I pushed her.
No one thought anything of it—they assumed she fell.
How many times had we counted those steps? She took the odd numbers; I, the even. I had fewer steps. She always came out ahead.
I often stayed at the base while she peered over the edge from the top. The stairs spiraled inward, upward, like a nautilus. My own face stared down at me, smiling. I never looked down on her, never had that vantage.
Just the one time. I couldn’t see her face. Only the tangle of hair and limbs and blood, like rough red algae washed ashore.