CHAPTER THREE
By the time Selena left the state road and crossed into land she knew too well, it was bathed in the golden and purple light of dusk.
The light lay low across the fields, catching on wire fences, tin roofs, and the upper branches of trees that lined the road.
Hay fields rolled away on either side of the car, their edges already cooling into shadow.
Beyond them, wooded ridges rose in dark green layers, the same ridges she had seen from school buses, porch steps, passenger seats, and once from the back of Connor Chase’s truck when they were young enough to think every road led somewhere better.
Last time she had made this drive, every mile had felt like a warning.
Tonight, that feeling had changed.
The FBI had provided the car at Knoxville after her flight touched down.
A dark blue sedan that was clean enough to suggest nobody had yet dropped fast food between the seats.
The three-hour drive had been long enough to leave her shoulders sore, but somewhere after the second county line the tension had begun to loosen.
Harlan County had a way of taking up space inside a person before they realized they had let it back in.
The road curved past a cattle pasture where the grass had gone bright at the tips.
A farmhouse sat beyond it, white siding washed warm by the last of the sun.
A woman in a red shirt stood near a clothesline, taking in towels before night settled.
Two children chased each other around an old tractor tire half-buried in the yard.
Selena slowed without meaning to.
Ordinary life kept going, even when murder waited a few miles up the road.
Warren Holt was dead. Somewhere ahead, Connor Chase would be working the scene, making calls, holding his county steady while people whispered at gas pumps and in checkout lines. By tomorrow, the town of Elmsview would know enough to be frightened and not enough to be useful.
A killing in Harlan County never stayed private for long.
Her phone sat in the cup holder, screen black. No message or call from Connor. Official channels had brought her here, and part of her respected him for that. Another part, less fair and harder to silence, wondered what it meant that he hadn’t reached out himself.
Would she have preferred that?
That was dangerous thinking.
A sign appeared ahead.
ELMSVIEW
2 MILES
The sight brought a warmth she had not prepared for.
Selena had spent years treating this place like a wound she could manage by refusing to touch it.
Then the Nolan Pruitt case had dragged her home a few months ago, and the county had not ruined her the way she had feared.
It had hurt her. It had challenged her. It had made her look at Connor, her father, Diane, her friend Jessie, and herself with less certainty than she liked. But it had also given something back.
That was the part she did not know what to do with.
A mile later, she considered turning toward her father’s house.
Robert Raven would be on the porch if he felt well enough. If not, he would be in his chair by the front window, pretending he had not been watching the road. He would smile when he saw her. Call her Lena. Tell her she should have said she was coming even though the surprise would please him.
The thought pressed under her ribs. She wasn’t sure how much time she’d have for family while working. For the first time, she resented that.
Then her sister Diane entered the picture.
Diane would be there too, perhaps in the kitchen, perhaps at the table with bills and pill bottles and the kind of responsibilities Selena had spent years managing badly from a distance. They had not spoken properly in too long beyond a few courtesies by phone about their dad.
Turning up at dusk with an FBI case and a suitcase felt like stepping on toes that had already been bruised.
No.
Not tonight.
Her father deserved better than being used as shelter.
Diane deserved warning. Selena could tell herself she was being considerate, but a murkier truth sat beneath that.
She was afraid of starting the family part of this return before she had armor back in place.
The armor that fifteen years in Washington D.C. had given her.
The Wilson Motel sign appeared near the edge of town, its red lettering lit against the deepening sky.
VACANCY
One side of the sign flickered, the same as before.
Selena smiled despite herself. “Of course.”
The motel sat low beside the road, a row of numbered doors facing a cracked parking lot.
The paint still needed work. The soda machine outside the reception office still hummed with one dead panel.
A pickup stood near Room 8, and an old sedan with a taped rear window occupied the far end.
Nothing about the place looked improved.
In its own stubborn way, that comforted her.
Selena parked near reception and stepped out.
