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“You watched me the whole time you were getting in,” she accused. “Like you expected me to step on the gas. You looked ready to vault out of the way.”
“Do you blame me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because of earlier? I thought I already explained; it was an accident.” She rammed the Jeep into gear.
“Was it?”
“Of course! I mean, my part was. I’m still not convinced you didn’t fake it.” Raising a skeptical eyebrow, she slid a glance at his bent knee as the SUV started moving again. “And just so you know? I’m not buying the limp.” Before he could argue, she said, “So, okay. Where did you park?”
He hooked a thumb toward the east. “Off Winchester. At the old church lot. I think it’s Lutheran.”
“Got it.” She took a right at the next cross street. “So why don’t you tell me why you wanted to see me? Oh, wait, let me guess! You want an exclusive interview with the girl who survived the McIntyre Massacre.”
“I thought we’d already established that.”
“Let’s do it again, just to be clear.” Again, she skewered him with a look that indicated she was pissed.
“It’s pretty simple. You and I have unique perspectives on what went down that night and we both suffered losses; both of our lives were changed forever. I think that not only could I write the definitive story about the massacre, but also, if we worked together, we might actually find out what happened. The details are murky and we were just kids at the time, and both of us think justice was never served, right? You don’t believe Jonas killed your family. You still think there was an intruder. You’ve said so. And I’d like to find out what really happened, not just for curiosity’s sake, but because my old man died, too.”
Her lips tightened a bit, and a hint of guilt shaded her eyes. “But then there’s the money,” she pointed out as the church steeple came into view, a tall spire rising above the surrounding trees with their skeletal branches, black limbs seeming to reach to the sky as if in supplication.
“Yes.” No reason to lie. “Then there’s the money.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We could work out some arrangement and—”
“Not interested.” She slowed for the final intersection, then drove into the icy parking lot butting up to the white clapboard church with its broad porch, now-closed double doors, and windows of stained glass.
His SUV had collected a dusting of snow, the windshield covered. He slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans and tried to come up with some other excuse to get her to see things his way, but he had nothing.
Kara drove into the near-empty lot and slid into a spot next to the RAV4.
Finally, he said, “I think we would work well together.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she mocked. “We’d be great together. Just friggin’. . . awesome!” She didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm lacing her words. As the Jeep rocked to a stop, she added, “We’re here.” She motioned to the passenger door.
“I’m serious.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” Leaning across him, her body radiating heat, her breasts brushing his legs, she pushed his door open and a gust of icy air swept into the interior. “This is where you get out,” she said, straightening, her cheeks a little flushed. “Now.”
“Kara—”
“Now!”
He took the hint and slid out of her Jeep. This time he didn’t bother grimacing against any faux pain. She’d see right through it. He paused, holding the door open for a second, and said, “I just want to find out the truth, Kara. I thought, maybe, that you did, too. Maybe I was wrong.”
He slammed the door shut before she could respond, and climbed into his Toyota, started the RAV4, backed up, then rammed it into drive and spun out of the lot. Checking his rearview mirror where his father’s dog tags hung—a reminder of the man who had given his life for Kara McIntyre—he saw that she hadn’t made a move to leave.
Good.
Maybe she’d think about it.
Maybe deep down she really did want to know the truth.
He hoped to God she did.
* * *
The coffee wasn’t strong enough.
Not by a long shot.