The Last Breath (9 page)

But saving a life is not the only way to rescue a person. Sometimes the only thing left to do is make peace.

Suddenly, I know what I have to do. I grab my tattered messenger bag, my coat and my keys and go to the door. “Dad, I’m leaving now.”

His eyes are closed, his breathing steady. If he hears me, he doesn’t respond.

“But I’ll be back.”

And even if it means slipping them a roofie and dragging them in chains, I’ll be back with Lexi and Bo.

* * *

The reporter comes out of nowhere, a short, weasely-looking guy with squinty eyes, twenty feet or so before I reach my car. A bored cameraman hovers on the driveway behind him. I’ve been interviewed enough to know what that blinking red light beside his camera lens means. It means I give them both my best no-comment face and pick up the pace to my car.

One of them yells to get my attention. “Ms. Andrews!”

The protesters are lined up by the road like a row of tobacco plants, a pack of unabashed rubberneckers at the scene of an accident.

But I’m not about to become anyone’s victim.

“Ms. Andrews!” This from the reporter, who is now jogging alongside me, close enough to shove his microphone in my face. “What do you think about your father’s release from prison?”

Seriously? He risks trespassing on private property, and that’s the best he can do? I answer with an eye roll only he can see.

“The D.A.’s office claims to have new evidence. Were you aware of an affair?”

That almost stops me. Almost. No way Dad was sleeping with anyone but Ella Mae. I may have been eighteen and self-absorbed at the time, but an affair I would have noticed.

“Is that why he murdered Ella Mae? Because she was leaving him for another man?”

I scramble into the rental, strategically swinging my head so my curls block the cameraman’s view of my face, which must register shock. Ella Mae was the one having an affair? A whisper somewhere deep in my gut says not to dismiss the possibility.

I throw my car into Reverse and hurl it backward, scattering the protesters at the end of the driveway, not without glee. As I’m shifting into Drive, my gaze slides to the left and lands on Tanya, the Light of Deliverance frump, silent and still as a statue in the middle of the road, her expression this side of smug. She holds up a homemade poster: Guilty as Sin, Lock Him Back In in angry black letters.

The nicest thing I can say about it is at least she can rhyme.

I punch the gas and peel away.

“Motherfucker!” I scream into my empty car, searching for the recipient of my curse in my rearview mirror. By now Tanya has rejoined the group and I can’t pick her out, but I still know she’s there. And with any luck, she heard me. “Motherfucking fucker!”

My back tire slides off the asphalt and spins in the dirt and grass at the edge of Mr. Wheeler’s lot, and I snap my gaze back onto the road. I jerk on the wheel and swerve, straightening. And then I floor the gas and fly up the hill a little faster, to Bo and Lexi and anywhere but here.

10

I ROAR IN
my rental up Lincoln Street, along the edge of Eastman Chemical Company, a maze of more than nine hundred acres straddling Kingsport’s Holston River. To my left, a messy row of smokestacks pokes up beyond the plant’s corroded shop buildings and twisted metal pipeline.

The business center is a massive building of brick and glass and one of the few I don’t need a pass to enter. I park my car and sprint across the lot, hiking up my coat collar against an icy mist. I burst into the lobby and shake the moisture off my hair and skin.

A row of uniformed personnel sits behind sleek computer screens at an information desk. One of the employees, a woman with eighties’ hair and an impressive under chin, does a double take when she catches sight of me.

“I need to see Bo Andrews right away,” I tell her. “It’s a family emergency.”

Her wooly brows dip in a frown. “Oh, my.”

“Exactly.” I thunk both hands on the marble countertop and lean in, trying to keep the duh from my tone. “Which is why I need to see him. Can you tell me where to find him?”

The woman shakes her head, cheeks quivering in time with the wattle under her chin. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. All visitors must be approved beforehand by the head of the department. What department does your brother work in?”

I lift a damp shoulder. “He’s working on some kind of supermascara. That’s all I know.”

“Research, maybe?” When I don’t immediately nod, she reaches for her mouse. “Let’s just look him up, shall we?” She clicks around on her computer screen.

