Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

give him a quick, awkward hug. “Take care, sweetie.”
    “I will.” But his attention is on the cat. “Come on, Custer.”
    We watch him walk away. The silence that follows is thoughtful and somehow rings with a sense of finality. After a moment, Erb looks through the open door at the field beyond and sighs with the weariness of a beaten man. “We knew something was wrong with her.”
    He says the words without looking at me, uncomfortably, and the pain I see on his face profound, as if he, as a parent, somehow failed.
    I let the silence ride until he meets my gaze. “I didn’t,” I tell him. “I loved her. I spent a lot of time with her. And I didn’t know.”
    The sound of a door slamming draws our attention. I turn to see Mattie’s mother coming down the steps of the back porch of the house, wiping her hands on a dish towel, looking our way.
    Mr. Erb motions for me to leave. “ Die zeit fer is nau. ” Time to go now.
    I want to embrace him, but I’m not sure it will be welcomed, so I don’t. Instead, I turn away and leave the barn. As I’m walking toward the Toyota, I glance over at Mattie’s mother. She’s standing at the foot of the steps, clutching the towel, her eyes on me, crying.
    The sight of her crushes something inside me. I fight tears as I get into the car and I drive away without looking back.

 
    CHAPTER 26
    It’s pouring rain by the time I arrive at Tomasetti’s farm. I’d hoped to do some fishing with him on the dock—catch dinner, maybe—drink a couple of beers, listen to the arrival of dusk. But I can’t complain about the rain since it’s been dry most of the summer and it matches my mood to a T.
    I park behind his Tahoe and punch off the headlights. Grabbing the grocery bag off the passenger seat, I swing open the door and hightail it to the back porch. I’m soaked by the time I enter the kitchen, but I don’t mind. The rain feels good against my skin. Cleansing somehow. A new start. I keep a change of clothes in the bedroom closet, anyway. Jeans and a tee-shirt I’d brought for an overnight stay, but didn’t use.
    The house smells of paint and freshly sawed wood. I’d expected to find Tomasetti in the kitchen, finishing up the cabinets that had been delivered the day before, but he’s not there. The radio sitting on the five-gallon bucket in the corner is on, the newscaster announcing flash flood warnings for all of Holmes, Warren, and Coshocton Counties until midnight. It crosses my mind that I should get back to Painters Mill in case Painters Creek floods and some dummy decides to drive through the water that sometimes rushes over Dog Leg Road. Then I remember I’m off duty and I put it out of my mind.
    “Tomasetti?”
    No answer.
    I wander into the living room. An aluminum stepladder is set up near the window. A five-gallon bucket of paint sits atop a plastic drop cloth on the floor. Tomasetti is nowhere in sight, so I take the stairs to the second level.
    I find him in the largest of the three bedrooms, using a roller with an extension bar as he rolls paint onto the ceiling. He’s painted the walls butter yellow. The woodwork and crown molding are still the original stained mahogany. It’s a nice look that reminds me of red-winged blackbirds and misty summer mornings.
    He glances at me over his shoulder when I enter the room and his eyes linger. He’s wearing faded blue jeans that are speckled with paint and worn through at one knee. A gray tee-shirt with the logo from the Cleveland Division of Police. I’m moved by the sight of him. This man who’s looking at me so intently, as if he’s glad to see me. I don’t see how anyone could be glad to see me these days; I haven’t exactly been pleasant.
    “Forget your umbrella?” he asks.
    I glance down at my wet clothes. “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m dripping all over your floor.”
    “You can drip all over my floor any time, Chief.” He finishes the section he’d been painting and sets the roller in the paint tray. “How did it go?”
    The question needs no explanation. “All right, I think. They’re pretty broken up, but…” Unsure how to finish the sentence, I let my words trail.
    He waits, as if knowing there’s more I need to say. “Rasmussen talked to Wayne Kuhns,” I tell him. “He thinks that at one point Mattie tried to use Kuhns’s obsession with her to manipulate him. She told Kuhns that Paul was abusive and Kuhns believed her. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she