and answered her before she could speak. Or maybe she had said it. Was she that punch drunk?
Summer stood not quite at the door. For some reason she lingered back a few feet, her body swaying like she was trying to get her sea legs.
Hart continued: “We just have to play this the right way and we’re home free. It’s going to be great.”
Was she dreaming? Who was he talking to? And what was he talking about?
“I’m going to kiss you all over when I see you.” That was the next thing she heard. Or thought she heard. And then her hand jetted out and seized the knob of the front door.
“Wait! I heard something,” he said.
And before she knew what she was doing, she was knocking.
Then silence. Or shuffling. Maybe whispering. She didn’t know what she was hearing. She was ready to faint, she felt so lightheaded. The words she had just heard hung in the air. And as the door felt like it was about to open, she filed them in the back of her brain. They would not be forgotten but would instead be played like an ace—used when most needed, rather than when it would cause the table to fold before its time. And though it surprised her that she was thinking this way, it felt like the most prudent thing to do. After all, maybe she needed more information or maybe, in her semi-delirious and dehydrated state, she had just imagined the whole thing. Maybe she’d wake up any moment now. Or maybe she was fooling herself.
TWENTY-FOUR
H ART FLUNG THE DOOR OPEN the way one might tear off an adhesive bandage. He had forced himself to stand up straight. He would face the cops without a hint of guilt or wrongdoing. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?
But what he saw when he opened the door made the blood drain from his face. A million thoughts flooded his head. But one thought wisely bolted to the forefront of his mind: hug her. He did, as he said her name and other requisite things like, “Thank God you’re alive.” He actually pulled it off quite well, aided by the emotional aspect of it all bubbling so close to the surface.
Summer was in a daze, but she hugged him back hard, the tears coming easily.
How are you not dead? Hart wanted to scream but composed himself enough to ask it in a way that didn’t make himself sound like he was either bitterly disappointed or like some kind of sick maniac.
Hart played the doting husband as he led Summer to the couch and brought her as much water as she needed and tended to her scrapes and cuts.
The relief and comfort she felt could hardly be expressed and she broke down a few times, each episode greeted with warm embraces and comforting words from Hart. He had dramatic flair after all, throwing himself into his part, dying to know what happened—why she wasn’t dead, how she’d destroyed his seemingly serendipitous plans—all while treating her with kid gloves.
Hart listened with great interest to Summer as she explained how she was not in the car when she heard the horrible explosion. He sympathized with her when she recounted how she had made it out of the valley and back to the cabin, even managing to diplomatically confirm that she hadn’t been seen by a soul. And he, of course, expressed how relieved he was that she was home safe.
All the while, however, behind those commiserating eyes, the wheels turned. He felt like the winning lottery ticket had been yanked out of his hands. She had been out of the picture and now she was back. So the narrative would have to change and he’d have to stay one step ahead of it all if—
“What are you looking at?” Hart asked, interrupting his own thoughts. But they both knew where her eyes were.
“Oh, the phone,” he said. Hart had some explaining to do. The phone. He glanced back at it to give it the full effect.
“Oh, I was just talking to your cousin Brandy.” And now he was really scrambling, trying to remember what he said; wondering how long Summer had been on the porch before she had knocked; what she
Summer stood not quite at the door. For some reason she lingered back a few feet, her body swaying like she was trying to get her sea legs.
Hart continued: “We just have to play this the right way and we’re home free. It’s going to be great.”
Was she dreaming? Who was he talking to? And what was he talking about?
“I’m going to kiss you all over when I see you.” That was the next thing she heard. Or thought she heard. And then her hand jetted out and seized the knob of the front door.
“Wait! I heard something,” he said.
And before she knew what she was doing, she was knocking.
Then silence. Or shuffling. Maybe whispering. She didn’t know what she was hearing. She was ready to faint, she felt so lightheaded. The words she had just heard hung in the air. And as the door felt like it was about to open, she filed them in the back of her brain. They would not be forgotten but would instead be played like an ace—used when most needed, rather than when it would cause the table to fold before its time. And though it surprised her that she was thinking this way, it felt like the most prudent thing to do. After all, maybe she needed more information or maybe, in her semi-delirious and dehydrated state, she had just imagined the whole thing. Maybe she’d wake up any moment now. Or maybe she was fooling herself.
TWENTY-FOUR
H ART FLUNG THE DOOR OPEN the way one might tear off an adhesive bandage. He had forced himself to stand up straight. He would face the cops without a hint of guilt or wrongdoing. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?
But what he saw when he opened the door made the blood drain from his face. A million thoughts flooded his head. But one thought wisely bolted to the forefront of his mind: hug her. He did, as he said her name and other requisite things like, “Thank God you’re alive.” He actually pulled it off quite well, aided by the emotional aspect of it all bubbling so close to the surface.
Summer was in a daze, but she hugged him back hard, the tears coming easily.
How are you not dead? Hart wanted to scream but composed himself enough to ask it in a way that didn’t make himself sound like he was either bitterly disappointed or like some kind of sick maniac.
Hart played the doting husband as he led Summer to the couch and brought her as much water as she needed and tended to her scrapes and cuts.
The relief and comfort she felt could hardly be expressed and she broke down a few times, each episode greeted with warm embraces and comforting words from Hart. He had dramatic flair after all, throwing himself into his part, dying to know what happened—why she wasn’t dead, how she’d destroyed his seemingly serendipitous plans—all while treating her with kid gloves.
Hart listened with great interest to Summer as she explained how she was not in the car when she heard the horrible explosion. He sympathized with her when she recounted how she had made it out of the valley and back to the cabin, even managing to diplomatically confirm that she hadn’t been seen by a soul. And he, of course, expressed how relieved he was that she was home safe.
All the while, however, behind those commiserating eyes, the wheels turned. He felt like the winning lottery ticket had been yanked out of his hands. She had been out of the picture and now she was back. So the narrative would have to change and he’d have to stay one step ahead of it all if—
“What are you looking at?” Hart asked, interrupting his own thoughts. But they both knew where her eyes were.
“Oh, the phone,” he said. Hart had some explaining to do. The phone. He glanced back at it to give it the full effect.
“Oh, I was just talking to your cousin Brandy.” And now he was really scrambling, trying to remember what he said; wondering how long Summer had been on the porch before she had knocked; what she
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