I plunk both palms onto the shiny marble counter, a fresh surge of urgency rolling up my chest, and check the name on the woman’s plastic name tag. “Look, Ms. Greer, I’m in a bit of a hurry here. How long will this process take?”

Her hand stills, and she looks up from her screen. “Well, assuming I can reach the head of your brother’s department, get you the proper paperwork and an escort, it shouldn’t be much longer than an hour or two.”

My eyes bulge. “Two hours?”

“At the most.”

I chew my lip and consider my options. If this woman alerts the head of Bo’s department, there’s a good chance she’ll also be alerting Bo, giving him up to two hours to burrow farther underground. He’d be halfway across Virginia by the time I got through the gate. No, knowing my brother, my best course of action is still an ambush. A quick ambush and a teeny-weeny white lie.

I point to the woman’s fancy desk phone. “Can that thing call my brother’s extension?”

“Of course.” She presses a few keys on her computer keyboard, punches the number into the phone and hands me the receiver. Two rings later and bingo.

“Bo Andrews speaking.”

“Bo, it’s Gia.”

“Gia? What...? Where...?”

“Listen up, because here’s how this visit is going to go. You can either wait for me there, surrounded by all your friends and colleagues, or—”

“You can’t get in without a pass.” There’s an unmistakable tone of relief in his voice, but buried underneath a heaping helping of satisfaction and big-brother mockery.

His taunting feeds an easy fib. “Got one, as well as the lovely Ms. Greer, who’s about to escort me over there.” Bo squeaks, and I swallow down a serves-you-right victory call. “So you can either sit tight and wait for me to come to you, or you can get your sorry ass out to the business center—”

“Building 280,” my fictitious escort interrupts, not uneagerly.

I thank her with a quick smile. “—to building 280. Your choice.”

“But I’m clear across the plant!”

“Then you better hurry, because you’ve got five minutes—” I check the time on my cell “—starting now. I’ll meet you at the door.”

I drop the receiver into the cradle before he can form a reply. “Thanks for your help,” I say to Ms. Greer.

Now, finally, she gives me a smile, a real smile, not one she learned in customer service training. “Oh, honey. It was my pleasure.”

* * *

Bo pulls up in his silver Honda Element a little over four minutes later and springs the locks, motioning for me to get in the passenger’s seat. The sight of him through the tinted window, looking so much like the Dad I remember, the Dad before the trial, before this morning, flips a bittersweet loop in my stomach. Same straight brown hair, same square forehead, same thin lips that would sooner set in a solemn scrunch than a smile.

And right now, Bo’s scrunch is aimed at me.

“What the hell?” he says before I’m halfway in the car.

“I got pissed, that’s what.” I slam the door, twist in the seat to face him. “You should’ve called me back.”

He points to my left temple. “I’m talking about your eye.”

My fingers fly to the spot, prodding into too spongy skin, and my mouth twists in pain. I flip the visor and check my reflection in the tiny mirror. A lump, angry and mean, pushes up under the arch of my left brow and dips into a bruise, covering the skin around my eye like a puddle of port wine.

“Good Lord. I look like a circus freak.”

“You’d need a biological rarity, like a horn or a tail or a third eye, to qualify you as a circus freak. A simple bruise isn’t going to do it.”

His correction is classic Bo. Even sarcasm must be factually accurate.

I flick the visor into place and flop back onto my seat. “Is it too early to start drinking?”

“Yes.” Bo puts the car into Drive and releases the brake, his hands at ten and two. “Put on your seatbelt, please.”

After a bit of discussion we settle on Pal’s, one of a local chain of fast food shacks decorated with a giant plastic burger, hot dog, box of fries and fountain drink on its tiered roof. At the drive-through window, I order all of the above, and Bo asks for a sweet tea. We get our goods and find a spot in the tiny parking lot.

“So can we maybe just start all over?” I say, digging through the bag for a handful of fries. “This time without all the ignoring and threats?”

Bo rests a wrist on the steering wheel, his posture relaxed and unperturbed. “I wasn’t ignoring you, Gi. I’ve just been really swamped with this new pentaerythrityl hydrogenated rosinate we’re working on.”

