CHAPTER FOUR
Morgan pushed open the heavy door to Mueller's office, her footsteps muted against the thick carpet. The events of the previous night clung to her like a second skin, the tension coiled within her chest. Amid the scattered papers and files atop Mueller’s desk sat Derik, his presence striking an immediate chord.
Their gazes locked, a silent storm brewing in that brief exchange. A thousand words hovered unspoken between them, a gulf of emotions left raw and unresolved. But as FBI agents, they had mastered the art of burying personal turmoil beneath a veneer of professionalism. With a practiced ease, Morgan smoothed her expression into one of detached focus and moved forward.
She took the chair beside Derik, steeling herself against the proximity. The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with unaddressed grievances. Yet there was a case at hand, a purpose that demanded attention beyond their entangled lives.
Mueller, the embodiment of authority with his mustache and graying hair, acknowledged her with a nod. His desk, a landscape of chaos, betrayed no sign of his awareness of the tension that crackled silently between his two agents. Or perhaps, in his position, he'd learned the art of selective blindness when convenient.
"Thank you both for being prompt," Mueller said, his voice cutting through the strained silence. He spared no time for pleasantries, diving straight into the heart of the matter. Eyes fixed on Morgan and then Derik, he spoke with the gravity reserved for situations that bore the weight of potential tragedy.
"Let's get down to it," Mueller began, his tone leaving no room for the personal distractions that clouded the minds of those before him. The urgency in his voice served as a reminder of the stakes at play. They were not just agents; they were guardians against the shadows that preyed upon the innocent.
Morgan felt the shift in the room, the subtle realignment of priorities as she and Derik set aside the remnants of their private conflict. They were united once more by the call of duty. It was the foundation upon which their partnership, however fraught, was built. In the business of life and death, there was no space for anything less.
Mueller leaned forward, his eyes scanning the reports before him. "Yesterday evening," he began, his voice steady and deliberate, "Elizabeth Harmon was found dead at a construction site on the outskirts of town." Morgan's gaze sharpened as Mueller continued. "She fell into an open pit—around 10 pm according to the coroner."
"Wasn't the site secured?" Derik interjected.
"Should have been," Mueller replied, pressing a fingertip onto the grainy photograph of a fenced-off area littered with warning signs. "The crew claims they followed all protocols. But somehow, Elizabeth didn’t heed, or she didn't see those warnings."
Morgan studied the photo, noting the weathered barriers, the stark orange against the night. She could almost feel the chill of the Dallas autumn air, the kind that whispered warnings of its own. Her jaw tightened—a reflex when details didn't line up—and she imagined Elizabeth’s final moments, confusion and fear etched into the darkness.
"Accident?" she asked, though her instincts prickled with doubt.
"We thought so," Mueller answered, his mustache twitching slightly—a telltale sign he was about to deliver unsettling news. "Until this morning."
Morgan waited, a coil tightening in her gut.
"Rachel Marquez," Mueller said, sliding another photo across the desk, "found near a different site. Early jogger. Same m.o.—an unexpected detour, leading her straight into a pit dug by construction workers."
"Coincidence?" Derik pondered aloud, but Morgan's thoughts were already racing ahead. Patterns emerged where chaos reigned, and her mind worked relentlessly to piece together the disparate threads of occurrences most would dismiss as unrelated.
"Two young women," she murmured, tracing the outline of the second construction zone with a finger. "Both ending up dead under unusual circumstances, near places that should've been safe."
"Exactly," Mueller confirmed, his voice carrying an edge of frustration. "That's why we need to tread carefully. One accident is misfortune; two starts to look like something else entirely."
Derik's skepticism hung in the air like a stubborn fog, his voice tinged with an edge that didn't quite fit the professional facade he was struggling to maintain. "Accidents happen," he said, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. "People take wrong turns all the time." Morgan watched him closely, noting how he avoided her gaze, the lines on his face drawn tight. His reaction felt like a deflection, a subconscious armor against their unresolved personal turmoil.
"Perhaps," Morgan replied, her tone even, but her thoughts betrayed her. She couldn't shake the feeling that Derik's doubt was more than mere professional dissent—it was a shield raised against vulnerability, a way for him to regain some semblance of control after their emotionally charged dispute. She could see the turmoil beneath his tired eyes, a storm that mirrored her own internal conflict.
Mueller, however, seemed uninterested in entertaining theories that leaned towards happenstance. The assistant director's mustache bristled as he leaned forward, hands clasped firmly on the desk cluttered with case files and scattered reports. He had the look of a man who had stumbled upon something that unsettled even his seasoned composure.
