Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

pond, a family of red-winged blackbirds swoop across the water’s surface and chatter from within the branches of the cottonwood tree.
    Kneeling at the cooler, Tomasetti raises his brow at the plastic wine glasses. “You came prepared.”
    That couldn’t be farther from the truth; I’m not prepared for any of this. Being here with him is like stepping into deep water when I’ve barely learned to swim. I don’t want to choke, but I desperately want to explore the depths of this man and the relationship we’re building.
    He uses the corkscrew to open the bottle. “We’ll just let that breathe.”
    “I like your new place,” I tell him.
    “A little different from the loft in Cleveland.”
    “More wildlife.”
    “Or less, depending on your definition of wildlife.”
    He’s got paint on his shirt. A smear of white on the front of his jeans. It makes me smile. “I like the new look.”
    He grins. “That’s what all the female chiefs of police say.”
    “You look happy,” I say. “I like it.”
    He’s staring at me, assessing, weighing, as if he knows something’s different about me, too, and he’s trying to figure out what it is. The air between us is charged, and I’m left with the sense that we’re dancing around some white elephant I should see, but can’t. So much of our relationship has taken place during the hardship and stress of whatever case we’re working on. Our pasts are always in the backs of our minds. So much of where we are now is derived from dark times. Being here with him, like this, is new ground that feels crumbly and uncertain beneath my feet.
    I suppose I’ve always used my job—our work—as a buffer between us. I’ve used it as an excuse to see him. To spend time with him. Tonight, I can’t fall back on that comfortable old ground, and there’s a part of me that’s terrified he’ll know I’m here because I couldn’t stay away.
    “You’re thinking way too hard about something,” he says.
    I laugh self-consciously. “I probably am.”
    “Well, cut it out.” He shoves the lawn chair toward me. “We need one more bass, Chief. Then we’ll go inside and fry them up.”
    “I didn’t see a stove in that kitchen.”
    “I’ve got a Coleman and cast-iron skillet in the Tahoe.”
    I don’t take the chair. I stand there like an idiot, staring at him, trying to put my thoughts and the things that I’m feeling into some kind of meaningful order.
    “Kate…”
    Before realizing I’m going to move, I’m crossing the distance between us. I hear my boots scuff against the wood planks. The red-winged blackbirds calling. The next thing I know my body is flush against his. He’s lean and solid and warm against me. Somehow my arms find their way around his neck and then I’m pulling his mouth down to mine.
    The force of the kiss sinks into me and goes deep. His lips are firm and moist. I take in the sweetness of his breath. When I open my mouth he’s ready. His tongue intertwines with mine and for a moment I can’t get enough. Vaguely, I’m aware of his essence surrounding me. His hands restless on my back. His breaths in my ear.
    The sound of something scraping across the wood surface of the dock draws me from my fugue. I glance down to see his fishing pole clatter across the planks. It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.
    “I think you’ve got a bite,” I whisper.
    “Shit.” Tomasetti lunges away from me, snatches the pole off the dock, and begins to reel. “I think this might be the big one,” he says.
    “That’s what all you guys say.”
    He casts me a look, but I see the grin in his eyes. For several minutes he pulls back on the pole and reels in the slack. I watch the line skim through the water as the fish on the other end fights.
    “Gotta be a bass,” he tells me. “They usually put up a pretty good fight.”
    I see a flash of silver beneath the water’s surface, then the fish is out. Tomasetti was right; it’s a bass, probably weighing in at six or seven pounds.
    He kneels, grasps the fish in his right hand, and works the barbed hook from its mouth with the other. “I almost hate to eat this guy.”
    “Toss him back.” When he frowns at me, I add. “He’ll spawn. Breed more fighters.”
    Holding the fish in both hands, he bends close to the water’s surface and lets it go. “We’re going to have to make do with the three I’ve caught, and they’re kind of scrawny.”
    “We have grapes and cheese,” I tell