Page 20 of Double Exposure

“This’ll take about fifteen minutes to heat up,” I say, poking at the contents with the spoon.

Sitting back down on the sofa, she sighs and pulls her legs up to her chest.

“I can’t leave this area.” Her voice, so wavery and light earlier, is much stronger now. But the sudden gravitas feels like bravado.

“Look. You’re a grown woman. I can’t tell you what to do. But I do have the authority to remove you from a perilous situation. Going back out after a storm like this with little gear would be considered ‘perilous.’” I spread my hands. “Don’t make this my decision when it’s really yours.”

She presses her face into her knees for a moment, straightens up and shakes her hair away from her eyes. “I can’t leave here when I know my father is still out there.”

“You do realize you nearly died. Searching for people is literally my job. Me and my team.”

Her face tilts up so she can meet my gaze. “You’ll have to file a report, right?”

I nod slowly. “Yes. What’s your point?”

“Well, there can’t be a report.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Here’s the thing—nobody can know he's missing.” Her arms cross over her chest. “I'm not even supposed to know he's missing. He just left and then I got a call from my mother.” She pauses.

“And?”

Her arms tighten around her torso. “She hasn’t heard from my dad in three days.”

My stomach bottoms out. Three days. That’s not good. She’s obviously close to both her parents.

“Is that unusual?”

She mulls this over for a moment, and then doesn’t answer the question. “All I know is that she’s on tour in Europe. And she’s worried.”

“Do they talk every day?” I’m trying to get a sense at what point a flare went up.

Arching one terribly perfect eyebrow, her answer is confusing. “I never thought so.” Leaning forward she starts shaking her head and wraps her arms around her knees again. “You don’t understand. My dad—”

“Yes?”

“He’s famous. Get it? Famous. He’s been to Istanbul, Beirut, was one of the first photographers allowed into Iran after the war. Why? To get pictures of scorpions for crissakes. He photographed the blown-up Buddhas. He’s been lost in the Amazon, on the trail of Percy Fawcett and he’s been stranded at the South Pole like Shackleton. He even made it to Elephant Island in a replica of that little boat, the James Caird, in some weird attempt to ‘know Shackleton better.’”

My memory takes a leap.

I know who this is. “Your dad is Ken Choi?”

Ken Choi is legendary. He went up Everest—five times. He dove and followed a free diver more than 1000 feet down. He’s also been everywhere in between these extremes.

Jade nods and drops the air quotes about ‘knowing Shackleton better.’ “My father is fearless. Everything he does is for his art. His craft. Science.” She glances to the window where the dark night sky turns the window into glossy obsidian. “He can make it through this storm. Believe me. He’s been in worse situations.”

Despite his reputation, I’m not so certain. Spring storms can be hell. There’s a reason the park service sets off more avalanches in March.

“You can’t search for him alone.”

“He’s never been rescued. Never been in a hospital. Never seen a doctor for dysentery, malaria or dengue.”

“What’s your point?”

“This thing where he’s invincible? That’s a huge part of his reputation. The last thing he’ll appreciate is a story about how he was found by Colorado Park Services.”

Wind batters the door. She sits straighter after recovering from a slight involuntary shiver—probably a Pavlovian response at this point.