CHAPTER FIVE
Morgan gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as the morning sun broke through the skyline of Dallas. Beside her, Derik stared out the window, his green eyes fixed on the city stirring to life. The car's engine hummed a low monotone, filling the void where conversation used to reside. They had left words unspoken, raw and festering from the night before.
She glanced at him, noting the shadow of stubble along his jawline and the dark circles that had become a permanent fixture under his eyes. He looked every bit the weary agent he was, a far cry from the man who had once betrayed her, the man she had somehow forgiven. Now they were here, together, yet miles apart, trapped in an oppressive silence that Morgan felt clung to her like a second skin.
Her mind wrestled against the lingering emotions, attempting to corral them into a corner of her consciousness. She needed to focus. The case demanded it. Rachel Marquez's death wasn't an accident—it couldn't be. Not with those symbols, crude and unsettling, marking each scene like a signature. Morgan's gaze returned to the road, following the lines that led them towards answers.
The air between them was charged with Derik's confession, the three words that had slipped from his lips and shattered their equilibrium. Love. It clawed at her, demanding attention she couldn't afford to give. She hadn't expected it, not from him, not after everything. And he had followed her, confirming her fears that even now, there were no secrets she could keep just for herself.
As the morning light washed over them, highlighting the stark interior of the car, Morgan let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The tension remained, but she pushed it down, deep within. There would be time for them to dissect last night, to explore the tangle of emotions and confessions. But not now.
Now, there was only the case—the deaths, the symbol, and the game being played out in the shadows of construction sites. Morgan turned a corner, the tires rolling smoothly over the asphalt that led them closer to the pit where a life had ended far too soon. Her resolve hardened; they would find the truth, no matter the cost.
Morgan's grip on the steering wheel tightened as the cityscape rolled past in a blur of concrete and early-morning shadows. Derik shifted beside her, his presence an unwelcome weight. The silence between them stretched thin until, at last, he shattered it with a sigh.
"Look, Morgan, I'm sorry for following you yesterday," Derik said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have done that."
She glanced his way, taking in the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. His eyes held a remorse that tempered her smoldering anger into something more akin to resignation. She understood his reasons—fear, perhaps love—but understanding didn't erase her frustration. Trust was a currency she valued highly, and his actions had devalued it significantly. Yet now wasn't the time to untangle the knots of betrayal and affection.
Morgan nodded once, brief and noncommittal. "We don't have to talk about it right now," she responded, her voice softer than she intended. There was a case to focus on, lives lost and secrets hidden deep within the city's underbelly. Personal complications could wait; they had to.
Derik exhaled, a long breath that seemed to carry away some of the tension that clung to him like a second skin. He leaned back, the lines of his body relaxing marginally as he settled into his seat. Their issues hung suspended between them, a storm cloud threatening to burst but held at bay by mutual, unspoken consent.
The car hummed along the road, carrying them closer to their destination. Morgan allowed herself a momentary glance at Derik, taking in his slicked-back hair and the professional attire that couldn't hide the evidence of sleepless nights. Despite everything, he was her partner—the man who had betrayed her, yet stood by her side through the darkness of her past.
As they neared the construction site, Morgan's mind snapped back to the task ahead. Rachel Marquez's death wasn't a simple accident—it was a message scrawled in blood and hidden symbols. They were dealing with a killer who spoke in riddles, who draped their acts in the guise of the occult. It was up to her and Derik to decipher the language of death that had been left for them to uncover.
Her resolve solidified, Morgan parked the car, then stepped out of the unmarked FBI sedan, her boots crunching on gravel and debris. The morning sun had barely crested the horizon, but its light was already struggling to penetrate the thick fog that clung to the skeletal framework of the new apartment complex. She scanned the area, taking note of the half-finished structures and the torn-up roads that cut through the site like open veins.
Derik followed, shutting the door with a soft thud that was swallowed by the expanse of the construction zone. The hum of machinery and distant shouts of workers clashed with the silence that seemed to press in from all sides. Morgan felt it, that eerie sensation that lingered where tragedy had struck.
"Agent Cross, Agent Greene," a local officer called, his uniform stark against the dirt and chaos around him.
"Officer," Morgan acknowledged.
The officer led them past the yellow tape that marked the boundaries of the crime scene. Morgan's gaze never wavered from the task ahead. Crime scenes were puzzles, and each piece brought her one step closer to understanding the twisted mind of their perpetrator. The sinking feeling in her gut told her this was more than an accident; it was staged with meticulous care.
"Where did they find her?" Morgan asked, keeping her questions direct, her tone even.
"Right ahead, ma'am," the officer pointed toward a section cordoned off at a distance. "Rachel Marquez fell into the pit during her nighttime jog, it seems."
Morgan nodded, storing away each detail. The ground beneath her feet crumbled slightly at the edge of the excavation—a reminder of how fragile the line between life and death could be in this place. She watched as Derik surveyed the scene, his face a mask of concentration, mirroring her own determination. They might have their personal issues, but when it came to work, they were in sync, two parts of a well-oiled machine.
As Morgan approached the perimeter of the pit, she eyed the markers and police tape, noting their positions. Someone had tampered with this scene before Rachel's arrival, someone who wanted to ensure her fate. The thought sent a cold surge through Morgan's veins. She knew the value of human life, having seen too much of it wasted, too much spilled in the pursuit of someone else's twisted agenda. And she would not rest until she found the person responsible for this.
Morgan stood at the edge of the pit, a deep void that marred the earth like an open secret. She leaned forward, her eyes tracing over the jagged perimeter where the ground had given way. Below, the dark outlines of dried blood contrasted sharply against the dirt—a stark testament to Rachel Marquez's final moments. The air was heavy with the scent of disturbed soil and something more acrid, perhaps the tang of fear that still lingered.
