Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife by Lucky Stevens Page B

joint account, I guess. Hartence Smith, the Third and her name was, uh, Summer. Smith too, I think.”
    The reporter turned toward the camera. “Well that should be helpful, as apparently the bodies were mangled beyond recognition. Even the teeth in both victims were just obliterated to dust, I’ve been told. Teeth being something forensic scientists often use to identify victims in such situations. Horrible, horrible tragedy.”
    Angling toward Whitman, she placed her hand on his shoulder and inquired again, in a confirming manner, if he had any information about where the couple might be staying. Hart perked up. Whitman said he had no idea about anything else and that he had already told the police everything he knew.
    As the reporter began to talk again, Whitman stuck his face toward the microphone. “They should check his credit card records. Maybe they—the sheriff can see which motel they were staying in.”
    Hart couldn’t believe it. Who the hell was that other guy in the car with Summer?
    “I gotta call Brandy. Shit!” he said, remembering his dead phone. Then he ran into the bedroom to get a charger. After tearing apart his suitcase and his chest of drawers, he realized that he had forgotten his charger at home.
    “Shit!”
    He needed his phone. The cabin had no service. And then he remembered who he had gone on this trip with. Summer always remembered stuff like that. He checked her dresser and sure enough, Miss Organized had brought a charger along. He plugged his phone in and ran back to the T.V.
    As expected, all the stations were reporting the same thing. Two bodies. A male and female.
    Hart’s mind was working overtime. He couldn’t decide if this was a blessing or a curse. He didn’t have to worry about Summer anymore. He was now a millionaire. An ex-trucker. But who the hell was that other guy? There had to be an investigation. Before he went to the cops or the insurance company, he wanted some answers. His biggest fear was that he was somehow overlooking something and that if he did anything rash it might bite him in the ass later.
    He had to talk to Brandy. She was the only one he could trust. But that would have to wait until his phone charged.
    With nothing left to do for now, Hart made some food and planted himself in front of the television. He jogged around the dial until his “remote finger” was ready to fall off. It was the same news over and over but he couldn’t get enough. Finally, he fell asleep, Whitman’s interview burned into his brain.
_______________
    For the second time in a few hours, Hart woke up with a start, gasping. He had been dreaming about explosions. His thoughts were unsettled, feeling like he had gotten drunk halfway through a movie and was completely unsure how things had turned out. The storyline was hazy and seemed to lack finality. Who the hell was that other man in the car? This was no movie. He had to play things right. If he did, he’d be a millionaire, if not, well, God only knew what would happen to him.
    All at once, a feeling came over him. He didn’t want to be alone. His mouth was dry and he ambled over to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then he looked at his phone. Three bars. Plenty for now. He called Brandy, holding the phone tightly to his head. He began pacing.
    “Hart?”
    It was her. He felt such relief at hearing her voice. It was nothing. Just Brandy saying his name. But in that context it felt like a warm blanket. And the feeling of solitude melted away. He stopped pacing, instead resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. He clutched the phone, feeling the impending reassurance he knew was about to overcome him. He was no longer alone.
    “Yeah, it’s me, Baby.”
    “Oh my God! I was afraid you were dead. I’ve been listening to the news and was just too scared to call you.”
    “You did the right thing,” he said. “God, it’s great to hear your voice. I have missed you so much.”
    “I’m so glad you’re okay, Hart. I love