Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

but it’s going to take a while.”
    “We’re relatively certain we’re dealing with a Ford F-250. I wonder if we should take both pieces to Ford? Or a local dealership?
    “Since it was an after-market part, a Ford guy probably isn’t going to be much help.”
    “Shit, Mike, you’re just full of positive offerings this evening.”
    “Yeah, well, I try.”
    For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, but I sense our minds working over everything we know about the case so far and how little we have to work with in terms of solid facts. “Will you do me a favor?” I ask.
    “Well, since I owe you now…”
    “Will you have one of your guys take that bolt to someone who knows about after-market parts? Someone who might recognize it? Maybe that custom hot-rod shop in Millersburg?”
    “Worth a shot.”
    I thank him and disconnect, then sit there for a moment, the exchange running through my head like a bad script. My stomach growls, reminding me the most nutritious substance I’ve put in my stomach all day is coffee.
    “Damn it,” I mutter and look down at the phone.
    I want to call Tomasetti and run all of this past him, but I hesitate. Only then do I realize that, while I have been busy with the case, my reasons for avoiding him are a lot more complex than I’m admitting, even to myself. The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid he’s going to ask me to move in with him again—and I don’t know how to answer. I hate it that I haven’t been honest. Not with him—or myself. I need to sort out my feelings and make a decision. He deserves an answer, and I owe it to myself to give it to him, no matter where we go from here.

 
    CHAPTER 16
    I make a stop at the grocery and buy a bottle of my favorite cabernet, a bunch of grapes, some crusty French bread, cheese, and a corkscrew bottle opener. I tuck everything into a grocery bag and makes tracks toward Wooster. It takes me twenty minutes to find Tomasetti’s new place. I get lost twice and end up having to call my dispatcher for a quick Google map search. I could have called Tomasetti, but somewhere along the way realized I wanted to surprise him.
    Dusk falls in Impressionist hues of lavender and gray. I’m so intent on the peaceful beauty of the countryside, I nearly miss my turn and have to make a hard stop. The rust-bucket mailbox has been bashed in, but the number is still legible, so I turn in. The canopies of the massive elm trees arc over the lane, lending the illusion of driving through a lush, green cave.
    Despite my earlier hesitancy, a sense of anticipation keeps pace with me as I barrel toward the house. I think about the man waiting for me and I suddenly can’t wait to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh at something I shouldn’t. For a little while I want to forget about this case. I want to forget about the discovery of Lapp’s remains.
    The old Victorian sits at the end of the lane looking lost and out of place, like some B-movie actor who knows, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never master the part to which he’s been cast. In an instant, I take in the wraparound porch, the tall, narrow windows, and the crisp white paint. Huge shade trees hulk on every side of the house. Behind it, a rusty silo that had once been painted silver and a tumbling-down barn watch over the place with mournful, longing eyes.
    Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked adjacent a one-car detached garage. I can tell by the way the overhead door lists that it’s not functional. I get out of the Explorer and I’m met by a dissonance of birdsong: blue jays and cardinals and the occasional caw of a crow. The breeze smells of cut grass and the honeysuckle that grows wild on the barbed wire fence behind a small chicken coop. I stand there, taking in the disarray, and all I can think is that this world I’ve stepped into is completely incongruous with the man I’ve come to know.
    I take the crumbling sidewalk to the back porch. The door stands ajar, but the screen door is closed. I hear the crackle of a radio beyond. The smells of fresh paint and new wood waft through the screen. Using my knuckles, I rap on the door and wait, incredulous because my heart is pounding and there’s a small, insecure part of me that’s terrified he won’t come.
    A full minute passes. Thinking he might be upstairs, I use my key chain and knock harder. “Tomasetti?”
    When that doesn’t draw his attention, I push open the door. The hinges squeak