I try not to roll my eyes and fail. Bo thinks the entire world speaks his lingo. He always has. Even before he figured out how to make baking soda explode or the best ingredients for a smoke bomb, he was always going on and on about mutant turtles or deck graphics or some place called Eternia. The only person in the house who understood him was Dad, especially once he started talking in periodic table. For Lexi and me, our brother might as well be speaking in tongues.

“I know, I know, your mascara is going to change the world. But I hardly see how that matters, in light of what’s going on with Dad. You do know he came home this morning, right?”

Bo sucks on his straw, three giant gulps. “Of course I know. But we’re on a tight deadline and working eighteen-hour days at the lab. Where, I might add, there’s a meeting going on without me right now.”

A familiar jolt of rage at my brother’s self-absorption shoots up my spine. I clench my teeth, my stomach, my fists. “I have a job, too, you know. One that supports almost a half million displaced people. One I took a leave of absence from to come here.”

“What’s your point?”

My answer is loud enough to rattle the windows. “My point is, get your ass over to the house and see Dad.”

“Jesus, calm down. You don’t have to yell. And besides, I plan to.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Frustration fizzes in my veins but fuels my determination. I am not getting out of this car before I’ve extracted a solid promise from Bo.

“Well, how about tonight? I’ll pick up something for dinner.”

Bo inclines his head, manages to look sorry. “The client’s in town with their entire product development team. We’re taking them to Troutdale.”

“Okay, tomorrow morning. Cal’s coming at ten.”

“Tomorrow is Amy’s birthday, and we’re going to the Grove Park Inn. We won’t be home until late Sunday morning.”

Until I met Bo’s wife, a prominent orthodontist’s daughter who’s as petite as she is prim, I thought there couldn’t be a more serious person on the planet than my brother. Amy has him beat by a couple billion brain cells. I can just imagine their afternoon in Asheville now—discussing Native American history, visiting Civil War sites, cataloging local flora and fauna.

But still. I refuse to let myself get sidetracked from my goal. “Sunday afternoon, then.”

“Maybe. Let me talk to Amy.”

A maybe! I grab on to it, sink my teeth. “I’m sure Amy will understand. Sunday will be perfect. I know, why don’t I pick up some—”

“Will you just back off?” Now, finally, Bo loses his neutral expression, as well as his temper. His brows ride down, crashing into a sharp
V,
and he matches my snappish tone, which I imagine must cost him a substantial effort. “I know Dad’s home. I know you and Cal want me there. But I also know our rosinate is still testing as a confirmed irritant and the Bare Beauty guys are breathing down my neck to fix it, and my wife is nagging me to spend time I don’t have with her, so believe me. I’ve got enough guilt as it is. I don’t need any more from you.”

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, but he’s your father, too.”

Bo drags a long inhale over his lungs, blows it out through his mouth and voilà, he’s composed. “I’m perfectly aware he’s my father, and I already told you, I plan to visit as soon as I can find a minute.”

“When?”

“As soon. As I. Can find. A minute.”

Clearly, stubbornness is a family trait.

I soften my voice, my posture, try another tack. “Will you at least promise me you’ll talk to Amy and let me know?”

Bo takes a long pull from his tea, stares straight ahead into the twisted branches of the hedge flush against his front bumper. His mouth twitches around the straw, but he doesn’t answer.

“Please.” I know I’m begging, but I no longer care. “I just need to know I’m not all alone here.”

He twists the key in the ignition, revs the engine and sighs like I’m the one who’s being difficult. “You’re not alone. I’ll talk to Amy and let you know.”

“You’ll let me know tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow,” he repeats.

I relax into the seat. His answer is not the one I came here to get, but I tell myself it’s progress. Progress in the form of promised peace. I loop my arm around his neck and pull him close, sneaking a thank-you kiss onto his cheek before he can shake me off.

But Bo has never been one for physical contact. He swipes a palm over the spot and busies himself with shifting the gear into Reverse and double-and triple-checking his mirrors. “Can I please go back to the lab before I get fired?”

“Of course.”

