The Last Breath. Kimberly Belle

How you holding up?”

      “I’m okay. Fannie’s here.” I sink onto the foot of my bed and wait while Cal takes in my meaning behind those four words, which he does pretty much immediately.

      “Where are Bo and Lexi?”

      Nothing slips by the Tennessee Tiger.

      The hurt comes flooding back, this time with the tears I managed to fend off last night with alcohol and Jake. Alone in my old room now, I don’t bother to check them. “Lexi ditched me last night, and Bo still hasn’t called me back.”

      Cal curses under his breath. “I’ll call them on my way into court, and I’ll use my lawyer voice. Don’t you worry, darlin’. I’ll make sure they get their asses over there pronto.”

      Part of me, and not a small part, wants to believe him—Cal’s lawyer voice is certainly something to be feared—but the realistic side of me knows better.

      “I’m afraid it’s going to take a lot more than a stern talking-to to get Lexi over here, and same goes for Bo. But that’s not why I’m calling. When I was in town last night, I heard about some protesters. A local group of Bible-beaters, and it sounds like it’s going to be a shit storm.”

      Cal half groans, half sighs. “I’m not particularly surprised. People in that town sure loved Ella Mae, and sixteen years isn’t nearly long enough to heal their wounds. Especially with that damn garden to remind them every time they drive through town.”

      My uncle is right. If the Ella Mae Andrews Memorial Garden on all four corners of Depot and Main doesn’t prompt folks to remember Ella Mae, the women of her former garden club, who make sure the plot thrives all year round, will. Even in February, when the trees are bare like they are now, it’s kind of hard to miss.

      “Is there any way we can stop them?”

      “Folks have a constitutionally protected right to engage in protests, assuming they’re peaceful. As long as they stick to the street and don’t disrupt traffic, we have to let them.”

      What traffic? I look out my bedroom window over the front yard and the empty asphalt that dead ends into our driveway. With only a handful of homes on a stretch of almost a mile, Maple Street isn’t exactly a major throughway.

      “What about noise ordinances? I heard they’ll have bullhorns.”

      “Noise amplifying instruments are a different story. They’re not allowed without a permit. I’ll have my assistant check if any noise ordinance waivers have been issued, but without those, they can sit out there all the livelong day if they want.”

      Cal’s answer heaves and swirls in my stomach.

      “Have you talked to the officer in charge yet?” he asks. “He should be able to tell you how much preparation the protesters have made, if any.”

      “Not yet. He’s coming an hour ahead of Dad, so I’ll ask him then.”

      “I knew I could count on you to keep things under control.”

      The absurdity bubbles in the base of my throat, and I want to laugh and cry and scream. Control? What control? Maybe Cal somehow got me confused with Fannie or his power-shopping assistant, because I have nothing—nothing!—under control.

      “I should have this case wrapped up in a few weeks,” he says, but the distracted quality in his voice tells me the only thing he’s eager to wrap up is this conversation. “Once I do, I can move into the house with you. I sure hate that I can’t be there today.”

      I don’t respond. Seems to me if Cal had wanted to be here for my father’s homecoming, he would’ve damn well been here. Surely he’s not the only lawyer in the entire freaking state of Tennessee.

      “But I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”

      I make a humming sound.

      Cal takes it as his cue to go. “Keep me in the loop, okay? I’ll do the same with you.” He hangs up before I can agree.

      My calls to Bo and Lexi are even less successful. Both their phones go straight to voice mail without ringing, not even once. The idea they’ve turned their phones off today of all days shoots a firestorm of fury through my veins. Instead of leaving yet another voice mail, I settle on a rather snarky group text.

      No worries, I’m not alone. The protesters will be here soon to keep me company. You better not fucking be one of them.

      I hit Send and fling my phone onto the pile of clothes erupting from my open suitcase, flop backward onto the bed and try—and fail—not to feel sorry for myself. In just a few hours, my dying father will walk through that door for the first time in sixteen years, and my siblings aren’t here. Cal isn’t here. My only buffer is a woman wearing too much makeup and scrubs smothered by tiny yellow ducks.

      Something bangs and shakes the walls downstairs, and I picture Fannie heaving the couch onto her shoulders and hauling it clear across the room. The racket reminds me of all the things I should be doing. Helping Fannie rearrange the living room. Showering and unpacking. Hunting down my deadbeat siblings and dragging them back to help. Every single one of those options exhausts me.

      I yank on my comforter, pull it across my shoulders and wrap it around me like a cocoon. A gust of wind whistles at my windowpane, and I burrow deeper into the down. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. By the time I reach the far side of a sigh, I’ve found temporary peace.

       7

      A CLOWN.

      That’s my first thought when I open an eye. Why is there a clown standing above me, poking me in the shoulder?

      “Go away.” I pull the comforter tighter and roll toward a window I vaguely recognize as mine, but from a lifetime or two ago.

      The clown gives me a two-handed shove in my back. “Wake up, ’fore I fetch me a bucket of ice water.”

      For a second or two, I get caught up on the way she said that last word—warter. And then it hits me. The thick accent, that frizzy orange hair can only belong to one person. I turn my head, blink up at Fannie. “Oh, sorry. I must’ve drifted off.”

      “Good Lord, child, I’ve been trying to wake you for the past five minutes. It ain’t normal the way you sleep like the dead.”

      I push to a sit, swipe the heel of a hand across each eye. “In my line of work, sleeping is considered a job skill.”

      “What are you, a vampire?”

      I would laugh, but I’m midyawn.

      “Stick your head under a faucet or something, ’cause I just parked one fine hunk of police officer on the couch downstairs. He says you were expecting him at eleven.”

      Her words are like a shot of caffeine to the jugular, and I spring out of bed so fast I see a rain of sparkles around the edges of my vision. “Shit. What time is it?”

      “Sometime after eleven, I reckon.”

      I fall to my knees on the floor and rifle through my suitcase, flinging sweaters and T-shirts and underwear aside until I find my phone, lodged in one of my sneakers. “It’s 11:19. Shit, shit, shit.”

      “How ’bout I fix him a cup of coffee while you get ready, lickety-split like.” She heads for the door, but not before tossing a glance to the contents of my suitcase, now exploded all over the floor. “And, sweetie, if you don’t mind me saying so, you may want to spend a little extra time searching through all that slop for a hairbrush.”

      By the time I make it downstairs seven and a half minutes later, my teeth brushed and my hair gathered into a messy ponytail high on my head, Fannie is holding court on the couch. She’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee and scrounged up a plate of cookies from the stockpile in the kitchen. And she’s seated suspiciously