Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Morgan maneuvered the sedan through the thickening traffic, her hands steady on the wheel despite the turmoil churning within. Derik sat beside her, his gaze lost in the gathering clouds that painted the afternoon sky a foreboding shade of gray. The city's usual sounds were muffled by the impending storm, as if the world held its breath in anticipation.

"Looks like it could break any minute now," Derik muttered, breaking the silence between them. He didn't need to specify whether he referred to the storm or their case; both hung over them with equal weight.

As they approached the underpass on the far east end of town, Morgan's grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was where Drew Swanson claimed to have seen the symbol that had become the macabre signature of their killer. Her mind raced with possibilities, with the hope that this lead would bring them closer to the answers she desperately sought—not just for this case, but for the redemption of her own sullied past.

The car rolled to a stop at the mouth of the underpass. Ahead, the concrete expanse loomed like a cavernous maw, ready to swallow them whole. Morgan cut the engine, and for a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant rumble of thunder.

Derik turned to her, searching her face. "You okay?"

She met his gaze, recognizing the concern that lay beneath his professional veneer. "We've got a job to do," she said simply, her voice edged with steel.

They exited the vehicle, the humidity enveloping them like a second skin. With each step towards the underpass, the tension between them grew taut, a silent acknowledgment that they were delving into dangerous territory once again. It wasn't just the threat of physical danger—it was the gnawing uncertainty, the fear that even with all their efforts, they might still be no closer to catching a killer.

Morgan scanned the walls, searching for the symbol amidst the layers of tags and scribbles, a symbol that now bore the weight of death. Her gaze was methodic, practiced; she had learned long ago how to look beyond the surface, to find patterns in the chaos. But the underpass was reluctant to yield its secrets, each step forward revealing nothing but more questions.

Morgan's keen eyes detected the minute shift in her environment, an instinctive grasp for a weapon that no longer existed. Her reinstatement into the FBI hadn't managed to shake off the old reflexes that clung like phantoms. The soft echo of movement came from a cluster of drifters, their faces etched by life's harsh lessons, mirroring the crumbling city around them. As Morgan and Derik's gaze intercepted theirs, a wordless pact sparked briefly before these silhouettes withdrew into the secluded gloom beneath the bridge.

"Probably more spooked by our badges than we are by their appearance," Derik whispered, his voice barely disturbing the silence as though wary of rousing ghosts they had just brushed past.

"We're not here to scare off every Tom, Dick and Harry," Morgan retorted succinctly, her resolve undeterred by this ephemeral interruption. In this forsaken corner of town, power was only as useful as the trouble it drew—she had no desire to wield it against those merely fighting to survive.

They moved forward, each step intentional. Morgan's sharp gaze dissected the graffiti-covered concrete. Gang symbols, crude love notes, cryptic musings—none provided her needed answer. Derik also studied the visual mess, his weary eyes scanning, seeking sense in the chaos.

The drizzle began as a whisper against the concrete, droplets peppering the ground with an almost apologetic touch. Time dragged on, each minute stretching like taffy, and Morgan's jaw clenched in sync with the ticking seconds. Her eyes narrowed, sifting through the disorderly mosaic of urban art that clamored for attention on the walls. Derik moved beside her, a silent shadow against the grey pallor of the afternoon.

"Anything?" he asked, his voice barely carrying over the now steady patter of rain.

"Nothing," Morgan replied, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She knew frustration all too well—its sharp edges had been constant companions during her years behind bars—and now it gnawed at her insides, a bitter reminder of time wasted and stakes rising.

As they prepared to leave the underpass, resignation like a heavy cloak upon their shoulders, Morgan caught a glimpse of something incongruous—a dark shape peeking from beneath a cluster of weeds. Instinct took over, honed by years of searching for truths others wished to keep buried.

"Wait," she said, a new edge of resolve in her tone. Derik paused, watching as she crouched down, her hands reaching into the damp greenery. She pushed aside the wet leaves, the motion deliberate, revealing what lay hidden beneath.

There it was, the enigma they had been chasing: a symbol spray-painted in tar-black strokes upon the pillar's base. It was worn by weather and time, its lines blurred, yet its design remained distinct, recognizable from the crime scenes that haunted their investigation. The sight struck through Morgan like ice. This was the spot where someone had once declared their presence to the world, a declaration that had morphed into an omen of death.

"Derik," she said, her voice steady but laced with the gravity of their find. "Look at this."

He knelt beside her, his gaze following hers to the faded mark. Neither spoke, the air between them charged with the weight of their discovery. The same symbol found near Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez, the women whose last breaths had been spent in terror, now loomed before them, a ghost from the past reaching out into the present.