"Agent Cross?" The officer's voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"Go on," she prompted without looking up, her voice steady and clear.
"Construction crew had this area cordoned off." He gestured towards the pylons scattered haphazardly around them. "But someone moved them overnight."
"Deliberately?" Morgan's gaze finally shifted from the abyss to meet his.
"Seems so." He shuffled uncomfortably, aware of the implication.
She nodded once, sharply. In her mind, the pieces began to shift, clicking into place with the precision of a well-oiled mechanism. Someone wanted Rachel here, wanted her not just dead, but consumed by the bowels of the city.
"Any witnesses?" she asked, glancing back at the pit, as if it might cough up answers.
"None so far. Construction workers say they left everything secure last night."
"Secure," Morgan echoed, tasting the irony. Secure as the lies that had once caged her in stone and steel. But those days were behind her; now, she was the one who pursued truth, relentless as a hound on the scent.
Morgan scanned the area until she spotted a man in a hardhat, his face grim—likely someone she wanted to talk to. She approached the construction worker. He was a solidly built man in his early forties, with hands that spoke of hard labor and lines etched into his face from years of squinting against the glare of the sun. His eyes were heavy with concern, or perhaps it was guilt, as they shifted from Morgan to the abyss that had claimed Rachel Marquez.
"Morning," she greeted him, her tone businesslike. "I need to ask you about last night."
"Morning, Agent." The man wiped his palms on his jeans before extending one for a handshake. "Name's Brian. I was the last to leave yesterday."
"Brian," she nodded, skipping the handshake. "Tell me about the pylons and warning signs. Were they in place when you left?"
"Absolutely," he replied without hesitation. "We triple-checked everything. Safety's our top priority here, especially with all the holes we've been digging."
"Yet someone moved them between then and when Ms. Marquez went for her jog this morning," Morgan stated flatly, observing his reaction.
Brian's gaze dropped to the ground, his jaw tightening. "Can't believe anyone would do such a thing. It's sick."
"Anyone in particular you think might have done this?" Morgan pressed, searching his face for any sign of deception.
He shook his head slowly. "No, ma'am. We're like family here. Can't imagine any one of us..." His voice trailed off, leaving the accusation hanging in the air like the dust around them.
"Thank you, Brian," Morgan said, shifting gears. "Now, I need your help with something else."
"Anything to catch the bastard," Brian offered, eager to assist.
"Good. I want you to work with the forensics team," she instructed, pointing toward the group setting up near the pit. "They'll comb through the area. Look for any signs, pylons, anything that might have been moved last night. They’ll check them for fingerprints, disturbances in the dirt, anything out of place. Your job is to point out which ones you think have been moved or tampered with.”
"Got it," Brian responded, a new purpose firming his stance.
"Every detail could lead us to whoever is responsible," Morgan added, her dark eyes intense with the weight of experience. "We won't let them get away with this."
"Neither will I," he assured her, before heading towards the forensics team with a determined stride.
As Brian walked away, Morgan's gaze shifted from the retreating figure of the construction worker to the concrete wall that loomed nearby. The morning sun cast a harsh light on the black spray-painted symbol that marred its surface. It was a circular sigil, uneven and hastily drawn, with lines that jagged in some places and bled in others. Splatters of paint fanned out around it, proof of a rushed job. Morgan's jaw clenched as she stepped closer, her eyes tracing the contours of the symbol that had now become an ominous signature.
The symbol marked the second crime scene where it had been found, a mocking echo of the first. Despite its amateurish appearance, the symbol's presence sent a shiver down her spine. She had seen too much in her years as an agent to dismiss even the crudest clue. Each stroke of paint felt like an affront, a deliberate act of violence laid bare for all to see.
Derik approached, his eyes immediately drawn to the symbol. He stood silently next to Morgan, his own scrutiny mirroring hers. There was a momentary lull in the tension that had stretched between them since last night’s confrontation. Right now, they were two agents trying to unravel a mystery that was becoming increasingly disturbing. As they stood there, the weight of their personal conflicts receded, overshadowed by the urgency of the case.
Morgan's thoughts raced as she studied the symbol. It bore a resemblance to occult imagery—possibly Satanic—but nothing about it was definitive. It was the sloppiness that gnawed at her, the clear indication that whoever had left this mark hadn't bothered with precision. That lack of care could point to someone unskilled or unfamiliar with the symbol's true meaning. Or it could be a sign of haste, a need to leave a message before fleeing the scene. Either possibility hinted at a trait of the perpetrator that could prove crucial.
The ungainly nature of the sigil contrasted sharply with the calculated movement of the warning signs. Whoever had done this had taken a risk, altering the construction site to turn it into a death trap. The incongruity of the messy symbol and the meticulous setup of the accident didn't escape Morgan. It suggested a duality within the suspect—a blend of impulsiveness and control—that made them unpredictable and dangerous.
Morgan's fingers traced the outline of the sigil, her touch light as if to avoid contaminating any invisible evidence that might cling to the rough surface. Derik stood beside her, squinting in concentration under the morning sun.
"Could be a signature," he suggested quietly, his words barely rising above the hum of machinery.
"Or a distraction," Morgan countered, her brow furrowed. The symbol was a riddle wrapped in spray paint—a deliberate mark left at multiple crime scenes but executed with what appeared to be reckless haste. "If it's a message, it's one we're meant to see." She turned to him, their eyes meeting in silent agreement. They needed to decode the meaning behind this crude circle, determine its place in the killer's twisted narrative. “Either way, we need to find out what this symbol means. Let’s get back to the lab.”