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“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.”
“What?” Once again her attention was focused on the reporter. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I talk to you?”
He had the audacity to smile again, one side of his mouth lifting. “Well, you did almost kill me.”
“Because you were in the way! Holy Christ, you planned this? You hoped I would hit you so that you could get an interview?” she asked, her mind spinning at the lunacy of it all. How nuts was he?
“Of course not. You came barreling out when I was crossing to your house.”
“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” she said, and the headache she’d tried to keep at bay was pounding a painful tattoo across her brain. “Look, go away. No interview. If . . . if you have any serious injuries, you can call my lawyer. I’m done with this.” Fury blooming, she stormed to her Jeep, climbed inside, and yanked the gear shift, forcing the Jeep into reverse. “What an idiot!” she said, disbelieving.
Tate was still standing at the side of the drive. Well, let him hang out there all day if he wanted to. It was freezing out. She hit the remote button for the garage door and watched it roll down completely, all too aware that the reporter was just five feet away and staring at her. When the door finally shut, she checked the rearview and backed up, leaving him on the snowy sidewalk. As for the neighbor, he was walking through the door into his house.
Good. Maybe he’d gotten a picture.
Maybe not.
It didn’t matter, she’d weathered worse. Far worse.
Her fingers tightened over the wheel as she thought about the reporter. Wesley Tate had a lot of nerve. A lot.
But he did lose his father in the tragedy. You weren’t the only one who suffered a loss that night. Remember. Edmund Tate died because he saved you.
She felt that same bit of remorse she always did when she thought of the off-duty cop who’d chased her through the frigid forest that night. She reached the end of the street, slowed for the stop sign at the corner, and took one last glance at her drive. He was still there, watching her leave, long legs spaced apart, arms crossed over his chest, eyes following her.
Well, let him look all he wanted.
And let him come up with some new lunatic scheme to try to force her to talk to him.
She wouldn’t do it.
No interview.
Not with Wesley Tate or any one of the dozens of others who were calling. Despite the fact that her brother was now out of prison, that part of her life was over. O. V. E. R.