pressed the activation button three times.
A green light blinked.
Lena would receive the signal.
So would Daniel Cho, my chief legal officer and the only person besides Lena who knew the full plan.
My father had once told me that wealth made secrecy easier and trust more difficult. I had assumed he meant business.
I understood him now.
I stood carefully.
The beach curved beneath the cliffs, empty except for driftwood and seabirds. No houses were visible. My phone was gone, lost in the water, but I had expected that.
A waterproof pouch beneath my blouse held a second phone, a small medical kit, and a memory card containing copies of every suspicious financial record Richard had touched.
I opened the pouch.
The phone turned on.
No signal.
