Read Online Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel by Linda Castillo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Castillo
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begins.
“The old farmhouse, on acreage?” An alarm begins to wail in the back of my head. A few months ago, I consulted on a case for the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. Several Amish teens had disappeared during their rumspringas. During that investigation he told me about a farmhouse he was thinking about buying, and then shocked the hell out of me by asking me to move in with him. I panicked and waffled and basically handled the situation badly, giving him a slew of mixed signals instead of the straightforward answer he deserved.
It was a cowardly response, but I’d felt waylaid and unprepared. He was astute enough to give me an out, but I knew the issue would resurface. He isn’t the kind of man to give up, after all, especially when he wants something. I’m going to have to figure out how I feel about the prospect of moving in with him and give him a definitive answer, whether it’s the one he wants to hear or not.
“I bought it,” he tells me. “I closed last month.”
I stare at him, aware that I’ve broken a sweat. The bottle of beer feels like an icicle in my hand, the cold emanating up my arm and into my shoulder.
“Congratulations,” I manage.
“The place needs work, so I took some time off. New kitchen. Painting. Floors need refinishing.”
Discomfort climbs over me, a big, lumbering beast that presses down with the weight of a house. I don’t know how to react to this. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. I look away, take a long drink of beer.
“If you’re game, I’d like to show it to you.”
I meet his gaze to find his eyes already on me. He’s looking at me as if I’m a math problem that has unexpectedly perplexed him. “Sure.”
“I promise not to tie you to a chair and keep you as my sex slave.”
I laugh outright and some of the discomfort sloughs off. “Are you thinking about moving in?”
“When it’s ready.”
“What about the commute?”
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive from my office in Richfield.” His eyes burn into mine. “Half an hour from Painters Mill.”
“Convenient.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to move in with me again.” Studying me, he takes a long pull of beer. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“I’m not sure what I want. I think that’s part of the problem.” I set down my beer, look down at the tabletop. “Tomasetti, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He laughs. It’s not the response I expected. When I look at him I see something a little too close to sympathy reflecting back at me.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to commit and you’re trying not to break my heart.”
“That’s not exactly what’s going on here.”
“Feel free to jump in and correct me at any time.”
“I’m still trying to figure this out, okay? I don’t want to screw things up.”
“You can’t.”
“Believe me. I can. Tomasetti, I could screw up a funeral.”
“Kate, I appreciate your handling me with kid gloves. But I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
We stare at each other. My heart is pounding. I wish I could read him, wish I knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, but his expression is inscrutable. “Moving in with you would be a huge step for me. A big change. I need some time to think about it.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” He contemplates me. “Come by the farm for dinner tomorrow. I’ll grill steaks if you bring the wine.”
“Steaks and wine.” I smile. “That sounds serious.”
“As serious as you want it to be.”
He surprises me by scooting his chair back and rising. I feel my eyes widen as he steps toward me, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet. “Maybe we ought to sleep on it.” He pulls me to him.
My arms find their way around his neck. “I have an early day,” I whisper, but there’s no enthusiasm behind the words.
“Me, too.”
When he kisses me, the doubt falls
“The old farmhouse, on acreage?” An alarm begins to wail in the back of my head. A few months ago, I consulted on a case for the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. Several Amish teens had disappeared during their rumspringas. During that investigation he told me about a farmhouse he was thinking about buying, and then shocked the hell out of me by asking me to move in with him. I panicked and waffled and basically handled the situation badly, giving him a slew of mixed signals instead of the straightforward answer he deserved.
It was a cowardly response, but I’d felt waylaid and unprepared. He was astute enough to give me an out, but I knew the issue would resurface. He isn’t the kind of man to give up, after all, especially when he wants something. I’m going to have to figure out how I feel about the prospect of moving in with him and give him a definitive answer, whether it’s the one he wants to hear or not.
“I bought it,” he tells me. “I closed last month.”
I stare at him, aware that I’ve broken a sweat. The bottle of beer feels like an icicle in my hand, the cold emanating up my arm and into my shoulder.
“Congratulations,” I manage.
“The place needs work, so I took some time off. New kitchen. Painting. Floors need refinishing.”
Discomfort climbs over me, a big, lumbering beast that presses down with the weight of a house. I don’t know how to react to this. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. I look away, take a long drink of beer.
“If you’re game, I’d like to show it to you.”
I meet his gaze to find his eyes already on me. He’s looking at me as if I’m a math problem that has unexpectedly perplexed him. “Sure.”
“I promise not to tie you to a chair and keep you as my sex slave.”
I laugh outright and some of the discomfort sloughs off. “Are you thinking about moving in?”
“When it’s ready.”
“What about the commute?”
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive from my office in Richfield.” His eyes burn into mine. “Half an hour from Painters Mill.”
“Convenient.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to move in with me again.” Studying me, he takes a long pull of beer. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“I’m not sure what I want. I think that’s part of the problem.” I set down my beer, look down at the tabletop. “Tomasetti, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He laughs. It’s not the response I expected. When I look at him I see something a little too close to sympathy reflecting back at me.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to commit and you’re trying not to break my heart.”
“That’s not exactly what’s going on here.”
“Feel free to jump in and correct me at any time.”
“I’m still trying to figure this out, okay? I don’t want to screw things up.”
“You can’t.”
“Believe me. I can. Tomasetti, I could screw up a funeral.”
“Kate, I appreciate your handling me with kid gloves. But I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
We stare at each other. My heart is pounding. I wish I could read him, wish I knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, but his expression is inscrutable. “Moving in with you would be a huge step for me. A big change. I need some time to think about it.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” He contemplates me. “Come by the farm for dinner tomorrow. I’ll grill steaks if you bring the wine.”
“Steaks and wine.” I smile. “That sounds serious.”
“As serious as you want it to be.”
He surprises me by scooting his chair back and rising. I feel my eyes widen as he steps toward me, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet. “Maybe we ought to sleep on it.” He pulls me to him.
My arms find their way around his neck. “I have an early day,” I whisper, but there’s no enthusiasm behind the words.
“Me, too.”
When he kisses me, the doubt falls
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