I jumped, and I survived; nothing else matters. That’s what I told myself as I plummeted through the sky, my heart hammering like a war drum.
I’m Madeline Geiger, and my thirtieth birthday, which doubled as my tenth wedding anniversary, was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, it became a nightmare that changed everything. Let me take you into that fateful skydive, where every second felt like a lifetime. And let me keep you guessing about what came next.
Mike and I were decked out in jumpsuits, helmets, and goggles, climbing into a rickety Cessna so small it felt like a toy. The sky was a perfectly cloudless blue. The breeze was gentle. It was my birthday, our anniversary, and a chance to patch up a rocky year. Mike, my golden-ratio husband, wanted me to join his research, but I was pulling away, bored and restless. I’m a computer scientist, every bit as smart as Mike, but I am his lowly research assistant, supported by his grant, while he is the Big Professor at Cornell. Still, I loved him fiercely, even if my tongue-tied self could barely say it. He looked like a skydiving Ken doll, all charm and jokes; I was his awkward Barbie, punching his arm to hide my nerves.
The Cessna rattled as it climbed to eleven thousand feet. The Finger Lakes sparkled below like a postcard. Todd, our pilot, was a pro, handling the flimsy plane with ease. Mike and I weren’t alone. There was another couple strapped to the grimy linoleum floor. As Todd announced the jump run, I sat cross-legged, channeling calm, while Mike fidgeted, rapping his knuckles. “Blue skies, sweetie,” I mouthed, and his grin lit up the dim cabin.
Then the door flipped open, and the air roared in. The other couple jumped first, and Mike tumbled out, clumsy but stabilizing into a clean arch. I followed, my stomach lurching with that familiar mix of fear and freedom. The icy June wind blasted past, carrying the faint tang ofgas. We linked hands with the others, forming a floating ring like Matisse dancers, weightless above Ithaca. At six thousand feet, we broke apart, gliding solo.
But something went wrong. My parachute lines twisted when I pulled the handle, spinning me wildly. I stayed cool, untangling them just in time, my canopy surging forward. Relief flooded me. Until I heard a scream. It was Mike. He was too close, his parachute a tangled mess, spinning out of control. I screamed for him to use his reserve, but the wind swallowed my voice. His face was pure terror, his canopy wrapping around mine. We spiraled together, plummeting at 120 miles per hour.
I had to decide quickly: cut away or perish. I had a fighting chance, but my reserve chute hardly opened. In a Fibonacci spiral, everything passed by: lake, sky, Mike, Earth, pink, curves, trees, forests, gravity, and it pulled me down, down, into the vortex.
I survived, but at what cost?
If you think that my story is over, there is so much more to it. What secrets did Mike hide? Why did our parachutes fail? A Reluctant Spy doesn’t let you go. It pulls you into my story, into a world of dark-web conspiracies and academic betrayal, where every answer raises more questions.
Grab this thriller and leap into the unknown with me, but don’t expect to land safely.
Order your copy on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1967036004/.