I reach into the bag for a celebratory burger and rip open the waxy paper wrapping. “Oh, and while we’re on the subject, maybe you could talk to your contacts at Bare Beauty about alternatives to animal testing.”

Bo twists in his seat to look out the back window, his eyes sweeping across mine for only a split second. “Should’ve stopped while you were ahead, Gi.”

11

I JOG UP
the few steps to First Appalachian Bank, an imposing two-story brick building worthy of Rogersville’s Colonial history. A marble plaque to the right of the double doors tells me it’s been here since 1837, and it’s a good thing. That means the structure is sturdy enough to bear my sister’s wrath when I confront her here, at her place of business.

Inside, pairs of cherry desks are organized in shiny clusters, and three teller windows line the far right wall. One of the tellers, a brunette I recognize immediately, sees me and whoops. Missy Parker. Class motormouth and school know-it-all, now sixteen years older and sixty pounds heavier.

“Gia Andrews! I heard you were in town. Oh, my goodness, you look exactly the same.” She giggles into a pudgy hand. “Well, except for that black eye. What on earth happened?”

I try to wave it off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine. Is my sister here?”

“She sure is.” Missy crosses her arms and leans on her elbows across the counter. Her posture suggests she’s about to reveal a confidence, her volume loud enough to alert all of Hawkins County. “So d’you hear Scott and I got divorced last year?”

“No, but...what a shame.”

Her strawberry-stained lips push even wider. “Oh, you don’t have to play nice. Everybody in town knows he was a big ol’ horn dog. I suppose the bigger mystery is why nobody thought to tell me.”

“I suppose so. So could you let Lexi know I’m here?”

“Yes, but first I’m gonna tell you what I told her.” Her expression sobers and she clears her throat, straightens her neck and shoulders. “For whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world. And this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith. Who is he that overcometh the world, but he that believeth that Jesus is the Son of God?”

Am I supposed to answer that question?

I look around for the other tellers, who all seem to have disappeared. “That’s...that’s very interesting. Thank you.”

“I’m praying for you both.”

“Thank you. Again. Um, about Lexi...”

Missy starts at the reminder, punches a button on her desk phone. “Oh, good golly. Of course. Silly me.”

She prattles on while over the speaker the phone rings once, twice and then: bingo.

“Lexi speaking.”

Missy grins. “Hey, Lexi. I got you on speakerphone. There’s somebody down here wants to say hi.”

“Hi.” I lean closer to the phone. “And surprise.”

Lexi hesitates, but only for the briefest of seconds. “It sure is a surprise, and a lovely one, too. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Thought maybe I could kidnap you for a bit, take you for a drive.”

“Is that right? Where to?”

I glance at Missy, who’s hanging shamelessly on every word. “Oh, I have a place or two in mind.”

“Well, then. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than take a ride with my favorite sister.” The sincerity lacing her voice almost convinces me she means every word. “Give me ten minutes to finish up here, and then I’ll be right down.”

We disconnect, and I take a seat on a chair by the back wall, too far away to get caught up in Missy’s endless babble. I flip through an old copy of the
Economist
while I wait. And wait. Ten minutes tick by. I wait some more.

I toss down the magazine and stand, making my way across the bank floor back to Missy’s window when I catch a flash of someone in my periphery. Someone curvy and blonde, hurrying in the opposite direction. I blink. Look again. Perfect honey hair, tucked inside a navy wool coat, disappearing out the back door to the lot.

“Lexi?”

The door clicks shut behind her.

I tear through the bank, banging shins and stubbing toes against chairs and desks, and fly down the little hallway after her. The door doesn’t slow me. I shove it open with both hands and search the still lot. A van, some sedans, a lineup of trucks, their windows dark and empty. No Lexi.

An engine cranks at the far end, and seconds later a red sports car peels out, a sunglasses-clad blonde at the wheel. I rush down the concrete stairs and onto the asphalt, sprint up the middle row of the parking lot.

“Lexi!” I wave my hands, trying to get her attention. “Are you shitting me?”

Her car takes a sharp right and disappears up the alley, motor screaming, tires squealing. By the time I reach the edge of the lot, she’s halfway up Main Street.

