Yosemite Fall. Scott Graham
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He talked about how excited he was to shoot the gap and post the footage online right away, to kick off the weekend.”
Chuck frowned. “So you don’t think he was suicidal, or you do?”
Ponch glanced back at Chuck. “Based on the video he posted when he was alone in his van, I’d say yes. But based on how he acted this morning, I’d say no way.”
“There’s that thing about people being really happy, almost euphoric, right before they kill themselves.”
“Which is why, to be perfectly honest, I just don’t know.”
Janelle said to Ponch, “I overheard you telling Chuck about your tarot cards when you first got to the campground this morning. You said they told you more than just that something bad was going to happen to Thorpe. You said the bad thing was going to happen to him at the hands of someone else.”
“That’s right,” Ponch replied, subdued. “Me. I’m the ‘someone else.’ I didn’t tell Thorpe about my reading, and now he’s dead.”
“I’m not convinced the cards were referring to you.”
From the back of the line, Chuck waved his hands in exasperation. “One crazy card person is enough,” he said to Janelle. “There’s no need for two of you.”
She stopped and turned to Ponch and Chuck. They halted on the trail. She circled her thumbs around the shoulder straps of her pack. “This isn’t necessarily about the cards. It’s about the loose thread and the separation in the wingsuit.”
Chuck frowned. “That was from when he hit the cliff. It had to be.”
“I might agree with you—if it weren’t for the cut in his ankle.”
Chuck’s frown deepened.
“You saw it,” Janelle said. “On his leg, in the tree.”
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