Final Breath

Leah crept toward the fake hearth and grabbed the poker from the fireplace set. Biting her lip, she moved to the bedroom and peeked past the doorway. On the other side of the bed, she saw the bathroom door--slightly ajar. The light was on.

She thought about calling out Jared's name again, but remained silent. She cautiously made her way around the bed toward the bathroom. Her legs felt wobbly, and she couldn't breathe right.

Clutching the poker, Leah pushed open the bathroom door. It creaked on its hinges. Then she saw what was lying on the tiled floor. 'Oh, no,' she whispered. 'Oh, God, Jared...'

Curled up by the base of the sink was her fiance, his face covered with blood. It matted down his blond hair. He'd been shot in the head. Jared's eyes were still open, and a dazed expression had frozen on his handsome face. On the tiles, a dark red pool slowly bloomed beneath his head. For a moment, it was the only thing that moved in the bathroom.

Leah was paralyzed. She couldn't breathe--or scream.

Then something caught her eye--a reflection in the medicine chest mirror. It was the other bathroom door opening, just behind her right shoulder.

Leah saw the man's reflection. He was wearing a lightweight, clear plastic rain jacket and a shower cap-- almost like something a surgeon would wear on his head.

She let out a shriek, and then swiveled around. Instinctively, she raised the poker.

But he had a gun.

Later, Jared and Leah's neighbors would say they'd heard the scream, and then the blast. It had been just as loud and close as the shot a few minutes before. But this was July Fourth, so no one gave those deadly sounds much thought.

CHAPTER FOUR

Seattle

Someone had brought a boom box up to the roof, and it was blasting the 1812 Overture. The stirring opus accompanied the dual fireworks displays brilliantly. Seattle had two Independence Day fireworks shows that seemed to compete with each other--one over Elliott Bay, and the other on Lake Union. From the rooftop of Kyle's Capitol Hill town house, they had a sweeping view of the Seattle skyline, the city lights, and both firework displays. Over Lake Union, the dazzling bursts of light--some in Saturn, star, and heart shapes--were closer, but the colorful pyrotechnics over Elliott Bay appeared directly above the Space Needle from this vantage point and somehow seemed statelier. The loud pops and blasts punctuated the glittery display. People had gathered on rooftops all over the neighborhood. Their laughter, screams, and applause competed with the 1812 Overture.

Sydney watched the nine other guests on her brother's roof, their heads turning from one side to another to catch both firework shows. They looked as if they were watching a tennis match. But her twelve-year-old son's head wasn't moving. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt, Eli leaned against the rooftop's railing. He seemed to be staring at the gap between the dueling shows.

Sydney approached him, and put her hand on his shoulder. 'Well, you don't see anything like this--' she hesitated. She was about to say, You don't see anything like this in Chicago. But he didn't need to hear that right now. He missed Chicago terribly, and she knew it, because she missed Chicago, too. No doubt, he was sick of her trying to sell him on their terrific new life in Seattle. So Sydney just cleared her throat and said, 'You don't see anything like this every day.'

It was a lame remark. Eli turned and looked at her as if she was an idiot. He'd given her the same look earlier tonight when they'd left for this party. Sydney had her hair swept back in a clip, and she wore a blue sleeveless top, white slacks, and a red belt. 'Red, white and blue,' Eli had said, deadpan. Then he curled his lip ever so slightly. 'Jeeze, Mom, give me a star-spangled break. Did you do that on purpose?'

'Hey, you with the clunky sneakers and the backward baseball cap, don't knock the way I dress,' she'd replied. 'You live in a glass house.'

Eli was a handsome boy with brown eyes, long lashes, and a birthmark on his right cheek. He had beautiful, light brown hair which he'd recently--and quite disastrously--tried to cut himself. Sydney had sent him to the barber to fix it, and the only way to do that was a buzz cut. Actually, he looked good with the new haircut and his summer tan. In fact, it made Eli look very much like his father--so much that Sydney sometimes ached inside when she studied him.

The 1812 Overture was followed by 'It's Raining Men,' which prompted several people on the rooftop to howl with laughter. 'Well, this is my National Anthem!' a flamboyant older man announced, and he started dancing with his hands above his head. Sydney's brother, Kyle, once pointed out to her that no straight man ever danced with his hands above his head. Kyle was gay, and so were most of his friends at the Fourth of July party.

Sydney kept putting herself in her son's shoes--those clunky sneakers. Last year in Chicago, Eli and his dad had spent July Fourth afternoon playing softball with some people in the neighborhood. This was followed by an impromptu water balloon fight in which Sydney got soaked. It didn't matter, because, like everyone else, she was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. For dinner, they'd barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers, served with chips and baked beans and potato salad. The evening had ended with the fireworks display on Lake Michigan.

Tonight, it had been smartly dressed strangers and smart cocktail-party talk with pita bread, hummus, and couscous. Salmon and chicken had been served off the grill with asparagus and risotto. All the adults there were clearly having a wonderful time. But Eli was the only kid. She knew he was miserable. So was she.

'Look at the smiley-face fireworks over Lake Union,' Sydney said, nudging him.

'Jeeze, how dorky can you get?' Eli muttered. He sighed and then peered down over the rooftop railing. Kyle's town house was on a hill, and from this side of the roof, it was a four-story drop down to the garden and patio below.

'Listen,' she whispered. 'If you're having a horrible time, we can go now and beat the post-fireworks rush. Otherwise, we're stuck here for at least another hour, because Uncle Kyle says the traffic is insane in this neighborhood after the fireworks end. So--speak now, or forever hold your peace, kiddo.'

'I'm okay,' Eli mumbled. 'We can stick around.'

She mussed what little hair was left on his scalp. 'You sure?'

He nodded and looked toward the showering bursts of light over Lake Union.

Kyle came up to her side. 'I'm sorry about Howard,' he said under his breath. He nodded toward the older, pudgy, balding man who was dancing round the roof, singing along with 'It's Raining Men.' He knew all the words. Kyle rolled his eyes. 'On a scale from one to ten--ten being totally obnoxious, stereotypically gay--Howard's about a seventeen, especially after he's had a couple of drinks. Is he driving you guys crazy?'

Sydney laughed and shook her head. 'Of course not, he's fine.'

Compared to some of Eli's father's overly macho business associates, she'd take this flamboyantly gay guy any day of the week.

'He's not your boyfriend, is he?' Eli asked warily.

'Oh, God, no,' Kyle sighed, and then he rolled his eyes. 'Please.'

At thirty-four, Kyle was lean and handsome with receding, sand-colored hair and green eyes. Sydney figured her brother was a great catch. Yet in the six weeks since she and Eli had been living in Seattle, Kyle hadn't been on one single date. All the people at this party were friends or in the real estate business with him.

'I had to invite Howard,' Kyle explained in a hushed voice. He led Sydney away from Eli, who stayed by the roof's railing. 'He's a big client, and he knows everybody. Plus he was dying to meet you.'

The party guests had made a fuss over her--and Eli, too--but mostly her. They asked about different Movers & Shakers stories she'd done for On the Edge. One woman asked if she'd hurt her foot recently or something. Sydney gave the woman her standard answer, 'Oh. I just have this limp from an accident years ago.' A few party guests asked about Sloan Roberts. How well did she know him? Was he dating anyone? Or as Howard bluntly put it: 'So--Sydney, fess up. Does Sloan play for my