The chill that traveled down Morgan's spine wasn't just from the cooling breath of the rain. It was the realization that they were tracing the steps of a killer, steps that had been etched into the city's memory long before blood had been spilled. The rain fell harder now, drumming a relentless rhythm on the litter-strewn ground, as if mourning for those lost and for the secrets that the city held close to its chest.

Droplets of rain cascaded down the graffiti, streaking the faded black lines with wetness, giving the impression that the symbol itself was weeping. Morgan shielded her phone with her body as she captured the image from every possible angle—a meticulous record for analysis that would come later. She studied the photos on the screen, knowing instinctively that she was looking at the work of the same hands responsible for the symbols at the crime scenes. It was an intimate connection to the killer, yet marred by the gulf of time.

"Been here for ages," she muttered, more to herself than to Derik. The permanence of the mark clashed with the fleeting nature of their investigation. Every lead had a half-life, decaying as time marched on, and this symbol was no different.

Derik nodded, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying a flicker of frustration.

As Morgan stepped back from the pillar, her gaze lingered on the symbol. The years it had spent here, weathered and unnoticed until now, seemed to mock their urgency. But Morgan wasn't one to concede to taunts, even those issued by an inanimate specter of the past. The symbol didn't need to deliver the killer into their hands; it simply had to point them in the right direction.

In Derik's green gaze, Morgan saw a mirror of her own internal turmoil. The new information was like a loose string on the edge of their investigation, frayed and leading to countless possible directions. Was it possible that the murderer had cast off this persona as easily as a snake sloughs off its old skin? Or were they still lurking in the city's shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike again?

"Could've been anyone," Derik murmured, his voice barely rising above the rain's pitter-patter against the underpass. "An artist turned murderer, or some copycat who stumbled onto this place."

Morgan nodded, her resolve hard as the concrete underfoot. She had seen patterns in chaos before, back when she was framed—a skill honed behind bars, where every detail could mean the difference between another day or sudden violence. The image before them was an enigma, a piece of a puzzle that refused to fit neatly into their case.

"Or someone who knew this would be found," she added, thinking aloud, her eyes never leaving the symbol. "A taunt, maybe. Or a premonition."

They needed context, a connection to the now. This symbol was old, weathered by seasons and time. But it was a start, a signpost pointing to a road not yet taken in their investigation.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Derik," Morgan said, reaching a gloved hand out to trace the edges of the faded symbol. Her fingers scraped against cold, rain-wet concrete. "This... it's more than a coincidence."

"I agree, but we're talking years here, Morgan. Maybe decades. It's possible the killer just found this symbol interesting," Derik reasoned. He leaned in closer to the emblem, his breath visible in the chilling air.

"Then why use it at his murder scenes?" she shot back. There were too many unanswered questions spinning in her mind like a whirlwind, refusing to settle enough for her to make sense of them.

Derik looked up at her, those deep green eyes of his reflecting her own frustration. "I don't know," he confessed quietly.

They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts as they pondered possible connections and motives that slipped through their grasp like smoke. Despite all their training and experience, the killer was leading them on a twisted dance that only he had the steps to.

An icy gust swept through the underpass, causing Morgan to shiver beneath her jacket. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as she continued to stare at the mysterious graffiti. As the sky opened further, unleashing a steady deluge upon the city, Morgan caught Derik's concerned gaze.

"Let's trace it back," Derik said, determination tightening his features. "We find where this started, we might just find our killer."

"Agreed." Morgan's response was terse but fierce.

They wouldn't be deterred by dead ends or the despair that clawed at the edges of their hope. This was their lead, slim though it might be. Morgan snapped a few more photos with her phone, then cast one final look at the symbol, noting how the rainwater traced the lines like tears for the victims, for the lives snuffed out and left marked by this cryptic sigil. It seemed to pulse with a life of its own as the water flowed over it, a beacon in the gloom calling out to those who dared to listen.

“We’ll have to dig more into the origins of the symbol—maybe we can find someone who lives here, obsessed with things like it,” Morgan said. “We should talk to those close to the victims. See if anyone close to them matches that description. Think about it: whoever killed them knew them well enough to understand what routes they might jog down. Could be a stalker, but… could also be someone they knew.”

"True," Derik nodded, casting another glance at the weathered symbol before turning away, moving to the side to avoid a sudden rush of water from a leak above. "The killer had to know them, at least a little. But it's not just about knowing their routes—it's about timing, too. That takes knowledge and patience...and a certain kind of obsession."

"There's no shortage of those in this city," Morgan muttered under her breath, her gaze following him as he moved. She put her phone away with a soft sigh. "Come on," she said, her voice laced with steel. The rain was unrelenting now, soaking through her clothes, plastering her dark hair to her skull. It mattered little.

They had work to do—and a killer to catch.