"Your point would stand," Mueller began, his voice steady, "if it weren't for this." From a manila envelope, he produced a series of photographs, each one displaying a black symbol, stark against the concrete background. They was a sigil, a pentagram encased with a circle, its presence at both scenes an ominous herald that accidents were not the culprit here.
"Found near where each woman died," Mueller continued, his eyes locked on Morgan's. "Deliberate placement, not random graffiti. It suggests intent."
Morgan leaned slightly forward, absorbing the gravity of Mueller's revelation. These symbols were a statement, a silent scream in the darkness that resonated with a chilling familiarity. Her skin prickled with the suspicion that these deaths were part of a narrative far more sinister than anyone had anticipated.
"Symbols," she murmured, the word tasting like lead on her tongue. This was a language of warning, or worse, of invitation. Whoever had painted them had known exactly what they were doing—guiding their victims to a preordained end.
"Exactly," Mueller said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken fears. "And that changes everything."
Mueller reached for a manila folder, its edges worn from handling. He peeled it open with practiced fingers, and without a word, he fanned out a series of glossy photographs across the cluttered surface of his desk. The images, stark against the paperwork beneath them, depicted sigils sprayed in black. Each one was a labyrinth of lines and curves, imbued with a darkness that seemed to leech the light from the room.
Morgan leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she dissected each photograph. The patterns were intricate, weaving an uneasy familiarity through her thoughts. They evoked memories of cases long past, of symbols she'd seen in the margins of criminal dossiers—occult, possibly Satanic. But they remained just outside her grasp, tauntingly elusive.
"Any idea what these represent?" she queried, her voice steady despite the disquiet that the images stirred within her.
Mueller watched her, his expression unreadable behind his mustache. "That's what we need to find out," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of speculation, a stark contrast to the complexity of the images.
"Could someone be using these signs to lure victims?" Morgan pressed on, her mind racing with the implications. The thought of such calculated malevolence sent a shiver down her spine. It was more than just premeditation; it was choreography—a dance of death orchestrated by someone who understood the power of misdirection.
Mueller shuffled the photos, gathering them back into the folder as if to compartmentalize the darkness they held. "Possibly," he admitted, though his tone suggested reluctance to commit to any one theory. "What we do know is that Rachel Marquez's body was found this morning. The scene hasn't been compromised yet. If there are answers, they're waiting for us out there."
Morgan's gaze lingered on Derik for a moment, detecting a shift in him. The symbols had rattled him; the uncertainty in his eyes was uncharacteristic of the man she knew to be composed under pressure. She could sense the gears turning in his head as he reevaluated their earlier exchange. Derik's skepticism, once a wall of resistance, now seemed permeated by the gravity of their situation. Morgan's own thoughts raced, piecing together the sinister puzzle that sprawled out before them—two women, two deaths, both shrouded in enigmatic designs that whispered of darker intentions.
As she sat there, the room seemed to contract around her, every detail sharpening into focus. The way Derik subconsciously tapped his finger on the desk's edge, the faint smell of antiseptic from the nearby hand sanitizer, it all anchored her back to reality—the reality that they were potentially hunting someone who used the city as a stage for a macabre performance. A killer with a penchant for theatrics and an appetite for misdirection.
The silence stretched between them, laden with the unspoken acknowledgment that whatever laid ahead, it was beyond the realm of ordinary crime. The images of the sigils, like a sordid calligraphy, haunted the edges of her vision. They were a message or a signature; either way, it meant somebody was playing a game—one that cost lives.
Derik finally met her gaze directly, the barrier of his stubbornness now seemingly dismantled by the shared urgency of their task. "We need to figure this out," he said, his voice low but firm. It was the closest thing to an olive branch that the moment allowed.
Morgan felt the familiar surge of determination stiffen her spine. Personal grievances had no place here—not when lives hung in the balance. She nodded curtly, affirming the truce that necessity had brokered.
"Agreed," she replied, standing up. Her movements were precise, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within her. As Derik followed suit, rising to his full height beside her, they shared a look that sealed their commitment to the case—and to each other, albeit grudgingly.
The tension that laced the air between them was still palpable, but it was different now. It was not just about their past or their personal demons. It was about something much bigger than either of them. And as they stepped away from Mueller's desk, heading toward the door with stoic resolve, Morgan understood that the path they were about to walk would test them in ways they couldn't yet fathom.
Their strides matched in rhythm, agents with a common purpose, Morgan and Derik left the office with the weight of the unknown bearing down on them. Whatever waited at the crime scene, whatever clues might emerge from the shadows, one thing was clear: the hunt was on, and it promised to be neither simple nor safe.