One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  “Tell me how the accident happened,” Marco said.

  She shifted onto her back and looked at the ceiling. He had to be well acquainted with her background. He probably had a file on her somewhere, like the FBI. Like everyone, it seemed.

  “You know everything about it, don’t you? That’s why you never asked.”

  He sat up on an elbow. “I don’t know about it from you. Just what I read in the police report.”

  She sighed. This wasn’t an easy topic for her. “It was Fourth of July weekend. We were coming back from a barbecue at some friends’ ranch. Late afternoon. Hit-and-run driver.”

  He continued to trace her scar. “And this?”

  “From the car door. My dad pulled me out, then went back for my mom and Rachel, but their side of the car was crushed pretty badly. Then everything caught fire.”

  Everything she’d just told him had been in the police report. He seemed to want more than that, though, so she tried to reach deeper, into that part of herself she rarely talked about.

  “You read about grief, about these stages. Shock, denial, anger, all of that. You know what I’m talking about?”

  He was silent. Either he didn’t know, or he couldn’t admit that he was grieving. She knew he was. She’d sensed that about him from the beginning, she just hadn’t recognized it for what it was.

  “I stumbled around for so long,” she continued, “I guess it was like a whole year or something, and all I could feel was anger. After the funeral was over, that’s all I felt.”

  “What? Like anger at yourself for surviving?”

  “No.” She paused. “More like anger toward Rachel. I felt like she’d taken my mom away, like we divided up my parents, and she’d ended up in heaven with my mom, and I got stuck in real life with my dad. With all his long silences. And stuck in that house where we used to be happy, and we couldn’t be happy anymore. I thought I was going to suffocate, you know? And I blamed Rachel. I swear, I hated her guts. For the longest time.”

  His hand rested at her waist. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  She thought about it for a few seconds. “Sorry, mostly. That I never got to know her. At least, not as an adult. I think we would have been real close, like me and Celie are.” She looked at him. Intimacy was a two-way street. “Tell me about Paloma.”

  He flinched, just an instant, but she caught it.

  He cleared his throat. “She was twenty-eight. Five years out of the academy. She’d worked her way onto the vice squad in San Antonio. Then one day, she disappeared.”

  His voice sounded tight, controlled.

  “And you’re certain it had to do with her work?”

  He looked away. “The police concluded she’d run away with her partner, but that’s bullshit.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the guy was engaged, for one thing.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean Paloma might not have been in love with him.” Or maybe even lust. But Marco probably had a hard time seeing his sister in such a light.

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. But even if she was, she’d never leave Kaitlin.”

  “Kaitlin?”

  “Her daughter, the one whose picture you saw. She’s six now, lives with my mom.”

  Feenie remembered the pretty little girl in the photograph on his boat. No wonder he was obsessed.

  “Do you really believe Josh killed her?” Her stomach knotted as she waited for the answer. Marco’s eyes had gone cool.

  “He’s responsible, I know that. But he didn’t actually kill her.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He looked at her a long moment. “Because Paloma disappeared the day we met. Your husband was in a hotel in Mayfield with a paralegal from his office. I saw the security tapes.”

  Her throat tightened. The day of the phone call. She hadn’t realized the timing.

  “He checked right back in after you kicked him out of the house, too,” he said. “Stayed for weeks. His time’s accounted for.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Two years of investigating, plus my contact at the bureau. Everyone said it was a hired hit, and I’m almost certain it happened down here.”

  “Do you wish I’d killed him?” she asked. She hadn’t aimed to kill Josh. Her bullet had shattered his femur, disabling him, but not permanently. “Do you wish you had?”

  He clenched his teeth. “Killing’s too good for him. A guy like him’ll suffer more in prison. It’s the best revenge I can think of. That and being deprived of all his money.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he was trying to fight off a headache. “I’m just sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to him first.”

  “You mean torture him? Make him give you a lot of sordid details about your sister? You think that would make you feel better?”

  “Yes,” he said, without emotion. He sat up and leaned against the headboard. “I’ve got some unanswered questions.”

  Feenie closed her eyes. She’d been dreading this. If she told him what Josh had said, he’d go straight to El Paso to hunt down the hit man. Marco could end up dead or, at the very least, behind bars.

  “Finding the killer isn’t going to bring Paloma back, you know. It won’t give Kaitlin back her mother.”

  She watched him stiffen, and she knew she was treading on hallowed ground here.

  “She was my kid sister, Feenie. I’m not just going to forget about her.”

  He wouldn’t look her in the eye, and to Feenie, that spoke volumes. Maybe he was forgetting. Maybe he wanted to forget it, to get on with his life, but he felt ashamed.

  “She deserves better,” he continued. “My family deserves better.”

  “I’m not saying you should forget about her. But what about letting go of all this rage you carry around? What about letting go of this obsession with how she died?”

