The Girl Who Survived(30)

“Close and you did hit me.”

“Did I?” She wasn’t convinced. Had she really struck him with the Jeep? Knocked him to the ground? Or had that been only the bump of her tires spinning over the berm of snow? Had she just been played? Had he pretended to be struck? But she’d heard the impact of her bumper hitting or at least grazing his body. Or had she? Was it too crazy to think that he could have thumped the side of the Jeep with his gloved fist as he’d sprung up and then fallen to the ground?

Had he, in fact, faked her out?

Why? For a damned interview? Really? If so, that was sick. “You came here to talk to me?”

“Right.”

“When I haven’t returned your calls or texts?” Her mind was spinning with distrust.

“I thought I could persuade you,” he said, and he smiled, white teeth flashing in his dark beard.

Oh, great, now the charm was coming. Now the guy thought he could flirt with her? “You thought you could ‘persuade me’? By pretending to have me run you over. That was your plan?”

“What?” His smile fell away. “No!”

“But you were hoping to talk to me, to get an interview.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But nothing.” She eyed him up and down—long legs, broad shoulders, and attitude, all kinds of attitude. “You’re not the first to try and trick me into talking to you, you know. There have been dozens who’ve tried. And why? To get to ‘the truth’? Right? No! Each and every one was trying to make a buck off my story, my trauma, my family’s tragedy.” She felt herself winding up again, years of frustration beginning to boil over. “There have been articles, so many I’ve lost count, and a couple of books and even a special type of true crime show that ran on cable a year or two after the murders.” She advanced on him, holding tight to her anger. “I know that there’s all kinds of renewed interest in the story. Because the twenty-year anniversary is coming up, the cable channel is dusting off the program and running it again, probably twenty-four/seven just in time for Christmas? Isn’t that what you want to watch during the holiday season! Sit down with the kids and a big bowl of popcorn.”

“Whoa, that’s not what I’m all about.”

“No?” She cocked her head, disbelieving, a gust of cold wind catching in her hair. “What are you about, Wesley Tate?” she asked, then lifted a finger as if an idea just popped into her head. “Oh, right, you have a different angle on the story, don’t you? A personal take as your dad was there and he died saving that pathetic, freaked-out little girl from the lake after scaring her half to death!”

“Wow,” he said, almost under his breath.

“Yeah, wow.” She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to pull back on her out-of-control emotions. She looked down the street, where an old guy in striped pajamas, a bathrobe and horned-rimmed glasses was standing near the garbage can at the corner of his garage, his eyes trained on Kara and Tate. The last thing she needed was a nosy neighbor poking his head into her business. She turned back to Tate, who was still staring at her. “You’re okay, right? So this is over.”

“You hit me.”

“You were standing in my drive. And I didn’t.”

“I was crossing to the front yard.”

“But cutting behind the garage? For the love of God, didn’t you hear the garage door roll up, me start the car, the engine turn over?”

“I yelled,” he said.

Did he? Yes. Just before the thud and she felt a thump in the car. She eyed the rear bumper. Not a scratch and the damned open door was still dinging. “This is crazy,” she said, returning to the Jeep, reaching inside and cutting the engine. “Where did you say I hit you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she closed the Jeep’s door. “On your hip?”

“Yeah.”

“But not too bad.”

“I told you I tried to jump out of the way.”

“Yeah, so you said.” She remembered the thud and his leap to one side. Fake. She was sure of it. “I didn’t hit you.”

“You sure as hell did.”

“Don’t think so.”

Tate shook his head, disbelieving. “If you hadn’t been on your phone—”

“What?” she cut in. “Unbelievable.” Shaking her head, she said, “So you really thought that this little act would guilt me into talking to you?”

“Wow. That’s crazy.”

“Well, isn’t that what they say about me? That I was so traumatized as a child that I’ll never be right? That I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown every day? That I can’t be trusted to—” She suddenly shut up; knew she’d already divulged too much. “You work for a newspaper?”

“Freelance.”

“Ah. I see. And now, because I ‘hit’ you with the Jeep, you think I would feel guilty enough to give you an interview. Maybe an exclusive.” She glanced up the street to see the neighbor still standing in his slippers, salt and pepper hair sticking up at odd angles, and staring. Oh, crap, was he reaching into his robe for his cell phone so he could take a picture?

Tate said, “The least you could do is talk to me.”