Last Breath

by Brandilyn Collins

  “This is different. Their photographer caused an accident. Plus, because of this, we have to cancel the tour. Can you imagine how much money that’s going to cost the band?”

  Brittany breathed heavily over the line. “Where are you?”

  “In the hospital with Mom. She’s sleeping.”

  “How long does she have to stay?”

  I told her.

  “Can you come home then?”

  “I don’t know.” A sudden sob rolled up my throat. “I don’t know anything anymore. I just want to be home. I just want to be with you. And Mom to be well. What is this, Brittany? What’s happening to us? My life has gone totally insane.”

  Brittany’s voice cracked. “I wish I was there with you.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  We talked until our tears ran out, then talked some more. Weariness pulsed through me, but I couldn’t hang up. Not yet. I crept into the bathroom and fetched tissues to wipe my nose. Collapsed again on my bed.

  “There’s more, Brittany.” I looked over toward Mom, making sure she still slept. “Something I haven’t told you.”

  “Like all this isn’t enough?”

  “This is … I don’t know. Almost worse.”

  I stretched out on my back, staring at the white ceiling. “I told you the cops shot Jerry. Just before he died, he told me something no one else heard.”

  My fingers clenching the bed covers, I told Brittany Jerry’s final words: Your father sent me.

  “What?” Brittany burst. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh. Wow.” Brittany exhaled loudly. I could almost hear the wheels in her head turning. “Okay, just … Let’s think about this.”

  Like a detective, she started firing off questions. It was her logical side coming through, the steely mind that would one day make her a great lawyer. I tried to think straight enough to give her all the details she wanted. My brain was so tired.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Brittany finally asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But if it is …”

  “I know. If it is, my father sent a killer to us. And somewhere out there, my father’s still alive. Maybe he’ll try it again.”

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  “No. First, there wasn’t time. She had to perform, and then right after that, this happened. I was going to when we got the chance, but I can’t now. It would so upset her, and she’s got enough to deal with.”

  “The police need to hear this.”

  “I know. But how can I tell them without telling Mom?”

  “Maybe you could tell Ross.”

  I rubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, I guess. But that would feel so … I don’t know, like having our privacy invaded. I mean, Mom never talks about my father, even to me.”

  “You don’t know how much Ross knows. Maybe your mom’s told him everything.”

  “No. She wouldn’t. She’s just too private about it. Besides, Ross is business. This is personal.”

  We fell silent. My head buzzed with exhaustion. Another few minutes and I wouldn’t be able to think at all.

  I glanced at the clock. After two a.m.

  “Brittany, I don’t know if I can stay awake much longer.”

  “Yeah, me either. We barely got any sleep last night.”

  “And I don’t know how much I’ll get tonight. Probably as long as Mom’s medication keeps her asleep. When she wakes up, she’ll be hurting.”

  “Poor Rayne.”

  We both sighed.

  “I’ll call you in the morning, okay, Brittany?”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  We clicked off.

  I turned my head toward Mom—and got a shock. Her eyes were open and troubled, her head turned toward me. Lines crisscrossed her forehead.

  “Mom?” I shoved myself into a sitting position. “You’re awake already?”

  “You know how I am with pain medication.” Her voice was weak. “Takes a lot … to knock me out for long.”

  “But—how long have you … ?”

  “Long enough to hear what you didn’t want to tell me.”

  8

  He stared at the TV in his cheap motel room, anger churning in his veins.

  Just that afternoon he’d stepped out of jail a free man for the first time in eight years. Man, the feeling! Sun on his skin, fresh air. He could go where he wanted, eat what he wanted. Sleep in a real bed.

  Sizzling with anticipation, he caught a bus for the short trip into Phoenix.

  At midnight he sank down on the edge of the bed, shoes off, tired to the bone. He flipped on the TV—and saw Rayne O’Connor screaming at a photographer.

  Three times, the cable news channel played footage of the scene.

