“And what did you do?” Nevada asked.
Arabella sighed. “You want to know what I did? Nothing. I stood there like a moron and let him scream at me. I don’t even know why I did that. I’m not a pushover person.”
“What did the driver look like?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I didn’t look at him that well. Blond, well built, jock type, probably twenty-five, twenty-eight, between 160 and 180 lbs, about five foot ten, clean shaven, black T-shirt with a grey outline of Texas on it, khaki cargo shorts, carrot red Nikes with white laces, a fake Rolex. And not a good fake Rolex, either. He was driving a black Chevy Tahoe, maybe 2012 or so, with a small dent in the bumper on the driver side. There were four other people in the car.”