The Last Breath

by Kimberly Belle

  “Of course he did.” Lexi puts everything she’s got in her voice. Fury, indignation, conviction, contempt. Yet I still hear the tiniest thread of hope.

  “Shut up!” Bo shrieks, surprising us with both his volume and his vehemence. “I want to hear it from Gia.”

  “I’m so sorry, BoBo.” My voice drops to a whisper. “But it’s true.”

  He makes a choking sound and buries his face in his hands.

  I turn to Lexi, my voice hardening to match her tone. “Don’t even think about leaving.”

  My sister shakes her perfect ponytail, shifts her designer bag onto a shoulder and stomps across the Rooms To Go carpet.

  But I’m faster. I sprint around her, spread my arms wide, press my back against the door. A human wall between Lexi and outside.

  Lexi dips her head, says from between clenched teeth, “Move.”

  I don’t. “Listen to me first. I know—”

  She hitches a thumb to the left. “Move, dammit.” This time she loads her words with a silent or else.

  I plant my feet firmer into the floor. “I let you ditch me once. I’m not going to let you do it again. We have about a million things to do, even more decisions to make.”

  “Decisions? What kind of decisions?”

  “Well, for one, we promised Dad a memorial.”

  “A memorial.” She grunts. “Lemme give you a little tip for future reference. When your father makes a deathbed confession that he really is guilty of the murder he claimed for sixteen years not to have committed, his last wishes can go to hell right along with him.”

  “But what about his remains?”

  “Put ’em in a garbage bag and drop ’em in the Holston River for all I care. I will certainly not be touching them.” She glares over her shoulder at Cal. “And if you put his ashes anywhere even two hundred miles upwind of Ella Mae’s park, you can go to hell, too.”

  Cal pushes to a stand, looking every bit his sixty-three years. “I’ll take care of his ashes, and don’t worry. They won’t be anywhere near here.”

  Lexi turns back to me. “Now that that’s settled...” She raises an expectant brow.

  When I don’t move, she pushes me aside, yanks open the door without another word and marches across the porch toward the stairs. I follow her to the edge of the porch.

  “Lexi, wait!”

  She doesn’t slow.

  By the mailbox, a cluster of five or six gray-haired women look up from their candles with shocked expressions. Their presence here strikes me as downright absurd, considering Lexi’s desertion and Dad’s confession, and I am about to give a bitter laugh when suddenly, the weight of the situation hits me like an anvil to the temple. They don’t know. Folks in Rogersville still think Dad is innocent. I had been so concerned with telling my siblings and Jake, I hadn’t thought about the rest of the town.

  My sister clearly hasn’t given them a second thought, either, because she tears up the walkway to her car, not slowing, not looking back. A shot of fresh red-hot rage scorches a path up my spine.

  “You selfish bitch!”

  Lexi looks over her shoulder just long enough to roll her cornflower eyes. “You’re gonna have to try a little harder than that, girlfriend. I’ve been called much worse.”

  Silly me. Lexi is right, she has been called a lot worse, and mostly by me. I ramp up my insult to a slight Lexi will comprehend.

  “Selfish, ass-ugly, thunder-thighed, bad-root-jobbed bitch. And your jeans are too tight!”

  “Uh-oh,” Bo mutters from somewhere behind me.

  A quick burst of snickers erupts from the spectators up by the mailbox, a group whose members seem to have multiplied. At least three new cars have tripled our audience.

  But none of them could ever accuse me of not knowing my sister. She skids to a stop and wheels around, her expression so deathly calm that if I weren’t so furious, I would find it hilarious. Or it would scare me shitless, either one.

  “Did you just call me fat?”

  Of course that’s the one she picked up on. My gaze flits to the crowd up at the street. Their candles hang by their sides, their mouths half open in unabashed curiosity. Vigil-holders turned rubberneckers.

  “Can we please discuss this inside?”

  She takes three threatening steps back up the walkway. “I said, did you just call me fat?” Her last word echoes throughout the valley.