  “Rayne O’Connor is now in Denver’s St. Joseph’s Hospital, reportedly with multiple cracked ribs,” a perky blonde news anchor said. “She is expected to have a full, though long, recovery. This on the very same night that Rayne’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Shaley, was taken hostage by Jerry Brand, a man hired to drive one of the rock band’s buses. Brand is the alleged killer of two men on tour—Tom Hutchens, hair stylist and makeup artist, and bodyguard Bruce Stolz. Police fatally shot Brand during the rescue of Shaley O’Connor …”

  His mouth had fallen open. His fingers clenched the TV remote.

  Now here he sat, jaw hardened to granite, a buzz in his head.

  The police had to be lying.

  But the last few times he’d tried to call Jerry to check in, Jerry hadn’t answered his cell phone. Had the man been avoiding him on purpose?

  Now Jerry was dead.

  “… no official word yet on the Rayne tour, which is scheduled to continue for another month.” The reporter’s voice pierced his consciousness. “But given the popular singer’s injuries, it is expected to be cancelled. And now to—”

  He switched the channel, seeking other cable news stations. Once again, Rayne’s face filled the screen.

  Eyes narrowed, he listened to every word of the report. When it ended he found a third station running the story. And a fourth.

  He flipped channel after channel until he saw no more. He punched off the TV.

  The rage simmered in his stomach, building to a full boil. He shoved off the bed and strode around the small room, fingers pressed to his temples.

  What had Jerry done? Now there’d be more cops than ever around Rayne and Shaley O’Connor.

  That afternoon he’d walked out of jail to the inheritance left by his grandmother. The sale of her small Phoenix home had netted Franklin a profit around $50,000. He’d only withdrawn a few hundred to stay in this cheap place for one night. He had plans for the rest of the money.

  After the bank he’d gone to the DMV to renew his expired driver’s license.

  He flung himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d waited years to get to Rayne and Shaley O’Connor. Now, thanks to Jerry, it would be harder than ever. But he’d do it.

  Denver. That’s where he’d be headed tomorrow. St. Joseph’s Hospital in Denver.

  9

  I stared at Mom, my brain going numb. She’d heard my conversation with Brittany? My throat convulsed. “Mom—”

  “It’s okay. I had to know.”

  I pushed to my feet and crossed to her side. “But—”

  “You really expected to deal with this alone, Shaley?”

  “No. But I just … I would have told you later.”

  “The detective asked you what Jerry had whispered to you just before he died. You told him, ‘Nothing important.’ ”

  “I couldn’t say the real words then.” I slipped a hand over my eyes. How to explain what I’d felt at that moment? For years I’d begged for answers about my dad, and there I was, supposed to blurt out terrible words about him to some detective I’d never seen before in my life? “I knew it would upset you and … I don’t know, the words just balled up inside me. I couldn’t talk about it then.�
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  Mom’s eyes clouded. I bit my lip, wishing she’d say something—anything. If she hadn’t been doped up on pain medication, she wouldn’t be taking this so quietly. “So … do you think Jerry was telling the truth?” I asked.

  Mom stared beyond me, brow knitting, as if she peered into a bitter past. “Why would he say something like that if he didn’t know your father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A person’s last words are important. With his last dying breath, he chose to say that to you.”

  I ran a finger along the bed cover, feeling its fine ridges. Mom was saying what my gut had been telling me. I couldn’t even figure how I felt about that. Part of me wanted Jerry’s words to be a lie. How could I cling to the hope of any goodness in my father if he’d sent Jerry to our tour? But if it was true, at least my father was out there somewhere, and he knew I was his daughter. Mom had always claimed he didn’t. Maybe there was a good explanation for what he’d done. Maybe he didn’t know Jerry was so messed up in the head …

  Mom’s eyes slipped shut.

  I touched her shoulder. “Are you in pain?”

