Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

cars.”
    “You mean like headlights?”
    “Ja.”
    “What color were they?” I ask him to specify to make sure he’s not confusing headlights with the emergency lights afterward.
    “White.”
    Many traffic accident victims that sustain head injuries don’t recall the minutes, hours, or even days before or after the event. That David remembers seeing headlights could be significant.
    “What else can you tell me about the lights?”
    “There were two of them and they were bright.”
    I smile. “You have a good memory.”
    “That’s what Datt always says.” His expression is so sweet I want to pull him out of the bed and hug him to me.
    “Did you see the vehicle that hit the buggy?” I ask gently.
    He looks away from me to stare out the window, his expression troubled. His fingers scratch absently at the cast. “No. Just lights.”
    “So you didn’t notice the color? Or if it was a car or truck? Anything like that?”
    “No.”
    “Did you see any people?”
    “No.” He glances at Mattie, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to crawl out of the bed to get away from me and my questions. “ Mamm, did I do something wrong?”
    The words go right through me, as sharp and hurtful as any blade. “No, honey. You did great.” I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
    Then Mattie is next to the bed, bending and pulling him to her. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. Katie is a policeman and it’s her job to ask questions.”
    Feeling like an ogre, I rise and go to the window. I listen as Mattie coos to him, calming his fears. I try to remember if my own mamm ever did that for me and I can’t.
    A child’s heart is a tender thing that never forgets. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose a family member at such a formative age. When you’re Amish, your family is the center of your universe. Jacob and Sarah had been my best friends, my confidantes—and partners in crime. I didn’t have a perfect childhood, but I consider myself lucky to have had those few magical years.
    I turn from the window and address Mattie. “Will you let me know if you need anything?”
    She pulls away from her son and crosses to me. “Thank you, Katie, but we are fine.”
    I feel myself stiffen when she embraces me. I close my eyes against the rush of emotion. For her. For the boy. For everything they’ve lost. For what I lost somewhere along the way.
    I pull away first. Her hands slide down my arms and she eases me to arm’s length. Her gaze finds mine and for the span of several heartbeats our eyes hold.
    “Gott segen eich,” she whispers. God bless you.
    I turn away without responding.

 
    CHAPTER 12
    I arrive home to a dark house that smells of coffee and stale air. I go directly to my bedroom, removing my holster as I go and dropping it along with my .38 on the night table. My shirt finds its place on the floor. I step out of my trousers, toss them on the bed. Boots are kicked into the closet. In the dresser, I find a pair of ratty sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt and put them on.
    The evening is cool, so I spend a few minutes walking the house, opening windows to let in some fresh air. I startle when I spot the orange tabby sitting on the brick sill outside the kitchen window, looking at me expectantly. He’s a stray that’s been coming around for months now. I’m no cat person, and this particular feline is neither pleasant to be around nor pleasing to the eye. But he’s a survivor and he’s loyal, two traits that usher me past the old battle scars and nasty personality.
    When he mewls, I walk to the pantry and snag the bag of dry food I keep on the shelf in the back. I find his bowl in the sink strainer, fill it, and push open the screen. “You know you eat better than I do, don’t you?”
    I hear him purring as I set the bowl on the sill.
    I’m standing at the refrigerator with the door open, hoping I can find something edible inside, when a tap at the back door startles me. I spin, my hand going automatically to where my .38 usually rests. Then I spot the familiar figure through the window and the stress of the day falls away.
    I walk to the door, swing it open, and smile at Tomasetti. “You know you’re on the verge of becoming predictable, don’t you?”
    “What can I say, Kate? I’ve got an addictive personality, and at the moment you’re at the top of my most-wanted list.”
    “You’re putting it out there this evening, aren’t you?”
    “Or