Hold Me Like a Breath by Tiffany Schmidt Page A

CBC on a metal tray. I sat in my usual place, pulled up my sleeves, and tried to remember which arm I should offer today.
    â€œLeft,” the doctor prompted, and I held it out for the rubber tourniquet.
    â€œMiss Landlow.” The officer’s eyes were on the needle Dr. Castillo was assembling. “You were the one to find your brother, correct?”
    â€œYes,” I whispered.
    â€œAround what time?”
    â€œA little after noon. It was during lunch.”
    â€œWhy were you by the fence?”
    â€œI was going for a walk. I called him, and I heard his phone—his ringtone for me. I followed it and found …”
    I felt Garrett’s eyes on me too—his anguished gaze heavier than the policemen’s.
    â€œWhen did you last see him alive?”
    â€œAround midnight. He said he had to go somewhere.”
    â€œWhere?” The cops were taking turns asking the questions; it left me uneasy, not quite sure where to aim my answers.
    â€œI don’t know. Sorry. We made plans to meet for breakfast—I was going to ask him then—but he never showed up.”
    The shorter cop steepled his fingers and pointed them at me. “Miss Landlow, it seems you were the last person to talk to him—we don’t know what happened in the twelve hours before you found his body. I need you to think. Did he seem agitated at all? Worried?”
    â€œI-I-I don’t know,” I sputtered, shaking so much that Dr. Castillo paused and pulled the tip of the needle back from where he was about to plunge it through my skin. I hadn’t been paying enough attention that night, hadn’t known it would matter. Hadn’t known it was the last time I’d see him, the last conversation we’d have.
    Garrett took over. “Carter would never have willingly exposed his baby sister to any danger. Or to this either.” He paused to point slowly between the two men.
    The cops swallowed and looked chastised, but it didn’t stop them from asking, “What about the Zhu family—had he mentioned them to you recently? Said anything that would lead you to believe he perceived them as a threat?”
    â€œThe Zhus? No. What do they—”
    Garrett put a hand on my chair, the backs of his fingers grazing my shirt. “Penelope Landlow is a very sick girl. She doesn’t leave the estate. She has no contact with the Zhus or anyone outside these gates, and she doesn’t know who killed her older brother. Finding those answers is your job. It’s been six days; why don’t you have any? You’re not going to find them in here.”
    I’d stilled enough for Dr. Castillo to insert the needle in my vein. Blood flowed into the test tube and everyone’s eyes were on the red. Were they picturing the crimson of Carter’s blood on the ground, the way it pooled around him, seeped into his shirt, and stained the ends of his blond hair, or was that just me?
    I whimpered.
    An officer reached for my hand, probably in apology or comfort.
    Garrett lunged in front of my chair. “Don’t touch her!”
    â€œHold this, please, Penelope,” Dr. Castillo said as he placed gauze on my arm. He turned to the officers with a face of calm fury. “A simple touch like that will harm my patient, causing her platelets to degrade and contusions or ecchymosis to form. I cannot stress how fragile Penelope is, so do your job, but do it quickly, sensitively, and there is absolutely no reason grown men like you need to be touching this girl.”
    I understood his words were deliberate, that Garrett’s hadbeen too—chosen to make me seem as young and delicate as possible and make the officers’ sympathy and duty seem inappropriate. I understood they’d been effective, because the cops squirmed and apologized and handed over cards and more apologies along with requests that I call them if I thought of anything and even more apologies and sympathy for