Warm evening air held the dry sweetness of cut hay and road dust. Somewhere down the street, a bird sang for a moment and then went quiet. From behind the office window came the faint sound of music, too dramatic and tinny to be anything other than Eric Wilson’s love of old B-movies.
The bell over the reception door gave a dull clack as Selena entered.
Behind the counter, sure enough, Eric Wilson sat with his feet propped on a lower shelf, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach.
The television on the counter faced him, showing a black-and-white castle corridor and a woman running in shoes no sensible person would wear near stairs. Eric did not look away from the screen.
“Good evening,” he said. “Ya looking for a room?”
Selena paused just inside the door.
His reflection showed in the dark edge of the television screen. Receding brown hair with more gray than last time. Glasses low on his nose. A mustache that looked recently grown and still under review.
“You grew a mustache,” Selena said. “Anything else changed around here?”
Eric jolted upright. Popcorn slid off his shirt and scattered across the floor.
He turned too fast, then grinned with the kind of relief that would have embarrassed another man. “Selena!”
“That’s me.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Eric brushed kernels from his chest, then tried to smooth his hair as if the gesture might reverse several hours of leaning in a chair. The glasses came off next. “Great to see you. Couldn’t resist the old Eric Wilson charm, eh? You just had to come back.”
Selena laughed and crossed to the counter. “You don’t need to take your glasses off on account of me.”
“Nah. I only use them when I’m watching TV.” He folded them and set them beside the register. “At least that’s a promise I’ve made to myself.”
“It’s good to see you.”
Eric leaned one elbow on the counter. “What brings you back to Elmsview?”
“Work again.”
His smile shifted. Not gone, but edged with curiosity. “Should I ask?”
“No.”
“Can I ask?”
“You can.”
“Will you answer?”
“No.”
Eric nodded as if this were a fair negotiation. “I’ll hear it from the town gossips tomorrow anyway.”
“Probably before breakfast.”
“Before breakfast if Mabel Hardy knows. Before midnight if my daughter checks her phone.”
Selena glanced toward the room behind the counter. “She still working here?”
“When she feels like the family business is worthy of her presence.” Eric looked toward the office door as though she might appear and defend herself. “She’s at her aunt’s tonight. Which means I can watch quality cinema in peace.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
On the television, the running woman looked over her shoulder and screamed. A creature lurched after her, all rubber limbs and badly matched fabric. One arm appeared longer than the other.
Eric pointed at the screen. “That is pure handcrafted entertainment.”
“That monster looks like someone built it during a lunch break.”
“You’re missing the magic.”
The ease of the exchange surprised her. Last time, Eric's attention had carried the weight of old high school memory and midlife loneliness.
That was still there, somewhere behind his eyes, but the moment felt lighter now, maybe because she had known what to expect, maybe because returning by choice changed the temperature of things, even when murder had caused the trip.
Eric ducked below the counter and came back up holding a bottle. “I still got the good stuff, like last time.”
The label faced her.
Lagavulin.
Selena raised an eyebrow. “You keep that under the desk for all returning FBI agents?”
“Only for old Elmsview High alumni.”
He set two glasses on the counter and poured before she could tell him not to. The measure was modest, which she appreciated. Eric pushed one toward her.
Selena looked at it for a moment.
A long drive behind her. A murder ahead. Connor is somewhere in the middle of it. Her father is close enough to visit, her sister is close enough to disappoint.
One drink would not change any of that.
She picked up the glass.
“To your mustache,” she said.
Eric touched his glass to hers. “May it outlast public criticism.”
“It won’t.”
“No, probably not.”
The whiskey hit warm and smoky, settling through the road-weariness in her chest. Good. Better than motel reception had any right to offer.
Eric took his own sip and turned toward the television. “Now, can I interest you in Bikini Vampires from the Fourth Dimension?”
Selena looked at the screen.
The woman had reached a castle chamber filled with cardboard pillars. Her outfit appeared to have been designed by someone with strong opinions and limited fabric. The monster entered behind her, its head wobbling slightly as it passed through a doorway.
“Eric, that creature is made of tape and paper-maché.”