  “Not as long as I don’t move.” She tried to smile. She focused on me, her eyes glazed. “Tomorrow you have to call the detective who interviewed you after Jerry was shot and tell him this.”

  Detective Myner, the short, gray-haired man with the hard-worn face. Could that really have been just eight hours ago?

  My vision blurred. “You always told me my dad doesn’t know about me.”

  “I … didn’t think he did.”

  “Do you think he’d want to hurt us?”

  All these years of begging her to tell me about my father. Had she kept quiet because she knew he hated her? That he was nothing but a lowdown, murderous criminal?

  “Shaley. You will call Detective Myner tomorrow.”

  So much for an answer. My eyes blinked hard, trying to chase the tears away, but they spilled onto my cheeks. I nodded. “Okay.”

  Mom swallowed. “Can you get me a drink?”

  “Sure.” I poured some water from her pitcher into a glass. “Here’s a straw.” I picked it off the tray and inserted it into the glass. Held it to her lips.

  Mom took three long drinks, then closed her eyes. I put the glass back on the tray and gazed at her.

  Just yesterday we’d fought about my father. The age-old resentment in me could so easily erupt. I deserved to hear some answers. Who was my dad? Where did he go? Why had I never seen him? But Mom would never tell me. I only knew one detail. While they were dating he’d often give her a single white rose wrapped in green cellophane and tied with a red ribbon. To this day that symbol seemed sacred to her, although she’d never told me the full story behind it.

  Mom’s eyes opened. We gazed at each other, silent communication flowing between us. If she wasn’t in a hospital bed, all banged up, we’d probably be fighting over this right now. I’d be accusing her of almost getting us killed through hanging on to her secrets. She’d be stubbornly refusing to talk …

  For the first time it occurred to me that maybe some good could come out of this terrible accident.

  “Mom.” I rubbed her shoulder. “Answer me.”

  Her mouth turned downward. “The person I loved would never want to hurt us. But that person went away long ago. If he sent Jerry to us, he only meant us harm.”

  I pulled my arms across my chest, bitterness edging my voice. “You need to tell me about him. No excuses anymore. You and I are stuck here anyway, so we might as well talk.”

  Mom made a sound in her throat. The glaze of pain in her eyes changed to grief. “I just … some things are hard to … But you’re right. You deserve to know.”

  All I could do was stare. Had I really heard that? After all my years of wanting to know, she was finally going to tell me?

  Mom looked past me, into the distance. “Where to start? There’s so much …”

  I hurried to the corner of the room and dragged over one of the wooden chairs. Sat down by her bed. My heart picked up speed. This was really happening. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Start at the beginning.”

  Part 2

  Rayne 1991

  10

  He was the quiet guy who sat in front of me in French class, and was one year ahead of me in school. He didn’t talk much and kept to himself.

  Everything about him fascinated me.

  It was October, the second month of my sophomore year. Our French teacher was horrible. Mrs. Wright would give us stupid little conversations to memorize and recite to each other. Whenever we had to do that, Gary Donovon would turn around to be my partner.

  He had sandy-colored hair and large, almost translucent gray eyes. Long eyelashes. And a way of moving his mouth that was so expressive. He’d firm his lips, pulling them in at the corners whenever he forgot one of his French lines. If he thought something was funny, one corner of his mouth would turn up in this quirky smile. Gary had long fingers, like a pianist’s. He was tall and muscled, but graceful, almost loping in his walk. In the crowded hallways, while everyone else jabbered and called out to friends, he’d walk by himself, head slightly tilted to one side, focused straight ahead. Like a rock in the middle of a stream, water flowing around it.

  The guy was totally intriguing. And he didn’t even know it.

  “Hi, Veronique,” Gary said to me that Thursday as he turned around in his seat.

  “Hi, Simon.”

  Each of us had a French name we had to use in class. In the French pronunciation, Gary’s name—Simon—sounded like SeeMOH.

