He just needed a lift into town, and I couldn’t bear to drive another minute on that dark, lonely highway with only the radio static to keep me company, so I let him in.
“Not many women pick up hitchhikers in the middle of the night.”
“Will I regret it?”
“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but what’s your story?”
I often laughed at people who told complete strangers their life’s story, but if he was going to kill me, or do worse—because there are worse things than dying—I figured someone should know why.
“I murdered my husband.”
© 2022 Nortina Simmons