  I come down the porch stairs, moving closer and dropping my voice so that hopefully, not all of Rogersville will hear what I say next. “The insult I was going for was selfish. Have you taken even one second to think about anyone other than yourself? Use that pretty little brain of yours to think about what Dad’s confession might’ve meant for the rest of us. What it might have meant for me.”

  Understanding blooms across her brow. “You told Jake?”

  I nod.

  “And?”

  Tears spring to my eyes, answer enough for Lexi. She drops her bag on the grass and closes the distance between us, pulling me into a hug.

  “Aw, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  If nothing else, at least this past month has given me back my sister. I clutch her closer, inhale her sugar-sweet scent. No matter what happens next, I will not allow us to lose touch again.

  There’s movement to our left, movement I don’t take much note of until the shape acquires a voice. “Well, isn’t this sweet? Two bitches for the price of one.”

  Lexi and I freeze, and the blood drains from my face. Not from the source of the voice or even his words, but the unmistakable threat they both carry.

  As one, every person in the yard turns to where Dean is standing, in his filthy pajamas and bare feet, his greasy hair sticking up on one side. How the man is still upright is beyond me. He is, for lack of better words, completely wasted. One hand flails through the air for balance. The other hand, his right, is steady as all the rocks holding up Rock City.

  Which is unfortunate, because his right hand is the one holding the gun.

  38

  Ella Mae Andrews, March 1994

  WHEN THE PHONE rang for the third time in a row, Ella Mae knew it was Dean. She knew without getting up from where she lay on the couch he was plastered against his living room window again, phone pressed to his ear and staring daggers across the yard. And by now she knew him well enough to be more than a tiny bit afraid. Afraid of how he made her feel. Afraid of how he hurt her. Avoiding him seemed like the safest option.

  The sharp rings died abruptly, and Ella Mae puffed a sigh of relief as the house around her fell silent. She closed her eyes and nestled deeper into the couch. Was she this bone-tired last time she was pregnant? Like every step was uphill, every simple task a chore? She honestly couldn’t remember that far back. It was as if her brain was clogged with cotton balls or something. She gave in to the confusion, letting her exhaustion pull her under.

  And then a door slammed and a voice carried across the lawn. “Ella Mae!”

  Shit. Dean, and loud enough for all of Appalachia to hear.

  She jumped off the couch and scrambled down the hallway to the front door. But she wasn’t fast enough.

  “Goddammit, Ella Mae, I know you’re in there!” His voice echoed through the house, his fists pounded against the wood. “Open up, before I break the door down.”

  Ella Mae didn’t have a lick of doubt he would do it, too. She flipped the lock and opened up just wide enough to stick her head through. “Jesus, Dean! Do you want the entire street to know our business? What if somebody heard you?”

  “You didn’t leave me with much choice. I’ve been calling you for days.” His eyes narrowed to accusing slits. “Are you avoiding me?”

  “No, I’m not avoiding you.” She planted her bare feet in the door opening, not swinging the door any wider, not inv
iting him in. Even though Gia and Ray were off visiting colleges and she’d just seen Allison disappear down the driveway with the girls. Ella Mae didn’t trust herself with Dean near. His pull on her was still too dangerous. “I’ve just been so tired.”

  Dean studied her with obvious disbelief, and Ella Mae tried not to fidget. That last time with Dean, in that hotel room off exit 23, he’d taken things too far, with his toys and with his fists. The blow he’d dealt her had worked like a cold shower, washing away Ella Mae’s lust and showing her a side of Dean she didn’t like, a kinky side, a painful side, one with handcuffs and paddles and clamps and angry hands. After that day, she began to see this affair with Dean for what it was. Sick. Perverse. Over.

  “C’mon, baby, let me in.” He smiled that smile of his, and his voice took on that low, crooning quality he knew from experience made her squirm with lust.

  But the mother she wanted to become this time around wouldn’t lose her mind over her married neighbor, no matter how charming, no matter how handsome. Ella Mae bit down on her bottom lip, and she didn’t let him in.

