The Deadly Sky Diving

Married for five years, the wife, Quincy Scott, suffers from severe depression. That evening, she sat on the sofa, fingers clutching a crumpled sky diving flyer, her voice trembling as she expressed a desire to try cliff sky diving, believing it would relieve the pressure weighing on her heart. I saw the undeniable weariness hidden in her eyes, and without much thought, I nodded. The sky diving site was chosen at Eagle's Beak Cliff, on the city's outskirts—a place where the terrain is treacherous, yet the views are breathtaking, making it a lesser-known hotspot for extreme sports enthusiasts. The day before departure, Quincy Scott placed two sky diving packs by the entrance, instructing me to check them thoroughly, emphasizing that safety was paramount. I crouched down, my fingertips tracing the zipper of the sky diving pack, methodically inspecting it as the instructor had taught me, when suddenly my fingers froze. Inside Quincy Scott's sky diving pack, the stitching of the load-bearing strap had been slashed open with a blade for most of its length, leaving only a few fragile threads barely holding it together. Once deployed at high altitude, it would inevitably snap immediately. My heart plummeted, my fingertips went cold, and instinctively I looked up toward the living room; Quincy Scott stood with her back to me, speaking on the phone in a hushed voice. I quietly took out my mobile phone and opened a covert recording app I had downloaded earlier, then pretended to organize the sky diving pack as I slowly crept toward the living room. "... Don't worry, he definitely won't find out. I've already taken care of the sky diving pack." Quincy's voice held a faint, barely perceptible thrill. "When he sees me fall off the cliff, given his nature, he'll be consumed by guilt and unable to live with himself. Then, his company and his savings will all belong to us." The voice on the other end of the phone was muffled, but I recognized it as Harry Lincoln — the man who often came into my house under the pretense of being a 'friend.' Immediately after, Quincy Scott said something that plunged me into an icy abyss. "My mother has also made arrangements. She will feign utter grief, watching over Morgan Carter closely to ensure he 'successfully' carries out the suicide pact." I stifled the fury and cold dread swelling within my chest, quietly slipped back to the entrance hall, restored the sky diving pack to its original state, and pretended to notice nothing. Quincy Scott hung up the phone and approached me, her face carrying a deliberately gentle warmth as she asked how the inspection had gone. "All clear," I forced a slight smile, my voice calm enough to startle even myself. "We’ll set off early tomorrow morning." At night, I lay awake in bed, eyes wide open until dawn. The love and tenderness I once felt transformed into a piercing hatred the moment I uncovered the truth. She wanted me to feel guilt over our suicide pact, to consume everything of mine; so I will grant her this "fake death"—only, this fake death will become real. Early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking, we hurried by car toward Eagle's Beak Cliff. Harry Lincoln was already waiting by the cliff, dressed in his mountain ranger uniform, a look of carefully measured concern on his face. "Morgan, Quincy, you're here," he greeted us, taking the sky diving pack from our hands. "The wind is light today—perfect for sky diving." I glanced at him; the flicker in his eyes did not escape me. After the instructor briefly reviewed the precautions, Quincy was the first to strap on her sky diving pack and stepped toward the cliff's edge. She glanced back at me, her eyes full of complexity—nervousness mingled with a deeper sense of anticipation. "I'm going first. I'll message you once I land." With that, she followed the instructor and leapt from the cliff. I stood at the edge, watching her figure shrink until it disappeared into the mist. Soon after, a piercing scream rang out from below, followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. I immediately pretended to panic, pulling out my mobile phone to call the police, but Harry Lincoln gripped my hand firmly. "Morgan, wait!" His face flushed with urgency as he pointed to the nearby bushes. "Look, there's a kitten trapped there, barely alive—I have to save it first!" I sneered inwardly; at a time like this, they're still making excuses to stall. "But Quincy..." I deliberately faltered, my eyes rimmed with red. "Quincy is definitely fine; the coach is with her," Harry Lincoln pulled me toward the bushes. "The kitten is a living creature too; we can't afford any delays. Come with me first. After we rescue the kitten, we'll go find Quincy." I obediently followed him, the mobile phone in my hand still covertly recording. He crouched down, feigning effort to rescue the kitten, muttering repeatedly, "Don't worry, I'll get you out soon." He wasted over ten minutes before "rescuing" the kitten, which was hardly injured at all. We hurried down the mountain; Quincy Scott lay on the ground, drenched in blood and barely breathing, while the instructor paced anxiously nearby. "Quick, perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation!" Harry Lincoln rushed over, shoved me aside, and feigned skillful chest compressions on Quincy.