SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore

ONE

Sonya

Is he dead?

He must be.

I watched his body fall backward off the jagged Palisades cliffs, bouncing off the rocks like a crash car dummy before plunging into the Hudson River five hundred feet below. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

I’m not a violent person.

I didn’t want him to die.

But who would believe me?

And now what?

Competing thoughts flash through my mind in rapid succession.

Call for help.

Get out of here as fast as I can.

I opt for the latter.

Thankfully, he’s a morning person. It’s early autumn in New York, and there’s a chill in the air. I passed a few other hikers on my way up here. But looking around, I don’t see anyone here now. No one saw us together.

My body starts to tremble as I turn around, nice and easy, and head back down the short, steep path toward the spot where I locked up my bike. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring my car with its GPS and identifiable license plate number. I’ve learned a few things over the last month or so about being stealthy.

Funny. I actually kind of liked this guy. I thought it might go somewhere, and that my string of disaster dates would finally be broken. Then I could retire this little mission of mine and get on with my life. Silly me. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. No one finds love on the internet these days.

We’d been chatting on MetMee for the last few weeks. He called himself Greg. I found out later he was using an alias—but then so was I. At one point, I thought he was a catfisher because he kept saying he wanted to get together, but I couldn’t pin him down. He was average-looking, though, and if one were making a fake profile, wouldn’t they put up the hottest photo they could find? But he was attentive and funny, as much as I could tell over chats, and we were actually getting to know each other. Perhaps he simply liked to take it slow.

Then we made plans to meet up, about a week ago, but he canceled at the last minute. Something about a sick dog. We hadn’t exchanged our real names yet. This seemed to validate my suspicions that something was hinky. By coincidence, earlier this week, I recognized his photo on a real estate website.

Matt Furman.

He worked in White Plains, I discovered, about thirty miles north of Manhattan, but lived over on the other side of the Hudson, in New Jersey.

He’d told me that he was a real estate agent, so at least that much was true. I suppose it wasn’t a complete coincidence that I found him online, because I’d been looking at real estate company websites, trying to figure out if he was stringing me along. And with a first and last name, his life unfolded before me.

I discovered that he liked to hike.

His social media was peppered with scenic vistas, and he revealed that the one he was on this morning was his weekend favorite.

Oh, and I also found out something else.

Something very important.

He’s married.

With two small kids.

I couldn’t let it go.

I needed to teach him a lesson.

My plan was to confront him somewhere where he would least expect it, but secluded enough so I wouldn’t be making a scene. I wanted to record him admitting what he’d done so that I could tell his wife.

It wasn’t that hard to find him. The guy’s a serial poster, providing the world with a play-by-play of his every move, as if we are all waiting on the edge of our seats to see what he’ll do next.

Can’t wait for my Palisades hike tomorrow.

Stopping for a latte.

Heading up the trail now.

I caught up with him as he was stepping out on the rocks to take a selfie, beyond the warning sign, over the railing they put there to stop people from getting themselves killed.

That’s how idiots die.

“Hey, Matt,” I called out, a little out of breath. I had planned to catch him in the parking lot but my timing was off, as it had been all morning. So, I high-tailed it up the trail to try to catch him, but he was fast.

His brow furrowed. “Oh, hi…”

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to place me. I wore black bike shorts and a tan cycling jersey. Nothing too flashy so I wouldn’t stand out. My hair was in a ponytail and sunglasses covered my eyes and forehead. I was standing a few feet away from him, so it wasn’t too surprising that he didn’t recognize me.

“Gina,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the phone in the palm of my hand, recording our conversation.

His mouth froze half-opened, until it finally clicked. “From…the app?”

I stared him down, one hand on my hip. “Yes, Matt. Gina. From MetMee.”

“How did you…? Um. Hi!”

I walked toward him.

He took a step back, although he was already dangerously close to the edge.

I smirked. “I decided to take your recommendation. About how nice and peaceful this trail is at this time of day.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about…”

He squinted, his mouth still agape, as if seeing me more sharply would clear the fog in his brain.

Then he shook his head. “Wait. You what?”

“You really should be more careful about what you put on your social media. You never know who might see it.”

Maybe it was my snarky tone, but his attitude shifted. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Gina.”

“What I’m trying to pull? Seems like you’re the one who’s trying to pull something, Matt. You’ve got a wife and two little kids. Is this how you get your kicks? Chat up single women on dating sites and get their hopes up? Or did you actually plan to cheat on your wife at some point?” I struggled to contain my growing outrage, gritting my teeth so hard, I feared I might chip a tooth.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? My wife and I are having problems. I should’ve told you the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got carried away.”

“Well, you’re going to have bigger problems when I play this for your wife.” I held up my phone, which was recording our conversation. “Hi, Olivia. Sorry about this. But I thought you deserved to know.”

A hint of fear flashed in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might bargain with me or beg me not to do it. Then his face contorted like an angry, cornered reptile.

“Are you some kind of psycho?” he barked. “Everyone lies on those sites. Look at you! You must be ten pounds heavier than you were in those photos you sent me. What’re they, from college? Olivia will never be able to handle this. My wife’s unstable. Fragile. If you play that recording for her, I’m warning you, it might be the last thing you ever do.”

“You’re threatening me?”

Fury exploded in me.

I lunged toward him, waving my phone in his face. “You hear that, Olivia? He says you’re crazy. He doesn’t want to take responsibility, just like my—”

Matt reached over the railing and tried to grab the phone out of my hand, but I pulled away. He stumbled but regained his footing, or so I thought. But then a look of confusion washed over his face and he started to wobble. And then he fell backward—and went barreling down the Palisades cliffs, plunging into the river, five hundred feet below.

The ground seemed to shift under my feet as the enormity of what had just happened hit me. My knees went weak. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Maybe it was a touch of vertigo. Expecting a wave of panic, I braced myself, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt detached, like I was watching a movie. Like this couldn’t possibly be happening for real.

I didn’t push him, I swear.

But who would believe me?

It’s still my fault that he fell, and even if I could convince the cops that I didn’t shove him off that cliff, I would probably end up in prison. Involuntary manslaughter, isn’t that what it’s called?

Especially if they find out what else I’ve been up to on that dating app.

This was an impulsive move.

What was I thinking?

He could have grabbed me and hurled me off that cliff. I try to remain calm as I make my way down the trail, passing a few other hikers heading up. I replay the events in my mind, thinking of how I can spin this if someone sees me, but hoping to reach the end of this trail without being spotted. This little mission of mine has gone way too far. On the plus side, Matt Furman will never cheat on his wife again.

That’s probably not a normal thought to have at a time like this, and I wonder for a moment if I’m some kind of sociopath. But if I’m worried about being a sociopath, I’m probably not one. I’m in shock, I decide. Anyone would be in my position. I’m in self-preservation mode, and I’m sure the guilt will hit me at some point.

But not right now.

Now, I need to focus on getting out of here, unseen.

I reach the end of the trail, hop on my bike, and pedal like my life depends on it—hoping that he hasn’t, by some miracle, survived the fall.

***

Excerpt from SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2025 by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.