  He propped a palm high on the wall and leaned close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her cheek when he said his next words. “Please? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Oh, Ella Mae knew he would, and then some. At the thought of how he might make it worth her while, something down there stirred. Despite her best intentions to end this affair, despite her determination to no longer be affected by Dean Sullivan, she still wanted him, dammit. Her body was a traitor, a goddamn traitor. She had to grip the doorjamb to keep herself from pouncing.

  Dean could tell he was wearing her down. He smiled, leaned even closer and dropped his voice until it was like warm caramel, smooth and creamy and so damn sweet. His hand curled around her wrist. “Baby, I’ve missed you so much these past few days, I can barely sleep. Let me in and I’ll prove how much I missed you, I promise.”

  She pressed a hand to her fluttering belly, still flat despite her baby growing underneath. The reminder snapped her right out of Dean’s spell, gave her the strength to take a single step back and break his grasp.

  “Go home, Dean.”

  Ella Mae pushed on the wood, and the last thing she noticed were Dean’s eyes, widening in astonishment, right before the door exploded. The hinges groaned, and the wood made a crunching sound when it crashed into the wall behind it, missing Ella Mae’s shoulder by less than an inch.

  Faster than she could blink, Dean was inside the house. He kicked the door shut, seized Ella Mae, whirled her around. One hand grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, forcing a sharp whimper up her throat before she could stop herself. Ella Mae knew better than to scream.

  Dean would like it if she screamed.

  “You think that after everything that’s happened between us—” his words squeezed, deep and deadly, through clenched teeth “—you can send me away? I own you, Ella Mae Andrews. I don’t intend to go home until you’ve learned that little lesson.”

  Ella Mae couldn’t have responded if she’d wanted to because he covered her mouth with his. When his tongue batted up against her front teeth, he jerked painfully on her hair, pulling Ella Mae’s head back until her mouth fell open.

  What Dean did then wasn’t even remotely a kiss. It was rape by tongue, invading her mouth and consuming her soul and stealing her breath until Ella Mae’s vision went dark around the corners. She flapped her arms by his shoulders until he lifted his head and she gulped air, but he didn’t let her go.

  He smacked her cheek, not too hard, but hard enough to sting. She made a sound of surprise, and he clapped a palm over her mouth.

  “Are you going to be a good girl?”

  Ella Mae nodded. By now she knew there was no refusing him. He was too strong, and far too determined. She figured her best tactic was to play along, pretend she was just as crazy for him as he was certifiably insane. And then, as soon as his pants hit the floor, she would run upstairs, lock herself in her bedroom and call the police.

  She forced her body to relax in his arms. When his grip on her loosened, she pressed herself flush against him and made another sound, a throatier sound, and he smiled in approval. He dropped his hand from her mouth, and Ella Mae dropped to her knees. She reached for his belt buckle.

  “That’s a very good girl.”

  “No, Dean.” She licked her lips and gave him a smoldering look through her lashes. “I’m a very bad girl, and as soon as I’m done here, I think I’m gonna want a spanking.”

  Ella Mae peeled his jeans and boxers down his legs in one smooth motion, leaving them both jumbled around his ankles. Dean was more than ready. He threw back his head in anticipation.

  Now.

  She braced her palms on Dean’s bare thighs and shoved with all her strength, using his body as leverage to push up and out, to give her a head start up the stairs. For a split hair of a second, she thought she might make it.

  “You’re gonna be sorry you did that.”

  Ella Mae already was.

  Because instead of hitting air when she’d pushed him, Dean’s shoulders rebounded right off the front door. She wasn’t even halfway up the staircase when he tugged his pants to his hips and caught up to her, all in five seconds flat.

  She was even sorrier when Dean snatched one of her ankles out of the air, and Ella Mae dropped to the steps with a scream. Pain burst up a shoulder, across a hip bone, down a calf. With one flick of his arm, Dean flipped Ella Mae over like a sirloin steak. She felt a dull pop, somewhere way down deep inside, and warmth spread across her abdomen.

