It's pouring rain by the time I arrive at Tomasetti's farm. I'd hoped to do some fishing with him on the dock-catch dinner, maybe-drink a couple of beers, listen to the arrival of dusk. But I can't complain about the rain since it's been dry most of the summer and it matches my mood to a T.

I park behind his Tahoe and punch off the headlights. Grabbing the grocery bag off the pa.s.senger seat, I swing open the door and hightail it to the back porch. I'm soaked by the time I enter the kitchen, but I don't mind. The rain feels good against my skin. Cleansing somehow. A new start. I keep a change of clothes in the bedroom closet, anyway. Jeans and a tee-shirt I'd brought for an overnight stay, but didn't use.

The house smells of paint and freshly sawed wood. I'd expected to find Tomasetti in the kitchen, finishing up the cabinets that had been delivered the day before, but he's not there. The radio sitting on the five-gallon bucket in the corner is on, the newscaster announcing flash flood warnings for all of Holmes, Warren, and Coshocton Counties until midnight. It crosses my mind that I should get back to Painters Mill in case Painters Creek floods and some dummy decides to drive through the water that sometimes rushes over Dog Leg Road. Then I remember I'm off duty and I put it out of my mind.

"Tomasetti?"

No answer.

I wander into the living room. An aluminum stepladder is set up near the window. A five-gallon bucket of paint sits atop a plastic drop cloth on the floor. Tomasetti is nowhere in sight, so I take the stairs to the second level.

I find him in the largest of the three bedrooms, using a roller with an extension bar as he rolls paint onto the ceiling. He's painted the walls b.u.t.ter yellow. The woodwork and crown molding are still the original stained mahogany. It's a nice look that reminds me of red-winged blackbirds and misty summer mornings.

He glances at me over his shoulder when I enter the room and his eyes linger. He's wearing faded blue jeans that are speckled with paint and worn through at one knee. A gray tee-shirt with the logo from the Cleveland Division of Police. I'm moved by the sight of him. This man who's looking at me so intently, as if he's glad to see me. I don't see how anyone could be glad to see me these days; I haven't exactly been pleasant.

"Forget your umbrella?" he asks.

I glance down at my wet clothes. "Sorry," I tell him. "I'm dripping all over your floor."

"You can drip all over my floor any time, Chief." He finishes the section he'd been painting and sets the roller in the paint tray. "How did it go?"

The question needs no explanation. "All right, I think. They're pretty broken up, but..." Unsure how to finish the sentence, I let my words trail.

He waits, as if knowing there's more I need to say. "Rasmussen talked to Wayne Kuhns," I tell him. "He thinks that at one point Mattie tried to use Kuhns's obsession with her to manipulate him. She told Kuhns that Paul was abusive and Kuhns believed her. She didn't come right out and say it, but she tried to persuade him to do away with Paul. She used the promise of s.e.x as a lure. Once she realized he didn't have what it took, she turned to Armitage."

"That's cla.s.sic sociopath behavior."

"Initially, I thought Kuhns was a viable suspect. But he wasn't. It was her. Kuhns was in love with her. Nothing more than an errant husband. That's why he was so worried about us talking to his wife."

Tomasetti crosses the distance between us and stops a foot away from me. "What about the boy?"

I see David's face in my mind's eye. The way he looked at me when I handed him the carrier. The simple joy in his eyes at the sight of the cat. The protective way his grandfather set his gnarled hand on his shoulder. "I think he's going to be okay."

He tilts his head, as if trying to get a better look at my face. "What about you?"

"You know me." I smile, but it feels tremulous on my face. "I always land on my feet."

He nods, but I see something in his eyes that belies the gesture. "I hate to bring this up, but I thought you should know. Sheriff Redmon has requested a forensic anthropologist from BCI. They've already identified those pellets as number six lead shot."

The words impact me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. The kind that takes your breath and makes you sick to your stomach. I look away, trying to absorb the enormity of them. I should have been prepared; I'd known all of this would come. But there are some things no one can ever prepare for. The reemergence of a past that wields the power to destroy your life is one of them.

"I wasn't expecting that," I tell him.

"I know. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"So what's next? I mean, in terms of the case?" Even as I ask the question, I already know.

"They're trying to extract DNA from the teeth."

