Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

knit. “Why are you asking me that?”
    “Both of you were here? All night?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mrs. Kuhns, did you ever have any kind of disagreement or dispute with Mattie or Paul?”
    “Of course not. I told you. I barely knew them. How can you have a dispute with someone you don’t even know?”
    “What about your husband? Did he ever have any kind of argument or disagreement with them?”
    “No.” She looks from me to her husband, as if she’s the only one in the room who didn’t get the punch line of some joke. “What’s going on here?”
    “These questions are just routine. We’re exploring all sources of information. Thank you for your time,” I tell her. “We’ll see ourselves out.” Glock and I start toward the front door. I feel her eyes on my back as we traverse the living area.
    “You think he’s going to come clean?” Glock asks when we’re outside.
    “I don’t think he has a choice.”

 
    CHAPTER 21
    Solving a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. The kind that has a thousand infinitesimal pieces, some of which are missing, damaged, or false. Initially, none of those pieces seem to have a place in the big picture. They’re the wrong color or shape or size. It’s my job to persevere and figure out which ones to toss aside, which ones to keep. One excruciating piece at a time, an image will emerge.
    After leaving the Kuhns’ place, I drop Glock at the station and start for home to grab a shower and then head to Wooster to see Tomasetti. Somewhere between the station and my house, I change my mind. I blame the case, of course. Work is an acceptable excuse—especially when you’re a cop—and one he’s obliged to understand. The problem is, it’s a lie.
    John Tomasetti is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know I’m risking this thing we’ve created between us. But some small, self-destructive part of me won’t let me reach out. Perhaps the same part that won’t let me partake in the happiness that’s within my grasp for the first time in my adult life.
    It’s 10:00 P.M. and once again I’m behind the wheel of my Explorer, camped out at the dead-end turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager lane. The light inside the house went dark half an hour ago. Nothing has moved since. Not a single vehicle or buggy has been on the road, not even to turn around. I don’t think anyone is going to show up, but sitting here is better than going home to face an empty house and my own uneasy thoughts.
    My mind is on Mattie tonight. Oddly, the things I’m dwelling on have little to do with the case and everything to do with the past that built us into the women we are today. I wonder where her thoughts have taken her tonight. Is she agonizing over the deaths of her husband and children? Is she thinking about the words between us? Wondering if Wayne Kuhns did something unforgivable? Blaming herself for not handling the situation differently? Is she as troubled as me?
    At ten-thirty, I call Tomasetti.
    “I take it you’re not going to make it,” he says without preamble.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize. You’re exactly where you want to be and that’s the way it should be.”
    Something in his voice scrapes at my conscience. Makes me feel callous and self-centered. I tell him about Wayne Kuhns.
    “Are you watching her place now?” he asks.
    “I thought I’d camp out for a couple of hours.”
    “You sure you’re not hiding out?” he asks after a moment. “From me?” From us?
    He doesn’t have to say the words; we’re both thinking them. “I could be.”
    “You know, Kate, sooner or later we’re going to have to deal with this white elephant that’s been hanging out with us for the last few months.”
    My initial impulse is to tell him I don’t know what he means, but the response would be disingenuous. I’m well acquainted with the white elephant he’s referring to, and while it’s the one subject I don’t want to broach, I owe it to him—to myself—to be honest. If only that weren’t so damn hard.
    “Do you want me to spell it out for you?” he asks. “Clear the air?”
    His tone reveals no anger. But his frustration with me comes through the line as clearly as if he’d shouted the words. “You don’t have to spell it out.”
    “One of us has to, or things are going to stay the same until one of us gets sick of it.”
    I bite back the urge to snap at him for bringing up our personal relationship when