  “You thought you could get away from me?” His lip curled in an ugly sneer. “Think again, bitch.”

  He raped her right there on the stairs. First on her back, and then he flipped her over and raped her again. And again and again and again, every which way. Ella Mae tried to keep still. She tried not to scream or cry or fight back, because she knew it only wound him up more, made his fists fly even faster.

  But there were a handful of times she couldn’t help herself. She squealed or whimpered or wailed. The pain was too much.

  And once—just once—she’d cried out in pleasure. She hated herself for it, hated her body for still responding to Dean’s touch, but she hated Dean more.

  And then, as suddenly as he’d started, Dean’s body went still.

  “What the...?” He looked down, and his brow crumpled in surprise. “Jesus, Ella Mae, you’re bleeding.”

  39

  ONE OF THE hardest things in the world is to look someone in the eye when they’re aiming a gun at your heart, but that’s just what I do. I untangle myself from my sister and turn to face Dean Sullivan, doing my best to stare at his face and not down the barrel of his gun. My heart rate rockets up to a billion times ten.

  “Have you seen what those animals did to my house?”

  His words are so slurred they’re almost incoherent, but I know without asking he’s talking about the bloodred A slashed across his front siding, and the newer, even bigger, liar in black block letters. I want to tell him I had nothing to do with the graffiti, but my tongue won’t cooperate. Maybe it’s because I feel at least partly responsible for the vandalism of his home, even though I wasn’t technically the one wielding the can of spray paint.

  “Folks are saying I committed perjury, maybe even murder.”

  I nod. “I know, and I’m really sorry, but—”

  My apology seems to infuriate him. His brows dip and his lips curl in accusation. “You should be sorry, dammit. I’ve turned into a freaking joke. Rogersville’s own loony tune. All because of your family.”

  He punctuates the last word by stabbing the gun in our direction, and a gasp goes through the crowd. Even as drunk as he is, his right arm is steadier than it should be and the distance close enough to make it a fairly easy shot. I pinch my eyes
shut and brace myself for a bullet that doesn’t come.

  My mind flies through my options. Surely by now someone had enough sense to call the police. Maybe I can keep Dean talking until they get here or he passes out, whichever comes first. Or Lexi and I could make a run for the house and pray the Jack Daniel’s has derailed his aim, but what if Dean takes his vexation out on the crowd? I chance a glance at them, wide eyed and frozen to the pavement at the end of the driveway, and I want to scream in frustration. This is Tennessee, for crap’s sake, where guns are allowed in bars. Where are the vigilantes when you need them?

  I turn back to Dean with the only ammunition I have that will take away his. “I know you didn’t murder Ella Mae.”

  “Damn straight I didn’t. I loved Ella Mae. I would’ve never hurt her.”

  I hear Lexi take in air for what I know will be a smart-ass comment, but I elbow her in the ribs before she can get it out. If she gets Dean even more riled up, he won’t hear my next words.

  “Dean, listen to me. You didn’t murder Ella Mae. My father murdered Ella Mae.”

  A gasp rises from the crowd to my right, and someone mutters, “I knew it,” but I don’t turn. I watch for Dean’s reaction, which is, quite frankly, anticlimactic.

  He lifts a sloppy but apathetic shoulder. “I know. Because she was gonna leave him for me.”

  Now isn’t the best time to tell him about the letter, or point out Ella Mae was planning to leave them both. But still. Dean is missing my point. I just told him, in front of a couple dozen loose-mouthed witnesses, that my father killed Ella Mae, so why is Dean still aiming a gun at my chest?

  Lexi goes for her most appeasing tone. “How ’bout this, Mr. Sullivan? You take yourself and your weapon back inside to your whiskey, these fine folks will head into town and—”

  “Shut up.”

  “—tell everybody that Ray’s the killer, and Gia and Bo and I will forget this ever happened. That way everybody wins, right?”

  “I said, shut up!” He swivels his gun between me and my sister. “You two are trying to trick me.”