“Budget constraints are part of the charm.”
“It has three eyebrows.”
“Fourth-dimensional vampires evolve differently than here in Elmsview.”
“Do they?”
“I assume. The film’s unclear.”
A laugh escaped Selena, brief but real.
Eric noticed. His grin softened around the edges. “There it is.”
“What?”
“You laughing. Last time you came through, you looked like you were walking into a root canal with luggage.”
“That was accurate.”
“And now?”
“I’m not sure. It definitely feels better coming home this time, though I wish it were under other circumstances.”
“Another?”
Selena set the glass down. “As tempting as the invitation is, I really need to hit the hay. I’m up early.”
Eric sighed as if personally wounded by her priorities.
He turned to the key rack, scanning the brass tags. “Same room as last time?”
“Why break a habit?”
“For you.” Eric took down the key and set it on the counter. “Room five. Maybe we should rename it the Selena Raven suite.”
“Suite is pushing it.”
“I could put a sign on the door.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. I’m already picturing tasteful lettering.”
“Eric.”
“Fine. No sign.” He slid the key closer. “But it’s nice to have you back.”
The words contained more sincerity than flirtation. Selena picked up the key and met his eyes.
“Thanks.”
A small pause followed.
Eric broke it first, because Eric Wilson seemed physically unable to leave a moment alone. “Remember, I’m here if you change your mind.”
“About the movie?”
“About the movie. About the whiskey. About the company. I’m versatile.”
“You never quit.”
“Nope.”
Selena shook her head. “Good night, Eric.”
“Good night, Selena.”
The bell clacked again as she stepped outside.
Evening had deepened while she was in reception.
The motel lot sat under the glow of two wall lamps that made small islands of light beneath them.
Moths tapped against the glass covers. Beyond the rooms, the road carried an occasional vehicle past town, headlights sliding over the motel front and moving on.
Room five waited three doors down.
The key turned with the same stiff complaint she remembered. Selena pushed the door open and reached inside for the lamp switch.
Yellow light filled the room.
Nothing had changed.
Same bedspread with its faded pattern. Same wooden dresser with a scratch near the handle. Same small table by the window. Same framed print of a lake that looked too blue to be real. The curtains hung a little unevenly, and the air conditioner beneath the window rattled when she turned it on.
The room had become a marker without asking permission. Last time, she had slept here as a stranger returning under protest, carrying an FBI file and a decade and a half of avoidance. Now she stood in the same doorway months later, back in Harlan County for another murder.
Selena set her bag on the bed.
The room received her without judgment, which was more than she could say for people.
A quick inspection showed clean sheets, two towels in the bathroom, and a soap bar wrapped in paper by the sink. Good enough. More than good enough for what the night required.
She removed her jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Her phone came out next. No messages from Meg. No messages from Connor about the murder of Warren Holt.
The absence irritated her, then embarrassed her.
Connor had done this properly. He had called Meg. He had not turned a homicide into a personal summons. That was exactly what he should have done.
Selena sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped in the same tired way as before.
Tomorrow, she would see him.
The thought arrived plain, impossible to dress up as professional concern. Connor in his office. Connor at a crime scene. Connor looking at her with that measured restraint he used when too much history stood between them and there were other people in the room.
Unease came first.
Then something warmer followed close behind.
That was the part she needed to watch.
Excitement had no place near a murder investigation. Neither did old longing, wounded pride, unfinished love, or whatever shape Connor Chase still occupied in her life. Cases punished distraction.
Outside, a car passed on the road, its sound rising and fading.
Selena looked toward the window, where the curtains hid the town beyond.
Back again.
The words formed without sound.
Back for Warren Holt. Back for her father. Back for Diane, if she could find the courage to knock on that door properly. Back for Connor, though she would not have admitted that to anyone.
Not yet.
The motel room hummed around her, small and familiar and temporary.
Selena rested both hands on the bedspread and let the conflicting feelings settle where they wanted.
Unease and anticipation.
A potent mix.
She would have to be careful with both.