Page 31 of Forever Dead

“And,” Morimer added, “I’ll have to send some friends to visit the man.”

Connor’s attention sharpened. “What does that mean?”

“It means he won’t walk again.”

“You touch him and I’ll bury you.”

“Careful.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

Connor sat forward. “I don’t want to be involved in any of this.”

“Get it done.”

“Morimer, listen to me.”

The line went dead.

Connor kept the phone against his ear for several seconds before lowering it.

The call screen vanished.

His reflection showed faintly in the dark glass of the phone, but he turned it over on the passenger seat.

For years he had told himself there was a line between surviving and becoming like the men who had worn the badge before him. He had crossed plenty of smaller lines in his life. He had made bad decisions, hurt people he loved, let anger steer him when judgment should have taken over.

Becoming sheriff had been different.

That had been the part he got right.

He had worked for it. Stayed clean when shortcuts would have been easier. Taken abuse from people who remembered every mistake he had made before the badge and expected him to repeat them. He had promised himself that nobody would own him.

Especially not Walton Morimer.

The six thousand dollars had seemed like one compromised decision made for the right reason. A suspect needed to be found. Time had mattered. Connor had believed he could use Morimer once and walk away.

Now he understood what Morimer had understood from the beginning.

There was no once.

Connor stared through the windshield at the road beyond the parking lot. He could refuse and risk the video. Tell the FBI first and hope they believed him. Tell Selena. Tell Arnold. Put everything in the open before Morimer could control the story.

Then Malone would pay for it.

Morimer had made sure of that, too.

Connor rested both hands on the steering wheel.

He had worked too hard to become a sheriff who belonged to no one.

Now it felt as if he had stepped into a trap and heard it close behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE

By seven that evening, Selena had given up pretending she was going to rest. The television was on, but she had not followed anything happening on it for the last twenty minutes. Her knee ached from the walk earlier, and her wrist had begun its familiar dull throb after the exercises her physical therapist insisted she keep doing. The sensible thing would have been to take the pain medication, put her leg up and let Eric inflict another old horror movie on her from the safety of the recliner.