Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

friend.
    Unnerved, I turn to the sink, grab the bar of soap, and scrub my hands with the single-minded determination of a mysophobe. When my flesh is pink, I twist on the shower taps as hot as I can bear and spend the next fifteen minutes trying to wash away the remnants of the accident, seen and unseen.
    By the time I pull on a tee-shirt and sweat pants, I feel settled enough to call Tomasetti. I want to believe I’m calling him because he’s a good investigator. Because he’ll offer some gem of advice. Because he’s great to bounce ideas with and he rarely fails of give me something I can use. But the truth of the matter is I need to hear his voice. I want to hear him laugh, hear him say my name. Or maybe I just need him to help me make sense of this.
    I walk into the kitchen. The wall clock tells me it’s three thirty in the morning; I shouldn’t bother him at this hour. Like me, Tomasetti’s an insomniac. Sleep is tough to come by some nights. For a moment, I sit there debating. In the end, my need to talk to him overrides decorum. I grab my cell phone off the counter where it’s charging, pour myself a cup of cold coffee, and punch in his number.
    He picks up on the second ring. “I was just thinking about you.”
    I can tell he was sleeping, and that he’s withholding his usual upon-wakening grumpiness. His voice, so calm and deep, fills me with a sense of optimism and reminds me that the good things in life balance out the bad.
    “You were asleep,” I tell him.
    “This might come as a shock to you, but a man can actually think about a woman while he’s sleeping.”
    “So you were multitasking.”
    He pauses. “Is everything all right?”
    He asks the question with the nonchalance of someone inquiring about the weather, but he knows something’s wrong. I don’t like it, but he worries about me. Because I’m a cop. A woman. Or maybe because he knows how easily those you care about can slip away.
    I stick to cop-speak as I tell him about the hit-and-run, using terms like “hit-skip” and “juveniles.” I don’t mention my past friendship with Mattie or that I’d known both of them since I was a kid. I don’t tell him that when I close my eyes I see the faces of those dead children.
    I don’t have to; he already knows.
    “How well did you know them, Kate?” he asks.
    To my horror, tears sting my eyes. Though he can’t see me, I wipe frantically at them, as if somehow he’ll know.
    “Mattie was my best friend,” I blurt. “I mean, when we were kids. I knew Paul, too. Back when he was a skinny Amish boy with a bad haircut. We lost contact after I left, but those days were—” I fumble for the right word.
    “Formative.” He finishes for me.
    “I never had that kind of friend again.”
    “Until I came along.”
    I laugh and it feels good coming out. “I knew you were going to make me feel better.”
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “Not really. Holmes County is the primary agency.”
    “You notified NOK?”
    There are times when silence is louder than words. This is one of those times. But I know if I speak, he’ll know I’m an inch away from going to pieces.
    “Are you okay?” There’s nothing casual about the question this time. He knows I’m not okay and he’s trying to figure out what to do about it.
    “This is going to sound corny, but I think I needed to hear your voice.”
    “My shrink would probably call that some kind of breakthrough.”
    “For me or you?”
    “Both of us.”
    I laugh, but I can’t think of a comeback.
    “Kate, do you want me to drive down?”
    “Do I sound that bad?”
    “Maybe I just want to spend some time with my girl.”
    “Is that what I am, Tomasetti?” I say the words in an offhand manner intended to lighten the conversation.
    “You’re my best friend.”
    Somehow the exchange has turned too serious, too personal. I try to think of some flippant response that will make us laugh and move the conversation back on solid ground, but I’m too moved to speak. All I can think is that if I do and he hears the emotion in my voice, he’ll know something about me I don’t want to share.
    “In case you’re wondering,” he says easily, “that was a favorable observation with regard to our relationship.”
    “I know.”
    “I thought you might want to say something reciprocal, like ‘you’re my best friend, too.’”
    “You are. I hope you know that.”
    “I do now.” He pauses. “I’m taking some vacation time. I