One Last Breath by Sarah Sutton (speld decodable readers txt) 📗

man convicted of killing her mother—he would never look at her the same. He would pity her. He would dissect everything he knew about her. He would suddenly make sense of all her life choices, of all her reactions in every situation he had witnessed. It was what everyone did once they knew her history. He would assume he knew her, when in reality he knew nothing about her at all.

“Who are you here to see?” he asked as he grabbed hold of the clipboard that Tara had just written her name on moments ago. He scanned the names.

Tara’s heart thumped harder. “Richard Mills.”

The officer nodded as he found Tara’s name. He then looked up again.

“What’s your relation?”

Tara could feel every instinct telling her to turn away, to run. She could feel her palms begin to sweat. “Father,” she started. “He’s my father.”

It was strange saying it out loud. Even though it was an undeniable fact, he didn’t feel like a father to her at all, and it felt odd calling him that.

Owen’s face fell. She could see the pity surface in his eyes, and Tara couldn’t help but feel ashamed as a frustration boiled within her. He only nodded as he motioned to the metal detector and Tara focused on her breathing. She focused on controlling every piece of her being as she stepped through. You can do this, she said to herself. She knew very well how her anxiety worked. It would creep up, and if she didn’t fight back, it would seize her lungs, her body, and her mind.

Another officer stood on the other side of the metal detector. Unlike Owen, he stood tall and showed little emotion, his face stoic. Tara followed him as he opened a large, barred metal gate and continued to walk down a dimly lit hallway. It was lined with brick white walls and a concrete floor that gave off a musty smell. Tara focused on her surroundings, trying to keep her mind preoccupied when it suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what she would say to her father. She had been so focused on keeping her emotions at bay, and then her interaction with Owen, that she hadn’t even considered how she would broach the subject of her mother’s murder.

It was as if she was a child again, controlled only by emotion, and it irked her that she would allow that to happen. So many times as a child she had approached her father with the intention to ask him something—to get ice cream, to go play with a friend—but then she would see his mood twisted into a scowl as she entered the room. His dark brown eyes that were so dark they looked like one large pupil would stare her into intimidation. She would stare back at him like a deer in headlights as he took a swig of his Budweiser.

“What?” he would bark, and Tara would shoot her eyes to her feet at the realization that she had been standing there quietly for too long.

Eventually, she would mumble that she had nothing to say, or she would lie and say something else that wouldn’t irritate him—something that didn’t require him to take her anywhere or do anything for her—and then she would eventually cower back to her room.

The officer reached the end of the hallway and scanned his ID before opening a large steel door. Tara quickly followed behind. You will just feel it out, she told herself. You got this. As she said the words to herself, she could feel her heart drumming, and a trace of doubt seeped in, but she quickly reminded herself that she wasn’t leaving until she asked.

They came to another door, and the officer stopped before turning around to Tara. He motioned to a small window cutout in the intimidating door.

“He should be a minute. You can go in now,” he said before opening the door for her.

Tara took a deep breath and held the air in her lungs for a moment, as if about to jump into a pool. She stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut behind her. She exhaled. The room was small, about six feet in every direction. It was bare except for a single chair, which sat in front of a glass window. A short steel desk jutted from beneath it.

Tara took a seat as her mind swirled into a haze. No one was in the room opposite the glass window, but she knew that any minute her father would walk through the door. She continued to reassure herself as she sat there. He’s in here, you’re free, she reminded herself. He can’t hurt you. You have every right to ask questions. You’re strong. Don’t you dare look weak in front of him. You came for one thing, and you’re going to get it. She told herself that over and over again as she stared at the doorknob to the room across from her, as if in a trance.

She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. It was instinctual—like staring at the door in an active shooting, hoping you won’t be found. Even after coming so far, there was still a part of her that hoped he wouldn’t want to see her and that they wouldn’t come face to face. But it was a hope she kept pushing away, swatting at it each time it surfaced. She needed to be here. She needed to see him in person.

The doorknob began to turn, snapping Tara out of her trance. She sat up straight, took a deep breath, and tried her best to look as relaxed as possible. The door swung open, and in stepped a tall, lanky officer with jet-black hair. His keys dangled from his belt loop, and they clanked at each movement, almost synchronizing with the pulsating that suddenly started in Tara’s head. He held the door open, looked toward Tara, and nodded––as if to say hello––and then turned toward the