SUNDAY, 10:32 AM Chapter 1
GABE
ATHERTON LAKE LAY far below them in all its scenic glory. But Gabe Fox had no interest in the view. What mattered to him was whether the fall would kill his wife, Angie. Never comfortable with heights, he turned his back to the toy-like picnic tables below. “Great view, huh, babe?”
“Hang on . . .” Unlike Gabe, who jogged several times a week, Angie was out of breath from the short hike up to the overlook. She bent at the waist, hands on knees. With her back to him, Gabe had a good look at his wife’s spandex-covered ass. Ugh. Some wives aged like fine wine. Angie aged like milk. Eventually, the pile of blubber straightened. She puffed a wisp of auburn hair from her eyes and took in the landscape.
“You were right,” she said grudgingly. “The view really is gorgeous.”
“Go on, take some pictures.”
Having recently maxed out the Visa card to buy herself a shiny new Pentax, Angie jumped at the idea. She unzipped her camera bag and beamed as she took out her new baby.
Geez, kiss it, why don’t you? Gabe forced a smile. “Take all the shots you want. We’ve got lots of time.”
Of course, Gabe had been planning Angie’s death for months, but if he’d learned anything in his twenty years of police work, impatience got a man caught. His wife would be out of his life soon enough, so why not let her snap a few pictures first?
“Let’s get one of you, now. Move over there.” Angie pointed at the same knee-high bench-slash-barrier he intended to push her off.
“Sure.” Thankful the thing was a good three-feet wide, he sat down.
“How’s this?”
“Boring. The picture would be so much cooler if you got up there.”
“What? You know I’ve got acrophobia.”
“Bla bla. Hop up there, you big crybaby.”
“No way.”
“Then rest your foot on the bench. Or is that too scary?”
“No, no. I can manage that.” The bitch doesn’t know what scary is, Gabe thought. But she’s gonna real soon. Smiling through gritted teeth, he followed
Angie’s instructions. “Like this?”
“Yeah, but relax. Hiking up here was your idea, remember?”
Damned right it was. He adjusted his Yankees cap and—with the heartpounding drop just inches behind him—managed to hold a stiff but toothy grin as his soon-to-be-dead wife snapped away.
“Okay, your turn.” Angie passed him the camera. “So, where do you want me?”
How about dead and bleeding all over those rocks down there?
But Gabe couldn’t say that. “You’re the brave one. Why don’t you stand on the bench?”
Always eager to show Gabe up, Angie trotted over and with a superior smirk, hoisted herself up onto the bench and struck a relaxed pose, unconcerned by the perilous drop behind her.
Was he really going to do this? Once done, it couldn’t be undone, and his step kids, Kylie and Robby, would be devastated. He snapped three pictures, then, lowered the camera as Angie bounced on her toes, her arms outstretched. “See? No big deal.”
Oh, what the hell. The kids would get over it.
“No, no, no!” Gabe dashed to stop her from hopping down. “I just got the best idea ever. Come on, baby, one more picture.”
“What are you talking about?”
His entire being told him to throw her off the cliff, right then and there. Instead, he stuck with his plan and coaxed her, ever so gently, back into position. “Remember that motel room in Langston?” he began, pleased by his light, reminiscent tone. “It was right after we got married. Kylie had just turned seven, so Robby was only four. You took pictures of them jumping from one bed to the other, remember?”
“You want me to jump off the cliff?”
He chuckled. Actually, yeah. “No, sweetie. I just want you to stand on the bench and jump up. You know, so I can snap a picture of you in midair.”
Angie looked over her shoulder at the open sky behind her. “I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, so you’re scared of heights, now? That bench is three feet wide. I mean I sure couldn’t do it, but you . . .”
“Oh, all right, but if the lodge serves lobster, I’m getting it.”
“Sure, sure.” Gabe grinned, knowing that was one tab he would never have to pay. “Dessert too.” Temples pounding, he positioned himself for the shot. “Okay, now, when I count to three, you jump as high as you can.”
With a nod, Angie did a little half-squat, prompting a nervous giggle from Gabe.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Gabe said, even though she looked like a fat toad ready to hop. His face flooded with heat as he adjusted the camera’s focus. “One . . . two . . . three.”
Angie sprang up, arms and legs forming a big X. Surprised by her agility, Gabe almost didn’t click the button.
But he did.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” With surprisingly-steady hands, he brought up the image. “Hey, what’s that?” He frowned up at Angie. “I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s something in your hair.” A lie. Eyes on the top of her head, he moved in. “I think it’s bird poop.”
“Gross. Get it out.” She pulled a tissue from her fanny pack, and as she passed it to him, a dog barked somewhere down the path.
Somebody was coming.
“Okay, lower your head.” Amazed Angie hadn’t commented on the tension in his voice, he swabbed the imaginary mess with now-shaky fingers.
“Didn’t think you liked fooling with hair so much,” she teased. “Maybe you should go to beauty school.”
“Funny,” he croaked. It was time. Angie was right where he wanted her, in fact, her ass was literally hanging over the edge.
He’d never get a better chance.
She raised her fat face to him. “Oh, come on, Gabe. I wanna go.” “And I want you gone.” He pressed his palm to her forehead. “Hey! What―?” Gabe pushed.
Eyes like golf balls, a scream burst from Angie as good as any horror movie actress could produce. Arms and legs flailing, she fell.
There. He did it.
Legs suddenly boneless, Gabe slumped down on the bench as Angie halfbounced, half-slid down a steep rock wall, then caught some air for a few seconds before mashing down some baby pine trees. The last twenty or thirty feet was all free fall.
The breath he’d been holding whooshed out when Angie hit bottom. Nausea, either from guilt but more likely, the vertigo, tore him away. No, this definitely couldn’t be undone. He dropped to his hands and knees, reveling in the safety of the hard-packed earth.