I nod, grappling for a calm I don't feel. "This. .h.i.ts kind of close to home for you, doesn't it?"

Tomasetti ignores the statement. "The FA is going to take a look at everything. Soil. Whatever's left of the clothing. Whatever was in the pockets. The bones are probably going to be the most important in terms of cause and manner of death."

"I thought ... I mean, I'd hoped ... there would be some deterioration."

"I'm sure there is, but to what extent, we don't know."

I can actually feel the blood stalling and going cold in my veins as the reality of the situation sinks in.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you've been carrying this around inside you for a long time. I know you want it to be over."

"How long do you think the investigation will take?"

"You know nothing ever happens quickly in these kinds of situations. Everything has to be looked at. Labs get backed up. Reports have to be written." He shrugs. "A few months."

I've borne the knowledge of what happened that terrible day for half of my life. I learned to live with what I did. I learned to cohabitate, however uneasily, with the knowledge that I took a man's life, that my family covered it up. I learned to deal with the ever-present fear of discovery and the possibility that if the truth is revealed, my life as I know it would end.

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, "They're not going to be able to tie you to the case, Kate. I've looked at every angle. There's nothing there. No evidence."

"I have to be prepared either way. So do you."

He bends, picks up a five-gallon can of paint, and dumps some into the pan. Straightening, he saturates the roller and goes to work on another section of the ceiling.

"Look, Kate, I know you've already tried and convicted yourself, but those bones are too deteriorated to reveal any meaningful evidence. Coroner's going to rule cause and manner of death undetermined."

"What if you're wrong?" I ask. "What if by some fluke we haven't conceived, they link Lapp's death to me? Tomasetti, that could pose a problem for you, especially if we're living together. It could put you in a precarious position. It could affect your career."

He stops painting, lowers the roller to his side, and turns to stare at me, his expression perplexed. "You like to keep a guy on his toes, don't you?"

"Sometimes it just works out that way." I try to smile, but don't quite manage. "I think it's something you need to consider."

"I've considered everything I need to consider." He sets down the roller and crosses to me. He stops a scant foot away, so close I can feel the heat coming off him, discern the smells of aftershave and sawdust and man. "I've worked a lot of cases that hinged on DNA," he says. "Even if the lab is able to extract DNA from the teeth, all that does is confirm the ident.i.ty of the victim. They won't be able to ascertain how or where he died. And there's no evidence whatsoever that could lead them to you. You're safe, Kate. It's over. I promise."

We stand frozen for the span of several heartbeats. Not touching. Barely breathing. The magnitude of what's been said shaking the air between us.

"I know this isn't an ideal set of circ.u.mstances. I mean, for us." His voice is low and thick. "I don't know where this will lead. But I love you, Kate. I want you in my life. I don't know what else to say."

I know this is one of those life-altering slices of time. A moment that will take me down a certain road. There's no way for me to know if it's the right direction or if I'll slam into some dead end or freefall off a cliff. But everything inside me tells me to take that first step. Sometimes life is about taking chances, about putting yourself out there even when you don't know what's going to come back at you. John Tomasetti is a chance I want to take.

"No one's ever said that to me before," I tell him.

"So we're breaking new ground."

"In a lot of different ways."

"I hope that's okay."

"Better than okay."

Raising up on my tiptoes, I brush my mouth across his. "I don't think you're going to get much painting done tonight."

"It'll keep until morning," he whispers.

ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO.

Sworn to Silence.

Pray for Silence.

Breaking Silence.

Gone Missing.

About the Author.

Linda Castillo is the New York Times bestselling author of the Kate Burkholder novels, including Sworn to Silence and Breaking Silence, crime thrillers set in Amish country. Sworn to Silence was recently adapted into a Lifetime Original Movie t.i.tled An Amish Murder starring Neve Campbell as Kate Burkholder. Castillo is the recipient of numerous industry awards, including the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence and the HOLT Medallion, and she received a nomination for the RITA. In addition to writing, Castillo's other pa.s.sion is horses, particularly her Appaloosa, George. She lives in Texas with her husband.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously.

HER LAST BREATH. Copyright 2013 by Linda Castillo. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

The Kate Burkholder series.

by Linda Castillo.

narrated by Kathleen McInerney.

Available on CD and for digital download: Sworn to Silence.

Pray for Silence.

Breaking Silence Gone Missing.

end.