Page 118 of When the Smoke Clears

That lands. His jaw knots as the gun lifts a fraction. For a heartbeat, I see a boy-shaped hole where a father should have been. Then the wind tears the thought away, and I’m staring at a man who would throw me off a cliff to keep a secret from bleeding.

The trail spills us onto a rocky saddle cut into the ridge. Ten steps ahead, the earth sheers off.

“Closer,” he orders.

I edge forward. To my right, a pale clump of lichen clings to a boulder.

Hang on. Don’t let go.

“This is where it ends? A fall no one questions. The water takes whatever it wants.”

His mouth doesn’t move, but I feel the satisfaction come off him like heat.

“You think you get your life back after this?” I turn enough to find his eyes.

“It’s already gone. Whether you throw me or not, the person you pretend to be doesn’t exist anymore. Your wife knows. Your children will know. Luke—” My voice scrapes. “Luke won’t let this disappear.”

“Luke,” he repeats, like the name is sour. “He is not my son.”

“He learned how to be a man in your house,” I say. “That counts for something.”

“What it counts for is a liability.” He tips the gun at my chest. “Turn around.”

The ridge breathes cold against my face. Wind threads my hair. I plant my feet wider, knees soft, center of gravity low. If he takes a step, if he reaches—go limp and drop. Roll left into the scrub. If he shoots⁠—

No ifs. Breathe.

“Look at me,” I say.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Why?”

“Because I want you to see what you’re doing.” I pivot a half-inch. The barrel touches my sternum; my heart drums into cold metal. “You said the word ‘sacrifice’. But you didn’t sacrifice. You bought. You bullied. You chose this.”

A muscle ticks in his cheek. He slides his phone out one-handed, flicks his eyes to the screen, then tucks it away. Whatever he saw hardens him. The shakiness from the trail is gone. What’s left is calculation.

“Walk,” he says again. “Two more steps.”

I close my eyes, and the future I’ve been trying not to want floods in. Untidy, gorgeous, ordinary. Luke is in the kitchen laughing at burned pancakes. Little hands smeared with blueberry jam. A porch full of cousins and wet towels and the thunder of running feet.

Lake water in July, neon slushies, the old dock groaning under a tangle of limbs. Christmas lights strung sloppily and perfectly across a fence. The way he’d kneel to show our kid how to tie a knot, patient and proud.

My eyes stay closed because if I open them, I’m going to see the place where that life ends.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to myself. To the little girl who wanted more from this life. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Neither am I.” Metal nudges bone. “Now.”

I open my eyes. “If you hurt me, there’s no going back.”

“Back?” His laugh is small and ugly. “There is no back. There’s only through.”

His free hand clamps my shoulder and shoves. My heel skids; pebbles rattle off into nowhere. The bottom falls out of my stomach. I jam the toes of my boots into a seam in the rock and lock my knees, fingers finding the rough lip of a boulder.

“Don’t fight,” he says. “It’ll be quick.”

Pain flares where his fingers dig into bruised muscle. Fury surges over fear, hot and clean. “Tell me one truth,” I say, breathless with effort. “Just one, before you do it.”

He hesitates again—the old habit of hearing himself talk. “What?”