Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

most of it himself.
    Later, as we stood on the front porch, looking out over the land, he kissed me. I lost half of my clothes before we made it through the door and onto the cot he’d rented, laughing because it was too small for two people. We made love twice, somehow ending up on the floor, tangled in his sleeping bag. Afterward, I lay against him, my head on his shoulder, my leg thrown over his, and we dozed.
    I should be tired, but I’m not. I’ve never partaken in illicit drugs, but I feel high, a warm and pleasant buzz that hums through my body and mind like music. I know it’s stupid, but I’m only twenty minutes from the farm and already I miss him. I miss him so much my chest hurts and I want to turn around and go back. I know at some point I’ll have to come back to earth. Back to the realities of the Borntrager case and the secrets of my past that have returned to haunt me. I know it will probably be a hard landing when I do.
    I’m ten minutes out of Painters Mill, doing fifty-five miles per hour with my window down and humming along to an old Sting tune when the truth of what I’ve let happen hits me. Abruptly, all the breath leaches from my lungs. I’ve never had an anxiety attack, but I’m pretty sure one has me in its grip. Tugging at the collar of my uniform, feeling as if I can’t get enough air into my lungs, I pull off the road and onto the shoulder, braking so hard the tires skid in the gravel and the Explorer goes sideways. Then I’m out the door, cool air on my face. I stumble to the front of the Explorer, breaths ripping from my throat. I set my hand against the hood, concentrate on the warm steel against my palm.
    I’ve always fancied myself immune to the craziness that sometimes accompanies intense emotional entanglements. The kind that makes smart people lose perspective and do foolish things. I was always above it and too cautious to give up too much of myself to someone else. Love was some intangible frailty to which I was not predisposed. Now, standing on a deserted road in the middle of the night and in the throes of a panic attack, it shocks me to realize I was wrong.
    The problem is, I like my life the way it is: even keel. I own my emotions. I call the shots. I don’t have to rely on anyone else or, God forbid, be responsible for someone else’s happiness. All I have to worry about is me—and I’m an easy keeper.
    For a full minute, I concentrate on getting oxygen into my lungs. Slowly, my surroundings come back into focus. The trill of the crickets from the woods. The hoot of an owl from the abandoned barn across the road. A dog barking in the distance. When I can breathe again, I push away from the Explorer and stand there, trying to figure out how to handle this new and uneasy situation. And I realize I’ve been lying to myself all along. I can no longer deny what I’ve allowed to happen. I’m going to have to face it. Deal with it. I’m going to have to decide where I stand and if I want to move forward. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve let myself fall in love with John Tomasetti and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do about it.
    *   *   *
    At 2:30 A.M. , I radio T.J., who’s on graveyard, and let him know I’m on my way to relieve him from surveillance duty at the Borntrager farm.
    “Didn’t mean to wake you,” I begin.
    “I wasn’t—” Realizing I’m ribbing him, he laughs. “You’re up late tonight, Chief.”
    “I got some rest earlier,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way to the Borntrager farm. You can head out, finish your shift. Thanks for covering.”
    “No problem,” he says. “Place was quiet all evening.”
    “That’s the way we like it.”
    He pauses. “You expecting trouble?”
    “I’m probably being overly cautious.”
    “Let me know if you need anything.”
    Our vehicles pass where the dirt road Ts at the highway, and we flash our headlights in greeting. A minute later, I park the Explorer on the gravel turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager farm.
    I open the window a few inches, punch off the headlights, and kill the engine. A chorus of crickets, frogs, and peepers from the swampy area at the edge of the woods encroaches. It’s a clear, crisp night; I can see the Big Dipper through the treetops to the west. My police radio is quiet, which is normal for Holmes County this time of night. Sliding my seat back for some extra legroom, I settle in for a wait.
    In the