My initial impulse is to tell him I don’t know what he means, but the response would be disingenuous. I’m well acquainted with the white elephant he’s referring to, and while it’s the one subject I don’t want to broach, I owe it to him—to myself—to be honest. If only that weren’t so damn hard.
“Do you want me to spell it out for you?” he asks. “Clear the air?”
His tone reveals no anger. But his frustration with me comes through the line as clearly as if he’d shouted the words. “You don’t have to spell it out.”
“One of us has to, or things are going to stay the same until one of us gets sick of it.”
I bite back the urge to snap at him for bringing up our personal relationship when I’m in the midst of a difficult case. But this discussion has been building for quite some time. Sooner or later—whether I want to or not—we’re going to have to deal with it. Just not tonight.
“Let’s set it aside for now,” I tell him.
“Because of the case? Or because I’m asking for something you can’t give?”
“Because I need more time. I don’t understand why that’s so difficult for you to grasp.”
I know the instant the words are out that they’re a mistake. Tomasetti won’t be placated by snarky phrases or bullshit. “Is that lover-speak for we’re good as long as things don’t get too complicated for you?”
His tone is challenging and cool. I sit there, mute, not sure how to reply. It’s as if I’m frozen on the outside, unable to speak my mind. Inside, my emotions are a jumble of molten rock, hot and churning and fusing into something unwieldy and volatile.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry,” I say.
“I’d like to know where I stand, Kate. Where we stand. I don’t think my asking for a little clarification is unreasonable at this point.”
“It’s not,” I concede.
He waits, putting me on the spot.
A hundred responses scroll through my mind. I’m sorry. I like things the way they are. I don’t want to ruin what we have. But I’ve said it all before. None of them are the answer he’s looking for. They won’t solve the problem we face now.
“I’ve given you your space,” he says after a moment. “I haven’t pushed.”
“I know.”
When I don’t elaborate, he lowers his voice. “You’re brushing me off. I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.”
“Kate, what the hell does that mean?”
“That means I need some time to figure this out.”
“If you haven’t figured this out by now, we’re in trouble.”
“Tomasetti, I can’t discuss this right now. I have to go.”
He laughs. I don’t know if he’s genuinely amused by this perplexing impasse, or if he’s trying to anger me. “Of course you do. That’s your MO. When things get complicated or difficult, you cut and run.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m not a fair man. You should know that by now.”
I wait a beat and say, “Tomasetti, what the hell are we doing here?”
“Arguing, apparently.”
Silence falls between us. I discern his elevated breathing coming through the line and I wonder if he’s as upset as I am.
After a moment, he sighs. “For chrissake.”
The line goes dead.
I know he’s gone, but before I can stop myself, I say his name. “Tomasetti?”
I hate the uncertainty, the need, the hurt I hear in my voice. The hiss of the dead line mocks me. I look down at the phone in my hand, rap it hard against the steering wheel. “Nice going, Burkholder.”
I start to call him back, but change my mind and end the call before it dials. I get out of the Explorer and slam the door hard enough to rattle the window. The impulse to succumb to the supremely adolescent urge to throw my phone into the ditch is strong, but I resist. Barely. Instead, I opt for the more mature route, stride to the front of the vehicle, and kick the tire as hard as I can.
Feeling like an idiot, more pissed than I have a right to be, I stand there shaking my head at my own stupidity. I’m in the process of clipping my phone to my belt when it vibrates. Mentally, I count to ten, determined to keep a handle on my temper this time. But instead of Tomasetti’s number on the display, I’m surprised to see CORONER.
I hit the TALK button. “You’re working late tonight.”
“I have a feeling I’m not the only one.”
Dr. Ludwig Coblentz and I have worked together on several cases in the last few years. He’s a respected pediatrician with a busy private practice—and part-time coroner for Holmes County.
“Kate, I’m finalizing the autopsy reports for the Borntrager children, and I wanted you to know about an irregularity I found on the body of the female victim. The six-year-old female, Norah Borntrager.”
Thoughts of Tomasetti fall away. I find myself pressing the phone more tightly against my ear. “What do you have?”
“In the course of the autopsy, in addition to the physical trauma from the accident itself, I found older bruising. On her buttocks. The backs of her legs.”
“What kind of bruising?” Even as I pose the question, I already know.