  His looked at her scornfully. “I’m an investigator, Feenie. I want to know what happened. How do two trained detectives just disappear? The guy was an FBI agent, for Christ’s sake. And how did Garland find out Paloma and her partner were onto him? And who blew her partner’s cover with the SAPD?” His brow was furrowed in frustration. “I think there’s a mole somewhere, maybe someone in the bureau’s San Antonio field office. Or maybe someone on Paloma’s squad. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Feenie couldn’t believe this. “What, now you want another person to go after? Marco, this is endless. She was investigating awful, unscrupulous people. You can’t hunt down every one of them and make them pay.”

  “I don’t want every one of them,” he said firmly. “I want the one who killed Paloma.”

  “But…it’s been two years. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

  He shot off the bed and grabbed his crumpled cargo pants off the floor. “Oh, like you?”

  “What?” she asked, sitting up and tucking the sheet around her.

  “You’ve had eighteen years to get over it.” He yanked on his pants and T-shirt. “And you’re still having nightmares. At least your sister wasn’t murdered. At least you had a funeral.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  He jammed his feet into his boots and stalked to the door.

  “Don’t act like you’ve got some monopoly on grief!” she shouted. “My sister was murdered, too, if you ask me. And so was my mom. The guy didn’t even stop! He was probably drunk out of his mind. You think I don’t have unanswered questions?”

  His hand stilled on the doorknob, and he took a deep breath. “I’m getting some breakfast,” he said calmly. “Want anything?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Be ready when I get back.”

  They shared the four-hour drive in silence. His anger had dissipated by the time they reached the border, but hers hadn’t. He could tell, because she kept her arms crossed over her chest and her cheeks flushed every time she looked at him. When they finally reached Mayfield, he drove straight to Pecan Street.

  “Your house is f
inished?” he asked, pulling into the driveway. It was their first scrap of conversation since the border checkpoint.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got some things to catch up on at the office. I’ll call you later.”

  She stared at her lap. “His name’s Brassler.”

  “What?”

  “Brassler. Josh said it, but I don’t know if I heard him right.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “Before the fire,” she said, not looking at him. “He said he paid twenty thousand, that he didn’t mind spending that on a nosy cop. But he wouldn’t waste that kind of money on me.”

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Brassler was his man. He’d been pretty sure, but hearing it confirmed was like a kick in the gut. And the price. Goddamn it.

  “Thank you.” He tried not to choke on the words. “But I already had a name.”

  Her gaze shot up. “You knew?”

  “I was pretty certain, yeah. But it’s not enough. The guy’s like smoke. He operates on both sides of the border, but no one’s seen him in well over a year. I’ve been back and forth searching for him, but I need more to go on.”

  She looked at him, and for the first time, he got it. She was afraid. Afraid for him.

  “I won’t get hurt,” he told her. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “No one’s bulletproof, Marco.”

  What could he say to that? She was right, but he’d long ago stopped caring about the risk.

  He reached out and stroked a finger over her bandaged wrist. “I’ll call you later,” he said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I will.”

  Instead of calling, he showed up. She couldn’t suppress the smile when she saw him standing on her front porch that evening.

  “Look at you,” she said, eyeing the collared shirt and unripped jeans. He still wore the scuffed bomber jacket, but she’d gotten used to it now that she understood the reason for it. “You even shaved.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” she said, swinging the door open. She looked down at her grimy T-shirt and jeans. She’d been cleaning her house earlier, trying to use up some of her nervous energy.

  He stepped inside. “I came by to see if you wanted to have dinner.”

  “Dinner.”

  “Yeah. I want a steak. You game?”

  Her gaze skimmed over him, and her heart started to melt. “You mean, like a date?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to take you out. If you’re not still mad at me. Or even if you are still mad, I’d like to take you anyway.”

  She tried not to smile. He was courting her and clearly uneasy about it. Her heart melted some more. “I’d love to.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait what?”

  She shut the door behind him. “I can’t go out like this. Look at me!”

  He stepped back and looked her over. “What? You look fine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please, I’m a mess. If you’re going to take me to dinner, the least I can do is get pretty.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “What happened to all that feminist stuff?”

  “Feminism doesn’t mean I have to go out looking like a drowned cat. Lemme change, okay?”

  Twenty-five minutes later, she’d showered, slapped on some makeup, shimmied into a cherry-red tank dress, and managed to style her hair. The bandages at her wrists made her look like she was under suicide watch, so she slipped on a gauzy black shirt and tied it at her waist. Not perfect but definitely better.

  He watched her with a predatory glint in his eyes as she came down the stairs.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she said.

  He pulled her against him and kissed her neck, and she knew he was about to suggest they go upstairs.

  His cell phone buzzed, and he checked the number. “Hold on,” he muttered, letting her go. “Juarez.”

  She went to get her purse from the kitchen, and when she came back, he was off the phone.

  “That was Peterson.” His face looked grim.

  “What?”

