Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

as I step inside. The kitchen has been gutted down to the drywall and subflooring. A radio is set up on a five-gallon bucket and The Wallflowers blare “One Headlight.” A wide doorway to my right beckons, so I take it to a good-size living room. Three of the walls are painted an attractive dark tan. A stepladder stands next to a tall window. Plastic drop cloths cover hardwood floors the color of semisweet chocolate. I turn in a slow circle, spot the massive hearth behind me, and find myself smiling.
    “Tomasetti?”
    The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.
    I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-deco–style bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.
    “Tomasetti!” I call out.
    No answer.
    “Well, shit.” Still lugging the grocery bag, I go down the steps, through the kitchen, and back outside. The doors of the barn and silo are closed, telling me he’s not there. I stroll to the Explorer and look out over the pasture beyond. I’m about to reach through the window and lay on the horn when I spot the pond. It’s a good-size body of water—at least half an acre. A big cottonwood tree demarks the north side. A stand of weeping willows flourish near the shore to the west. I see some type of dock from where I stand and I’m pretty sure the person sitting on that dock is Tomasetti.
    Hefting the grocery bag, I start toward the nearest gate, careful to close it behind me in case he inherited cattle with the place, and I follow a dirt two-track to the pond. From fifty feet away, I see Tomasetti slumped in a lawn chair with his feet stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing blue jeans, navy golf shirt, and sneakers—a far cry from his usual custom-made suits and Hermes ties. Next to him, a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red sweats atop a good-size cooler.
    I make it to within twenty feet of him before he hears my approach and glances my way. His usual inscrutable expression shifts, and it delights me to see surprise on his face. He’s not an easy man to surprise. Smiling, he rises and faces me. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, contemplating, finding our feet, and the rest of the world falls away. After a moment, I look around and spot the fishing pole lying on the dock, the clear nylon line running into the water.
    “Tomasetti, are you fishing ?” I ask.
    He bends and opens the cooler. I’m expecting him to hand me a Killian’s Red. Instead, the cooler is filled with water and three good-size fish, which are swimming around. “I’m catching dinner, actually.”
    “Are those largemouth bass?” I ask.
    “You know your fish. I’m impressed.”
    “My datt used to take me fishing when I was a kid.”
    “Who knew? I could have used some pointers early on.”
    “Looks like you figured things out.”
    He replaces the cover and straightens.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night,” I say a little too abruptly.
    “You’re here now.” He unfolds a second lawn chair and sets it next to his. “How’s the case coming along?”
    “Still looking for the driver.”
    “Anything new on those bones?”
    That’s when I realize one of the reasons I’m here is to escape the pressures of my job. I know it’s shortsighted; not only does Tomasetti usually offer pretty good insight and advice, but I’m well aware that the weight of both cases will drop back onto my shoulders when I leave. But I don’t want tonight to be about work. I want it to be about us and this short stretch of time between us.
    “Let’s not talk about work,” I tell him.
    He tilts his head, puzzled, and then shrugs. “We could just sit here and fish.”
    I look down at the bag I’m holding. “I brought wine.”
    He takes the bag, peeks into it. “You want to go inside?”
    From where I’m standing, I can smell the foliage and the water on the breeze. I can hear the buzz of insects and the coo of a mourning dove. “I kind of like it out here, Tomasetti. If you don’t mind.”
    “I don’t mind.” He sets the bag atop the cooler and proceeds to set out the things I bought. Wine. Grapes. The cheese and bread. On the other side of the