Subject to conditions

Rebecca

A sigh escapes me when I park my car in the deserted parking lot of the brand-new office building I manage. It’s a good thing I’m not a scaredy-cat, I think wryly as I walk to the entrance, surrounded by darkness. There are no houses or street lights in this industrial area, and all the buildings around me seem completely deserted.

Some of the office spaces are still available for rent, and while I was giving a tour to a few interested companies this afternoon, I accidentally left my coat behind. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered to make a detour this late to pick it up, but they’re expecting a significant drop in temperature tonight, and I’m expected at the notary’s office early in the morning to represent a customer at the signing of a sales contract.

“Stupid Laura,” I grumble out loud as I unlock the door and enter the security code.

I had dinner with my sister and her husband tonight, as I do every Tuesday. Ever since we’d both moved out of our parent’s house, we have dinner together once a week. We used to alternate hosting duties, but ever since she and Mark became parents, I usually go to their place. It’s just more practical.

We still take turns cooking, though. Which can be quite a challenge, with a sister who’s a chef and two young nephews who are wary of any food they’re unfamiliar with. But my lasagna tonight was a big hit. Laura had made tiramisu for dessert, because it goes so well with an Italian main course. The lasagna was pretty heavy on the stomach, though, and she’d made the tiramisu with Baileys, so we had to postpone eating dessert until the kids were in bed. After that, we simply had to let that heavy tiramisu digest for a while. Then Mark had just poured us a cup of tea, which, of course, we couldn’t let sit unfinished. Laura subsequently launched into a juicy story about a mutual acquaintance, which she absolutely had to finish, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep, not knowing how it would end. And just like that, it was almost midnight again before I got into my car—not an uncommon occurrence for us.

“Stupid, stupid Laura, with your stupidly delicious desserts, and your stupidly entertaining stories,” I sigh, even though I know full well that I’m just as guilty as she is of our dinner nights running far too late. We’re simply never finished talking, no matter how often we see each other.

As if she’s heard me, my phone starts ringing at that precise moment with the ‘Tarantella di Napoli’ ringtone I’ve assigned to my sister. Grinning, I fish it out of my bag and, sure enough, see ‘Sorella’ appear on the screen as the incoming caller.

“I just sat on your couch for almost six hours straight and you still forgot to tell me something?” I ask without any form of greeting.

“I think you’re the one who forgot something here,” Laura grumbles grouchily.

“Do tell…”

“The agreement is that you’ll text me as soon as you get home, remember? You’re clearly not in the car anymore, and I’m lying here with bags hanging from my eyes all the way down to my knees, waiting for the redeeming word from you so I can finally get some sleep.”

“My poor little princess… And you do need your beauty sleep, so badly,” I tease.

“Wicked witch!” my older sister retorts, feigning offense, but then her voice returns to normal. “No, seriously, Sorellina, are you back home, safe and sound?”

“Not yet,” I answer, my footsteps echoing through the empty building. “I had to take a detour.”

“What do you mean?”

“I forgot my coat at a viewing this afternoon,” I explain, as I purposefully walk to the reception desk. I grab my coat from the compartment behind the counter, where I’d left it earlier today—neatly out of sight, so the potential tenants wouldn’t see it. “I’m picking it up as we speak.”

“You could have told me that when you left,” Laura grumbles sleepily.

“I didn’t think about it until I was already in my car,” I say truthfully, walking back toward the door. “But go ahead and go to sleep. I’m already on my way out, and then I’ll drive straight home.”

“Are you sure?” Laura yawns through the phone.

“Yeah, definitely. Get some sleep,” I say warmly. “Those boys of yours will probably start jumping on your bed again before the alarm even goes off.”

It’s certainly sweet that my older sister is so protective, but it’s completely unnecessary. As a grown woman of almost thirty, I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.

“Okay then,” she mumbles, clearly half asleep already. “Night, Sorellina.”

“Goodnight, Sorella.”

With a slight chuckle, I toss my phone back inside my purse. I slip on my coat, re-enter the security code, and double-check that the building is properly locked before heading back to my car. With a tired sigh, I fling my bag onto the passenger seat and settle behind the wheel. It’s high time I go home and dive straight into bed.

On autopilot, I drive to my house with my usual shortcut. The narrow roads along the river are much quieter than the busy main streets through the city—especially during the day, although traffic is probably not too bad at this hour. These random thoughts help me keep sleep at bay until I can safely collapse into bed. But after a gentle curve in the road, an unexpected sight suddenly startles me. A luxurious, matte-black car that I almost didn’t see in the dark is parked right before the bridge over a riverbranch. The figure climbing onto the railing halfway across the bridge, however, is impossible to miss.

Oh God!

Oh God, oh God, oh God, no… a jumper!

Adrenaline courses through my veins, instantly causing me to be wide awake. I hit the brakes and my car screeches to a halt, halfway onto the shoulder.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I mutter agitatedly, quickly turning off the engine.

As I get out, I grab my bag to retrieve my phone so I can call the police. I don’t even bother locking my car, but hastily walk toward the man on the bridge while dialing the alarm number.

Please, don’t jump off that bridge in front of me!

Please, please, please…

I don’t know if the bridge is high enough, or the river deep enough, or shallow enough—I’m not exactly sure how it works—to actually allow him to make a fatal leap, but I’d rather not find out.

As I get closer, I notice the man is swaying gently. With one hand, he clings to the bridge railing; in the other, he holds a liquor bottle that’s less than a quarter full. My thumb hovers hesitantly over the dial button. Is this man suicidal, or just a reckless drunk?

I look around, hoping to spot anyone nearby who might be able to help. But on this remote route around the city at this hour, there’s no one in sight. Just as I decide to call the police anyway, the man shifts, letting me catch his profile in the moonlight. He raises the arm holding the bottle unsteadily and takes another swig. Frowning, I realize he looks vaguely familiar.

With my thumb still hovering over the dial button, I cautiously approach him. When I’m only a few feet away, it dawns on me that I know this man indeed.

“David?” I ask hesitantly. “David Winter?”