More barking. This time, closer. And now, voices. Well, if Gabe could hear them . . . he filled his lungs and screamed, “Annnnnn-geeeeee!” With any luck, they’d remember his agonized tone when making their statements to the local police.
Gabe got his feet under him as a young man toting a toddler in a kiddie backpack pulled to a stop in front of him.
“What happened?” The man panted. “We heard a scream.”
“My wife . . . she . . .”
A leashed Irish setter tugged a woman past them both. The dog hopped onto the bench and peered over. The woman looked too. “Oh, God, Tyson, there’s a body down there!”
Years of working in law enforcement had taught Gabe that, for some stupid reason, upon committing a murder, perfectly intelligent people tended to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Their dumbest behavior was not grieving.
“Angie . . .” he sputtered. “I was taking her picture and she . . .” For effect, he dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God, she’s dead!”
The baby shrieked, reminding Gabe that he should be crying too. As planned, he went fetal, hands covering his face. They’d remember this. His anguish. His tears. Eyes open wide, he called up his saddest memory, and soon, he was ten years old, mowing the front lawn of the house he grew up in. His little sister had just opened the side gate, and his heart clenched as their little dachshund, Missy, ran out into the street. A few houses down, a huge black sedan turned the corner.
A lump swelled in the back of Gabe’s throat as he recalled the roar of the car’s engine . . . Missy bouncing off the fender . . . her yelp as she spun off into the gutter.
“Mister . . . ?”
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
Dog nuzzling his ear, Gabe sat up, tears dripping from his chin. He muttered some purposefully incoherent garbage and—even though the man was already placing a call for help—fumbled for his own cell phone.
“It’s all right.” Sobbing a bit herself, the woman crouched beside Gabe.
“Tyson’s already gotten hold of someone.”
“Oh . . . okay,” he said, pleased by the pained crackle he’d managed to put in his voice.
They were buying it.
“Here.” The man passed Gabe his phone. “It’s the 911 operator.”
Gabe took it. “My wife!” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Angie fell off the cliff, and―oh my God—I—she needs an ambulance!”
“Someone will be there soon,” a soothing female voice promised. “What’s your name?”
“Gabe . . . Gabe Fox.” He took several shallow breaths, hoping to hyperventilate.
“Try to stay calm,” the woman told him. “You’re at Atherton State Park, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. At the Overlook. She wanted me to take her picture, and― oh, God, please don’t let her die!”
The woman—Sandy—asked him several more questions. Gabe responded with semi-incoherent blathering.
“They’ll be there soon.” Sandy’s voice was filled with empathy. “Just hang on. Take some deep breaths.”
Should he look down there again? Would people expect that?
Stomach twitching, he stole another peek.
What the hell?
Somebody was with Angie; a dark-skinned man with black hair.
So what? She was dead. Nobody could change that. He shoved the phone back at the man. “I have to go . . . my wife.” Camera in hand, Gabe raced down to the picnic area.
Everything was going perfectly. And it was a beautiful day. Alone on the trail, he freed the grin that had been crowding his mouth ever since Angie went flying.
BY THE TIME Gabe reached the picnic area, an ambulance and sheriff’s vehicle had already arrived. He shifted into high gear, ensuring he’d be winded and sweaty by the time he crossed the wide stretch of grass between them. Huffing and teary-eyed, he dodged through a crowd of picnickers, the grieving husband, rushing to the side of his dead wife.
Two EMTs had already loaded Angie onto a stretcher, the redness of her blood contrasting beautifully against the whiteness of the sheet one of the men was draping over her. It was all going perfectly. In a moment the guy would pull that sheet up over her head and break the unhappy news to Gabe. With Angie pronounced dead, the sheriff’s deputy would take down Gabe’s statement. Afterward, Gabe would request a ride to the river where he would complete the least enjoyable part of his plan, telling the kids.
The EMTs rolled the stretcher toward the ambulance. Eager for some drama, Gabe threw himself on the body. “Oh, Angie! My god, she fell so far.”
One of the EMTs pulled him away, leaving the other free to slide the stretcher into the ambulance. Silly, since there was really no rush with Angie dead.
“Sir, are you the husband?” It was the guy who’d draped the sheet over Angie—and why hadn’t he covered her face?
“Yes, my name is Gabe Fox.” Cheeks wet with a fresh crop of tears, he begged the man with his eyes. “Please . . . tell me she isn’t dead!”
“She’s not dead. But she is in bad shape. We’re leaving for Moresby Memorial, right now.” The EMT pointed toward a drinking fountain where a sheriff’s deputy was talking to the dark-skinned man Gabe had seen from up at the overlook. “See that guy washing his hands in the fountain? If it wasn’t for his quick thinking . . .” He patted Gabe’s shoulder, then helped his partner push the stretcher into the vehicle.
Tears flowed down Gabe’s cheeks as the ambulance pulled away. What the fuck was he going to do now?
Although he’d rather pound Mr. Nosy-helper’s face in, Gabe stepped to him and offered the man his hand. “You saved my wife’s life. Thank you.”
“No thanks are necessary.” The man dried his hands on his pants before accepting Gabe’s. “Dr. Avani Singh.”
“A-a doctor . . . ?”
The deputy grinned. “Lucky you, right? Your wife wasn’t breathing, so Dr.
Singh performed a”—He referred to his notepad—“a cricothyroidotomy.”
Gabe blinked back, suddenly lightheaded. “A . . . a what?”
“A small incision, here.” The doctor pointed to his throat. “I made it with my pocketknife, then widened the airway by inserting a section of straw from my soda cup. She’d have died otherwise.”
“Isn’t that something?” the still-grinning deputy said. “And this guy just happened to be walking by.”