Disbelief explodes into fury, tightening every fiber in my body and pumping adrenaline through my veins. I stomp up the length of the lot, shrieking every cuss word I know, and there are a lot. I stop just long enough to give the wooden fence at the back end a few solid kicks before whirling back around and stomping the other way.

My sister left. She goddamnitalltomotherfuckinghell left.

At the mouth to the alleyway, I lean against the building and unzip my coat. I stay there forever, waiting until the cold brick and icy wind cool my neck, my torso, my temper.

Finally, I push off the wall, pull my coat back around me and drag myself back in the direction of my car, wondering the entire way how I’m supposed to make any sort of peace when no one—not Bo, not Lexi, certainly not my father—wants peace but me.

* * *

I emerge from the bank’s alley onto Main, where a man in jeans slouches against the trunk of my car. His head is ducked, his face half-hidden under mirrored shades and a faded Braves cap, but I recognize him immediately. Jake Foster is not a man easily mistaken.

My chest fills with tingly air. Even though I’ve spent more time with Jake while under the influence of alcohol than without, even though I know pathetically little about the man beyond that he can cook, the sight of him standing here, waiting for me, gives me a bubble of lightness in my chest. I close my eyes and savor it, feeling it puff and inflate, pulling me up and out of this disaster of a life to which I’ve returned.

How can a virtual stranger make me feel as if I can breathe again? Impossible. And yet, somehow, he does.

I jaywalk across the two-lane street, stepping into nonexistent traffic in front of the Main Street Realtors, an icy breeze stirring my hair. “Did you see which way Lexi went?”

He looks up, hooking a thumb over a shoulder. “That way, and like a bat—” He stops when his gaze lands on me. He rips off his sunglasses, squinting against the sudden light. “Jesus! What happened?”

I park my sneakers at the edge of the sidewalk. “I’m fine, it’s just a bruise.”

He pushes off my trunk and leans close. His light finger brushes across my brow, only a flutter, but enough to tingle my skin.

Not for the first time, I notice his bone structure is perfect, angular and strong and utterly masculine. His cheeks and chin are covered in a perpetual three-day beard, and his neat sideburns are just the right length, trailing alongside his ears like perfectly clipped tassels. And his lips, when they’re pursed in contemplation like they are now, are highly kissable.

Surely I’d remember if I’d already kissed those lips. Wouldn’t I?

He makes a low but impressed whistle between his teeth. “That’s one hell of a shiner. Care to elaborate?”

I shrug, trying to think how to tell him I fainted without getting into all the reasons why, without the weight of my life settling back around me like a lead blanket. I can’t come up with a plausible story quickly enough, so I settle on a half truth: “I fell, and a coffee table got in the way.”

“You fell.”

I nod. “Into a coffee table.”

“Right. Okay, Rocky. Let’s get some ice on that thing before it swells up any further.”

I tell myself I should be getting home, but my feet refuse to listen. When Jake steps onto the sidewalk, gesturing for me to follow three doors down, to Roadkill, I do.

Inside, the place is empty. It’s still too early for the after-work crowd. Light from the kitchen spills through the window in the swinging door, and reggaeton music thumps from within. The prep staff, I assume.

Jake helps me out of my coat, dumps it on a bar stool and rummages around behind the bar for a bit, coming up with a bag of ice wrapped in a checkered towel. Once he’s satisfied I’ve got it pressed to the exact right spot on my brow, he leans a denim-clad hip on the bar and winks.

“I’m guessing no tequila.”

I smile. “You’re guessing right.”

We settle on a cup of Earl Grey for me and a smoothie for Jake, which he whips up in a blender from fresh fruit and almond milk until it’s pink and frothy. He walks around the bar and sits on the bar stool next to mine, swinging his long legs around until he’s facing me, and I have a sudden and overwhelming sense of déjà vu. An empty bar, facing bar stools, same half-cocked grin. I’ve done this before. Here. With him.

“I have a question,” I say. “Or actually, a whole string of questions, pretty much all of them involving what occurred between ten-thirty last night and seven-thirty this morning.”

