I Faked My Death and He Lost His Mind novel · Chapter 3 of 12
Chapter 3: The Cliff
At ten to nine, I was standing at the overlook on the Costa Verde waterfront.
The salty wind was in my face, and Lima’s lights glowed behind me.
Fifteen meters below, the sea crashed against the rocks with a sharp, hollow sound.
The car was parked at the edge, engine off, driver’s door open.
The mustard-colored scarf Aníbal gave me for my birthday was hanging from the seat.
I’d left my bag in the trunk.
My wallet, my house keys, my ID.
One shoe was lying on its side atop the stone railing, as if I’d lost it while climbing over.
I was still wearing the other one.
Aarón was waiting for me below, in the fishermen’s cove.
I’d gone down to check it out that afternoon.
There was a hidden path between the rocks, used by fishermen to carry their nets.
It was wet, steep, and poorly marked.
I’d make my way down in the dark when the call was over.
I took out my phone.
I dialed.
Aníbal answered on the first ring.
“Fio? Baby, where are you? I’ve called you twenty times.”
“I’m at the overlook.”
“Which overlook?”
“The one on the Costa Verde. Where you brought me to watch the sunset for the first time.”
“Fio, please, don’t say crazy things. Come home, and we’ll talk. Estefanía’s hysterical. She says she feels guilty...”
“Aníbal.”
“Yeah?”
“Today you told me I could understand.”
“You will understand, baby. You’re the most understanding person I know.”
I closed my eyes.
“I understand,” I said. “I get it now.”
“Fiorella...”
“I want you to know something. I loved you. Truly. For three years.”
“I loved you too...”
“And you never thanked me for it. Not once.”
There was a silence.
I heard him breathing on the other end, fast and uneven.
“What do you mean?”
“Goodbye, Aníbal.”
“Fio! Fiorella! Don’t hang up! What are you doing? Tell me exactly where you are!”
I hung up.
I left the phone on the car seat, switched on, screen facing up.
It started ringing again almost immediately.
Then vibrating.
Then ringing again.
I walked away from the car.
I took two steps toward the edge of the cliff.
Then I turned toward the path and slipped between the rocks.
The path was a trap.
I slipped twice.
Once, I scraped my palm against the stone.
I made my way down trembling, knees weak, to the cove.
A dark boat with no lights was floating twenty meters from shore.
Aarón held out a hand to me from the gunwale.
I climbed aboard.
He wrapped me in a blanket.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.”
“Sit down. Keep low. Don’t get up.”
I curled up against the hull.
From there, between two rocks, I could see part of the overlook up above.
Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.
A car’s headlights cut through the night.
A door slammed.
I saw a figure running between the railings.
Aníbal.
I recognized him by his light-colored shirt and the way he ran, shoulders pitched forward.
He reached the car.
He stopped.
He looked at the seat, the scarf, the phone that was still vibrating.
He put both hands on his head.
Then he saw the shoe.
He picked it up.
He held it against his chest, like a wounded animal.
“Fiorella!” he shouted.
His cry descended the cliff and echoed between the rocks.
“FIORELLA!”
He leaned over the railing.
He looked into the void.
He saw the black sea, the waves, the foam.
I saw him take a step back.
Shout my name again.
Once, twice, three times.
In a voice I’d never heard from him before, broken, hoarse, animal.
Aarón murmured beside me:
“Fiorella...”
“Shut up.”
“This is too much.”
“Shut up.”
I couldn’t look away.
I saw him make a phone call.
The police, I assumed.
I saw him sit down on the ground, the shoe in his hands.
And then he stood up.
He took off his jacket.
He threw it on the ground.
He climbed onto the railing.
“Aníbal!” I whispered.
Aarón grabbed my arm.
Aníbal looked down, toward the rocks.
And jumped.
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