Richard spoke again.
“I know you’re alive.”
The words erased our advantage.
I took the phone.
“How?”
His breath caught.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I saw the parachute open.”
His voice sounded unlike the one I remembered from the helicopter. It was strained, almost unsteady.
“You watched me fall.”
“Yes.”
“You left.”
“I had to.”
“You had to?”
“There were people tracking the aircraft.”
“You pushed your pregnant wife into the ocean.”
“I pushed you because they were listening.”
The answer was so absurd that I nearly ended the call.
“Do not insult me with another lie.”
“It isn’t a lie.”
“Then explain it.”
“I cannot on the phone.”
“Of course.”
“Amelia, Clara has the file your father left.”
“We know.”
“Then you also know she is not working for me.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Who is she working for?”
“I don’t know. But she approached me six months ago. She showed me documents claiming your father concealed the company’s real ownership.”
“And you believed her?”
“I believed enough to investigate.”
“By asking about my trusts?”
“I needed to know what would happen if the ownership claim became public.”
“So you planned to inherit everything before anyone could challenge it.”
“No.”
“You forged a safety report.”
“I did not.”
“You took me over the ocean.”
“Because Clara told me the people following us would force the helicopter down if I stayed on the planned route.”
My anger sharpened.
“Why would anyone believe this?”
“Because the helicopter controls were remotely compromised.”
Daniel motioned for silence and began typing.
Richard continued.
“I lost directional control near the cliffs. The door opened automatically. I realized someone was recording the cabin.”
“The door did not open automatically. You opened it.”
“To make them believe their plan was working.”
“And then you pushed me.”
“I saw the outline of the parachute under your jacket.”
I stopped breathing.
He had known.
“You knew I prepared?”
“I found Lena’s invoice.”
Lena cursed softly.
Richard’s voice dropped.
“I thought the parachute was your last safeguard. I thought if I made it look convincing, they would stop controlling the aircraft long enough for me to land.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“When I told you that you deserved the view.”
“That meant nothing.”
“It was the phrase we agreed on in Monterey.”
A memory surfaced from two years earlier.
Richard and I had gone sailing. Before leaving the harbor, we joked about what we would say if one of us ever sensed danger without being able to speak openly.
You deserve the view.
At the time, it had been silly.
A private code invented over wine.
I had forgotten it.
Richard had not.
My certainty fractured, but it did not disappear.
“You still pushed me without knowing whether the parachute would open.”
“I knew staying aboard was more dangerous.”
“Why?”