  Gary/Simon met my eyes for a split second, then looked away. Why did he always do that? Every other guy tended to stare me up and down. The popular, cocky ones all tried to impress me. The unpopular ones treated me like some princess on a pedestal. I didn’t particularly care for any of that.

  But Gary was different. He was good-looking, but not at all arrogant about it. Quiet, but not self-effacing. He didn’t even seem to want many friends, as if his aloneness contented him.

  How could anyone be content without tons of friends?

  I knew lots of people at our large high school, plus many more at surrounding schools. My freshman yearbook was so marked up with written notes, you could hardly see half the pictures. While Gary obviously would hate the limelight, I sought it, singing to anybody who’d listen. In fact, one day I knew I was going to be lead singer in a band.

  Nothing about us was the same. None of my friends would ever think of putting the two of us together.

  So why did Gary Donovon pull at me so much?

  “Hey, Simon.” I tapped my desk with a long red fingernail. My voice held a tinge of amusement. “I’m over here.”

  His gray eyes scanned back to me.

  I held his gaze, a little smile on my face. “You know the conversation?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  All around us buzzed fifteen versions of our French assignment for the day. Our teacher sat at her desk, reading a magazine. “Okay. You take the first line.”

  Gary focused on my hands. “Aimes-tu les fleurs?” Do you like flowers?

  “Oui, très bien.” Yes, I like them very much.

  “Lequel est-ce que tu aimes le mieux?” Which is your favorite?

  “La rose blanche.” A white rose.

  Gary shifted in his chair. “Vraiment? Pourquoi?” Really? Why?

  The last line of Mrs. Wright’s conversation was totally lame.

  “Les roses blanches sont purs et frais. Je veux les toucher.” White roses look pure and fresh. They make me want to touch them.

  Gary’s gaze rose again to my face. Long seconds passed as he looked at me, his lips pressing together. For the first time I noticed darker gray flecks around the outside of his irises.

  Strange. It almost felt like he wanted to tell me something …

  I waited.

  His gaze fell away.

  A sigh puffed from my lips. “Forget the last line
?”

  His head pulled back. “No. I just …” He cleared his throat, then rattled off the sentence. “Ah, j’ai pensé que tu préférais les roses rouges.” Oh. I thought you’d like red ones better.

  I nodded. “Well. Very good. I give you an A.”

  One half of his mouth curved. He still wouldn’t look at me. “You get an A too.”

  And with that, he turned around and faced the front.

  I stared at the back of his head. What was it with this guy? Everybody else was still talking, and the teacher would read that magazine of hers for another good ten minutes.

  An even bigger question filled my thoughts. Why was I afraid to ask him why he cut our conversation short—again? With any other guy I’d push it in a flirty way—“Hey, why won’t you talk? Something wrong with me?”

  Instead I sat back, arms folded, focusing on his neck just above the collar line of his blue shirt. The bottom of his hair looked a little ragged, like it needed trimming.

  He was going to tell me something. I felt it.

  For two months I would wonder what it was.

  11

  One day in early December I walked into French class and saw the school principal standing near Mrs. Wright’s desk. I dropped my pink three-ring binder on my desk and plopped down. What was up?

  As soon as the bell rang, the principal announced that Mrs. Wright had just gone home sick, and there was no one to take her place.

  “You all need to stay in this room, understand? I don’t want to find anyone walking the halls. And keep the noise down.”

  With that, he left—and we had a free hour.

  The room immediately hummed with conversation. In front of me, Gary sat unmoving, long legs stretched out, head tilted. From what I could tell, he was staring at the floor.

  What on earth does he think about so much?

  “Hey, Rayne,” Cindy called from two rows over.

  I looked around. She was already forming a circle of desks with Crystal and Nikki. Normally I’d have been right there with them. But for over three months now, good-looking, quiet Gary Donovon had remained a puzzle to me. Here was my chance to figure him out.