The rock holds its secrets tightly, but if you are respectful and listen carefully, you can hear it whisper.
No, put your foot to the left.
Yes, your weight will hold.
Go here and you'll have to backtrack.
Any mountain worth climbing had more dead-ends than a wealthy suburban neighborhood. I didn't mind. My goal was never to break speed records; it was to decompress. My job title was the euphemistic Director of On-Site Logistics. What I really did was handle risk-assessment for Doctors Without Borders. I was vital, but the position was as low-visibility as possible. If you had someone in risk-assessment at a directorate level it indicated that lives could be in danger, and that wasn't the best message for recruitment.
If I made the wrong decision, people died. So, finding time for solitude was something I made time for, and it doesn't get more isolated than hanging off the side of a mountain. Unlike a marriage, a mountain was forever.
There was no mountain; today was a cliff. Shifting my weight, I released my left hand and stretched my fingers. After a moment I was back at it. At the top was a mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean owned by Deacon Mulgrew. Like my title, his was misleading. He was the chief advisor to Bishop Lindor, and the deacon was in his multimillion-dollar home fucking the bishop's daughter, my wife.
Cameras covered the sides and front of the home, but who would bother covering the cliffs? Have you heard of affair fog? It's a thing; look it up. If my wife were thinking clearly, she might have been concerned. This was child's play.
