Read Online The Wrong Side of Dead by Jordan Dane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jordan Dane
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night, the neon cast a sickly red pallor onto the gnomes and reflected off the windshields of the three cars parked in the lot. No sign of activity or Harper’s Mustang. Maybe the murder, and its crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze, had deterred the usual patrons who rented rooms by the hour.
Jess checked her Colt Python, slipped out of her van, and locked up. She pulled her black White Sox ball cap down over her eyes and slipped through the shadows along the perimeter of the property, trailing an old cyclone fence toward the rear. If there was a back way in, she preferred to take it, but there wasn’t. She was disappointed not to find a way into the crime scene from the more private rear of the property. She headed for the only way in.
Nothing like a little B&E before hitting the sack.
Jess walked around the front of the motel, acting as if she belonged. When she got close to the crime-scene tape across room number six, she retrieved her lock pick and got to work. Seconds later, she had the door wedged open, but an overzealous CSI tech had crisscrossed the entry with an overabundance of yellow barrier tape. Clipped to her jeans pocket, she carried a small knife. She used it to cut the tape, at least enough for her to squeeze through.
Once she got inside, Jess had to hold her breath. The unmistakable smell of death hung heavy in the room. An odor no one ever forgot.
Jess let the darkness close in, her vision adjusting to the pitch black. She crossed the room to close the drapes and flicked on her small flashlight. The dim light shed a frightening pallor over the scene. Blood had dried to dark burgundy and brown with castoff stains and crimson shoe prints marring the carpet, but as she headed for the bathroom, the blood splatter gripped her heart in its cruel fist.
In the dark, a flood of memories came back to haunt her. Her heart rate and breathing escalated out of control. Images of her dead tormentor’s face raced out of the shadows, forcing her to flinch. And she felt his hands on her, still. Jess hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. In her line of work, she never had to deal with dead bodies or this much blood.
She shut her eyes and clutched her hands together to stop them from shaking. In her head, the horror of the dead woman’s last moments played out like a sick replay—her muffled screams, the terror in her eyes, the meaty sound of a knife striking her body again and again, and the frantic thrum of blood flung onto the walls and ceiling.
Unable to stand, Jess dropped to a knee and lowered her head, trying to stop the images from invading her mind. She forced herself to breathe, slow and easy, trying to quell a low and rumbling wave of nausea. She hated feeling this vulnerable…again.
Harper had nothing to do with the murder—but even as much as she wanted to clear him—Jess knew she had to take her investigation a step further. She had to hunt down the real killer. Whoever had done this had crossed her path, brutally taken a life, and framed a friend to get away with it.
And that was enough to really piss her off.
Jess left the motel office, knowing she’d hit another dead end. She drove the van from the motel parking lot and pulled onto a dark stretch of road, heading for home. It had been a long day, made worse by the deep exhaustion she felt in her bones and a troubled mind that wouldn’t quit.
She grappled with the horror of the bloodied room, unable to leave it behind.
The smell of violent death had embedded in her nostrils and permeated her clothes. And from the shadows inside the van, images from her past continued to assault her memory. Distant and muffled screams in the middle of the night, a crying child she couldn’t comfort, the heavy footsteps on wood that signaled more terror—all of these memories jutted from the gloom in strobe flashes. An unhealed wound exposed by her traumatized psyche.
With her thoughts scattered, she drove the murky two-lane highway of mostly
Jess checked her Colt Python, slipped out of her van, and locked up. She pulled her black White Sox ball cap down over her eyes and slipped through the shadows along the perimeter of the property, trailing an old cyclone fence toward the rear. If there was a back way in, she preferred to take it, but there wasn’t. She was disappointed not to find a way into the crime scene from the more private rear of the property. She headed for the only way in.
Nothing like a little B&E before hitting the sack.
Jess walked around the front of the motel, acting as if she belonged. When she got close to the crime-scene tape across room number six, she retrieved her lock pick and got to work. Seconds later, she had the door wedged open, but an overzealous CSI tech had crisscrossed the entry with an overabundance of yellow barrier tape. Clipped to her jeans pocket, she carried a small knife. She used it to cut the tape, at least enough for her to squeeze through.
Once she got inside, Jess had to hold her breath. The unmistakable smell of death hung heavy in the room. An odor no one ever forgot.
Jess let the darkness close in, her vision adjusting to the pitch black. She crossed the room to close the drapes and flicked on her small flashlight. The dim light shed a frightening pallor over the scene. Blood had dried to dark burgundy and brown with castoff stains and crimson shoe prints marring the carpet, but as she headed for the bathroom, the blood splatter gripped her heart in its cruel fist.
In the dark, a flood of memories came back to haunt her. Her heart rate and breathing escalated out of control. Images of her dead tormentor’s face raced out of the shadows, forcing her to flinch. And she felt his hands on her, still. Jess hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. In her line of work, she never had to deal with dead bodies or this much blood.
She shut her eyes and clutched her hands together to stop them from shaking. In her head, the horror of the dead woman’s last moments played out like a sick replay—her muffled screams, the terror in her eyes, the meaty sound of a knife striking her body again and again, and the frantic thrum of blood flung onto the walls and ceiling.
Unable to stand, Jess dropped to a knee and lowered her head, trying to stop the images from invading her mind. She forced herself to breathe, slow and easy, trying to quell a low and rumbling wave of nausea. She hated feeling this vulnerable…again.
Harper had nothing to do with the murder—but even as much as she wanted to clear him—Jess knew she had to take her investigation a step further. She had to hunt down the real killer. Whoever had done this had crossed her path, brutally taken a life, and framed a friend to get away with it.
And that was enough to really piss her off.
Jess left the motel office, knowing she’d hit another dead end. She drove the van from the motel parking lot and pulled onto a dark stretch of road, heading for home. It had been a long day, made worse by the deep exhaustion she felt in her bones and a troubled mind that wouldn’t quit.
She grappled with the horror of the bloodied room, unable to leave it behind.
The smell of violent death had embedded in her nostrils and permeated her clothes. And from the shadows inside the van, images from her past continued to assault her memory. Distant and muffled screams in the middle of the night, a crying child she couldn’t comfort, the heavy footsteps on wood that signaled more terror—all of these memories jutted from the gloom in strobe flashes. An unhealed wound exposed by her traumatized psyche.
With her thoughts scattered, she drove the murky two-lane highway of mostly
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