  “They’ve tested the .45 Josh had on him when he was arrested.”

  “And?”

  “And the rifling marks match the slugs they recovered from Martinez’s and Doring’s autopsies.”

  She could tell that wasn’t all of it. “What else?”

  “It’s also a tentative match to a bullet they found embedded in the wooden planter by the Gazette building.”

  She stared at him a minute, stunned into silence. Josh had killed two men in cold blood and tried to kill her. Twice. He’d pretty much told her in Punto Dorado that he hadn’t contracted out her murder, that he’d wanted to do it himself, but somehow she felt shocked.

  “Wow,” she finally said.

  He stepped closer and took her hand. “You okay? We could skip dinner and just stay in tonight.”

  She scoffed. “What? And miss our first date? I don’t think so.” She wanted to get out of the house, to be around people and noise and forget about Josh. “Let’s go.”

  “You sure?”

  She forced a smile. “Absolutely. You invited me on a date, and I intend to take full advantage. Where are we going, anyway?”

  “I was thinking Harbor House Grille.”

  Whoa. Expensive and romantic. The place actually had tablecloths and a wine list.

  “Sounds perfect.” She kissed him, trying to distract both of them from the phone call. He returned the kiss, and she knew she’d half succeeded.

  Her alarm went off the next morning at six, but she was already awake. She’d been lying there for hours, not sleeping.

  Marco stirred next to her. “Turn it off,” he grumbled, pulling the pillow over his head.

  She silenced the clock, pulled on her robe, and went to the window. The morning was gray, just like her mood. She glanced at her bed. The sight of him sleeping there made her chest ache.

  She loved him. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. It was the last thing he’d want to hear, and under the circumstances, telling him would just open her up to more hurt.

  He was going to leave. There was no getting around it. If not today, he’d leave tomorrow. Or next week. And as soon as he went after Brassler, everything would be over between them. He’d either get himself killed, God forbid, or he’d be guilty of something that would follow him the rest of his life. The rest of her life.

  So why bother telling him how she felt? At least now when he broke her heart, he wouldn’t actually know he’d broken it. She’d have a scrap of pride left, however small.

  She watched Marco sleeping and wanted to tell him anyway. A tiny corner of her mind had started hoping that maybe, just maybe, he felt the way she did. And maybe they could have a relationship, a future together.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When she emerged ten minutes later, the bed was empty. Feenie put on her robe and followed the aroma of coffee down to her kitchen, where she found him leaning against the counter reading the paper. He was fully dressed, holster plastered to his side as usual.

  “You made coffee?”

  “That’s for you,” he said, shrugging into his jacket. “I’ve got to get going.”

  “You don’t even want a cup?”

  “Nah, thanks anyway.”

  Trying not to feel slighted, she went to the front door and opened it.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said, kissing her forehead.

  She took his hand. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Her heart squeezed. She could still back out. She could make something up. He’d never know.

  “What?” he asked.

  She couldn’t lie to him. She led him well away from the house to the driveway, where he’d parked his truck. Marco had swept the house for bugs after it had been ransacked, but she didn’t know the extent of the FBI’s surveillance. She rose on tiptoes and kissed
him under the ear. “El Paso,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “That conversation we had yesterday. He’s in El Paso.”

  She stepped back to look at him. His eyes were hard, black.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s just something I heard. You know, yesterday.”

  He gazed over her shoulder, down the street. If he saw someone there, he didn’t react.

  “I’ll call you,” he repeated. He sounded distracted this time, and her heart sank.

  “You’re going, aren’t you?” He wouldn’t look at her. She shifted into his line of vision. “Marco, look at me. Are you going?”

  He met her gaze briefly, then glanced away.

  She pictured him dead in some parking garage like Martinez, and all her pride vanished. “Please don’t go. Please? I know you want to. I know you think you can’t not go. But you can. You can stay here with me.”

  He winced at that, and she felt as if he’d slapped her. He didn’t love her. Just the thought of staying with her made him cringe.

  He glanced at her face and seemed to realize he’d done something wrong. “Shit,” he muttered, looking down. “Feenie, don’t do this—”

  “I’ll come with you,” she blurted. Maybe she could buy some time and find a way to talk him out of whatever he had planned. “Please? I won’t get in your way. I just…I just want to be near you.”

  There. She’d said it. Well, not the love part, but pretty damn close. Any semblance of pride she might have had was long gone.

  He looked down and shook his head.

  “Please?” God, she was begging now. She was begging this man to stay with her—something she’d never thought she’d do—and she didn’t care.

  He looked over her shoulder again. And that’s when she felt it, like a rush of cold air, the actual moment when his emotions turned off. And she realized she’d pushed him too far. She’d begged him to give up his goal, to stay with her, to take her with him. She was clinging, and now he was going to run away.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said without feeling. He slipped on his shades.

  “Sure, whatever.”

  “Take care,” he said, and got into his truck.