Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

blue dress with a black apron. Her blond hair is pulled back and tucked into her kapp. She looks the same as the last time I saw her, pretty and plain, with an air of contentment I never seemed to find. Despite the reason for my visit, the sight of my niece in her arms makes me smile. The baby is swaddled in a blanket, a fat bundle of pink skin, colorless hair, and a bow mouth covered with spittle. Eyes the same color as mine stare back at me from within that round, perfect face.
    “Katie! Hello!”
    I look away from the baby. My sister seems genuinely pleased to see me. But I don’t miss the exaggerated enthusiasm of her voice, or the way her eyes flick toward the barn as if she’s concerned that William will notice my vehicle and come inside to scowl at me. While she may be happy to see me, she wants me in and out quickly, before he can pass judgment on both of us.
    “Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil.” Sit down and stay a while. She speaks rapidly in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?
    “Nee, denki,” I tell her. “I can’t stay.”
    She feigns disappointment, but she can’t hide the relief I see in the way her shoulders relax. I tell myself these games we play don’t hurt. I know her husband is a large part of the reason she doesn’t enjoy my company. But a keen sense of regret unfurls in my gut as I watch her flit around the kitchen with her child in her arms, trying desperately to find something to do so she doesn’t have to sit down and talk to me.
    “Witt du wennich kaffi?” she asks.
    “Coffee would be great.”
    “Millich? It’s fresh from this morning.”
    “Sure.”
    I sit at the kitchen table and watch as she sets to work, pouring water from the tap into an old-fashioned percolator with one hand, holding the baby with the other. “How old is she now?” I ask.
    “Nineteen months.”
    “Hard to believe that much time has passed.”
    “You mean without a visit from her aunt?” She asks the question teasingly, but there’s censure in her voice.
    I sigh. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve been…” My response is lame, so I let the words trail.
    She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles kindly. “William doesn’t help.”
    When the coffee is made and milk added to my cup, she crosses to the table and sets a steaming mug in front of me. I sip while she takes the chair across from me, cooing to the baby. “Is everything all right, Katie? You look … troubled.”
    “The police found Daniel Lapp’s remains,” I tell her.
    Sarah goes still. “What?” Her eyes fly to mine. “You mean … in the grain elevator?”
    I nod.
    “But … how? I thought … I mean, Datt and Jacob buried … everything.”
    “Two kids playing in the boot pit found the bones. The parents called the police.”
    “Oh no.” For a moment she looks physically ill. I see her trying to digest the information, work her way through the repercussions. “What does this mean, Katie? Are we going to get into trouble?”
    “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her.
    “What about you?”
    “I don’t think the police will be able to identify the remains.” I pause. “Someone from the sheriff’s office will probably come and talk to you.”
    “Me?” Her eyes widen. “But why?”
    I tell her the same thing I told Jacob. “Daniel’s brother, Benjamin, will tell them the last place Daniel was seen was our farm. That he’d come over to bale hay that morning.”
    She looks down at her baby, but her mind is no longer on the child. “What do I tell them?”
    “Same thing you told them when he initially disappeared. You were in town, selling bread, remember?” That much, at least, is true. “Tell them you think Daniel was helping bale hay, but you don’t remember seeing him. That’s all you have to say.”
    “Katie, I don’t want to speak with anyone. I don’t want to lie to the police.”
    “You don’t have a choice. If they come, you have to talk to them. You have to be consistent. You can’t tell them what happened.”
    “How will I explain all of this to William?” she whispers furiously, as if her husband is standing at the back door, listening. “He knows nothing of this.”
    “Tell him the same thing you tell the police. Keep it simple. Stick to your story.” I feel like a hypocrite—or worse, a crooked cop—saying those words. How many criminals, in an effort to conceal their crimes, have said the very same thing?
    “I