“You really don’t remember?”

I shake my head, and the bag of ice rattles and shifts against my forehead.

“Then you’re a total lightweight. You only had two margaritas, and they were more lime juice than tequila.”

“Seriously?”

He nods. “And you didn’t even notice when I switched you over to virgins.”

“Wait a minute. What about the sheriff and the game of quarters and me reaching for my car keys?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Tiny embellishment.”

“And yet you still drove me home.”

“It was either that or let you sleep on my bar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone pass out quite like that before. You put your head down and boom. Lights out.”

“I guess the two days on a plane finally caught up with me. I just hope I didn’t scare off your other customers.”

Jake gives me a get-real look. “Last week two guys decided to use the dartboard for a tobacco spitting contest. You’re going to have to do something a lot more drastic to shock anyone in this place.”

How about caring for your maybe-murderer father in the house where he maybe-murdered your stepmother? Is that shocking enough?

I flush the thought from my brain before it sucks me under. “So then what?”

“Then I threw you over my shoulder and took you home. Good thing you weigh nothing, because you weren’t very helpful. If you hadn’t been snoring like a fifty-year-old fat man, I would’ve checked your pulse.”

“Oh, God.” I cringe. Literally cringe. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

Jake gives me a grin that tells me he’s not the least bit sorry. “Seeing your tattoo more than made up for the snoring.”

I blush, dammit.

Jake takes in my pink cheeks and laughs. “Don’t look so horrified. It was easily the highlight of my night. Of my month, even. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

I wave a palm in the air between us. “Some questions are best left unanswered. Questions like How fat would you have to be to be bulletproof? and Where is Elvis, really? and How did my jeans end up on the floor last night? Sometimes it’s better not to know, because the answer would only be a disappointment.”

One eyebrow rises in silent question at my last word, but he doesn’t offer it up. Instead, he points to the hand holding the ice pack in place. “Like the truth behind how you really got that black eye?”

“And other questions are best left unasked because they lead to subjects too depressing to talk about. This—” I pull the cold compress from my eye, and Jake’s expression confirms my shiner is still there, and still bad “—is one of those questions.”

“Fair enough. I won’t ask again.”

I give him a grateful smile, but a familiar weight is already settling over me, pushing at the edges of my heightened spirits, threatening to drag me down.
Quick, swim to the surface.

“I got the tattoo a few years ago in Thailand,” I say, almost tripping over my words in my rush to change the subject. “The artist there used bamboo, which he assured me hurt less than a traditional machine. Quite frankly, I find that hard to believe. He must have stabbed me a million times, in what I don’t need to remind you is a very sensitive spot. It was torture.”

“For you.” Jake grins. “But I’m betting not so much for the guy holding the bamboo needle.”

I laugh, and the sound catches me off guard, light and twinkling and unforced, the way a laugh is supposed to sound. The way my laugh used to sound.

“And anyway,” I say, “I don’t need you to tell me how you saw my tattoo, because I’m pretty positive nothing happened between us last night.”

“Really.” His teasing tone is mirrored in his eyes. “How can you be so certain?”

“Three reasons. First of all, my tattoo is neither floral nor tribal, so you didn’t get that good of a look. Two, my jeans were on the floor of the bathroom, which leads me to believe I was the one who took them off.”

“Excellent sleuthing, Sherlock. And the third?”

“That you don’t seem like the type to lay a finger on me without my consent.”

Jake tilts his head and looks at me. Really looks at me. His phone buzzes on the bar, but he ignores it, acts like he doesn’t even hear it.

“So, are you?” he says finally.

“Am I what?”

“Disappointed in the answer.” He hesitates, bows his head in mock bashfulness and smiles. “That nothing happened between us, I mean.”

My sensory system feels like someone popped me in the toaster oven, warm and glowing. In that minute, I forget everything. My family. My responsibilities. The tsunami of shit that is my life. All I know is right here, right now, with Jake.

There’s only one thing to do at a moment like this, really. To celebrate the euphoria of my escape. To mark its significance. To thank Jake for being its cause.

I kiss him.