Page 6 of Forever Dead

No voice spoke. Pressure tightened beneath her jaw. Eleanor kicked once and caught nothing.

The crucifix flashed through her mind. Her father’s thumb rubbing the dark wood.

Fear is useful only if it makes you sensible.

She tried to draw breath and could not.

The hands twisted.

The last thing Eleanor Marsh heard was the violent snap of her own neck.

CHAPTER ONE

Five weeks after the injuries from the last case, Selena Raven had developed a strong dislike of mornings.

Not because they hurt more than the rest of the day, although sometimes they did. Mornings simply made it impossible to pretend she had anything useful to do.

She sat in the recliner wedged beside the window of her room at the Wilson Motel, one leg stretched out in front of her and the television playing with the sound muted. The brace around her right knee had shifted during the night, leaving an angry line pressed into the skin above it. Her left wrist was free of the cast now, but it remained stiff and weak, with a deep ache whenever she forgot herself and reached too quickly.

Five weeks had been long enough for the motel room to acquire the clutter of recovery. Prescription bottles stood beside the lamp. Printed rehabilitation exercises were folded on the dresser. An ice pack occupied the miniature freezer compartment, and the rubber hand grip her physical therapist had given her sat where she could not conveniently pretend to forget it. Neither the wrist nor the knee had healed, whatever improvement she could see from one week to the next. The brace was still a requirement whenever she was on her feet, and the cane had become the first thing she reached for before moving anywhere.

That irritated her almost as much as being unable to work. The Bureau had made their position clear: no field work, no checking in on cases, no finding harmless reasons to stop by the sheriff's office and ask questions. Recovery first. Selena understood the logic. Understanding it had done nothing for her mood.

The recliner had become her bed because sleeping properly had turned into an exercise in frustration. Two pillows under the knee. One beneath the wrist. Another behind her back. By the third night she had spent more time arranging cushions than sleeping, and the brace made turning over nearly impossible. The chair was ugly, faded brown and probably older than half the motel’s guests, but it let her keep the leg where it needed to be.

Eric had hauled it out of the reception room when she told him she was sleeping in forty-minute stretches. Selena had protested, Eric had ignored her, and neither of them had raised the subject again.

A knock sounded at the door.

Selena stared at the clock on the dresser. A little after nine.

“Coming.”

Standing required its own sequence now. She lowered the footrest, planted her good foot, reached for the cane propped against the chair, and pushed herself upright. Her knee objected before she had taken a full step.

“Yeah, good morning to you, too.”

The room was small, and the walk to the door should have taken seconds. Using a cane for the distance still felt ridiculous.

At the peephole, Selena leaned in and found Jessie, her best friend and Connor’s sister, outside holding a paper bag against her hip. She unlocked the door.

Jessie smiled. “How you feeling today?”

“Still miserable. Can’t work. Can’t sleep. Just vegetating.”

“I guess that’s peaceful in a kind of way.”

“For broccoli, maybe. Not for me.”

Jessie lifted the bag. “I brought medical supplies.”

The smell coming from it told Selena exactly what kind.

“Waffles?”

“These are from Hank at the diner.”

Selena stepped aside. “It would be rude not to accept a gift.”