Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Morgan steered the unmarked FBI sedan to a stop in front of the Harmon residence. The quiet suburban street was lined with homes that bore witness to generations of families growing and changing, but none seemed as forlorn as the modest, older house before them. The recent rain had left the air thick, the scent of wet earth filling their nostrils as they disembarked from the vehicle. A dull gray sky loomed overhead, the overcast canvas reflecting the grim nature of their investigation.

The mysterious deaths, marked by the strange symbol, had cast a long shadow over their work. Each new discovery seemed to deepen the darkness surrounding the case, and the somber light bathing the neighborhood felt like an extension of that ever-present gloom.

Morgan's boots crunched softly on the gravel drive as she approached the house. She pulled her jacket closer against the chill, noting the well-tended garden, where blooms of vibrant flowers stood against the sorrow hidden within the walls of the Harmon home. They were remnants of a happier time, now out of place amidst the tragedy that enveloped the dwelling.

Taking a deep breath, Morgan prepared herself mentally for the task ahead. They were here to speak with Mary Harmon, who had lost her daughter Elizabeth—the first victim in what was quickly turning into a horrifying series of events. The house itself appeared trapped in time, its exterior unchanged through the decades; it whispered tales of a family’s history, of laughter and tears echoing through the years.

She glanced at Derik, who was trailing behind her, his face etched with the same resolve that tightened her own features. His eyes met hers briefly, a silent communication passing between them before he looked away, scanning the neighborhood. There was little to see—just the quiet humdrum of suburbia, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger that Morgan and Derik were chasing.

As they stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking beneath their weight, Morgan steeled herself for the conversation with Mary Harmon. Interactions with the grieving were never easy, especially when probing for answers meant reopening fresh wounds. But this was the job, the path to justice for those whose voices had been forever silenced.

She raised her hand and knocked on the door, the sound sharp in the quiet evening. The agents waited, the seconds stretching out, filled only with the distant murmur of a television or the bark of a dog from somewhere down the street. The neighborhood lay still around them, the silence almost oppressive. When the door creaked open, it revealed Mary Harmon, a woman seemingly aged more by heartache than time. Her eyes, weary and ringed with dark shadows, met Morgan's for a fleeting moment. The slump of Mary’s shoulders spoke volumes of the loss she bore, yet in the midst of her anguish, there flickered a weak spark of courtesy.

"Mrs. Harmon," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. "I'm Agent Cross, and this is Agent Greene. We're with the FBI." She watched as recognition, followed by a slight easing of Mary's guarded expression.

“Hello, is this about my daughter? Please, come in.”

Stepping inside, the agents were enveloped by the warmth of a residence steeped in personal history. The living room, though inviting with its plush couch and shelves laden with heirlooms, echoed with an emptiness no family photo could dispel. These walls, once vibrant with life’s milestones, now stood muted, testaments of joy overshadowed by tragedy.

Mary closed the door behind them with a soft click, and Morgan felt the air grow denser, the weight of untold stories pressing in around them. She took a shallow breath, acutely aware of the delicate balance between seeking justice and preserving humanity. This was someone's sanctuary, a place where a mother's worst nightmare had come true.

As Mary gestured towards the sitting area, Morgan noted the subtle shift in the older woman's demeanor. There was a resilience there, a strength that belied her fragile appearance. If there were answers to be found within these walls, Morgan knew they would need to tread carefully. The scent of lemon wax and old books lingered in the air, a contrast to the chilling case that led them here. Her gaze drifted across the room, catching sight of numerous framed photographs lining the mantle and walls. Each snapshot was a frozen moment in Elizabeth's life: her youthful exuberance at a birthday party, the proud stance at graduation, the broad smiles during family holidays. These captured moments were now edged with sorrow, each one a silent echo of a future stolen.

She felt Derik's presence beside her, his own attention caught by the poignant gallery of Elizabeth's existence. The silence hung heavy around them, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of an antique clock—an unwelcome reminder that time marched on, indifferent to the grief within these walls.

Mary moved ahead, her steps hesitant as if the act of leading them into the heart of her home was an invasion she could barely tolerate. They arrived in the living room, where the ambiance shifted palpably. Comfortable sofas and armchairs beckoned, yet an aura of stillness prevailed. It was as though life itself had been paused, the vibrancy of the household now dimmed to a mere whisper of its past warmth.

"Please, have a seat," Mary offered, gesturing toward the sofa with a hand that fluttered like a trapped bird. Morgan noted the minute tremors that raced along Mary's fingers, betraying her inner turmoil. She took a seat slowly, deliberately, while Derik settled beside her, both agents forming a united front in the search for truth.

Mary stood a moment longer than necessary before sinking into an armchair opposite them. Her posture remained stiff, the lines of her face drawn tight with the effort of maintaining composure.

"Mrs. Harmon," Morgan began, her voice a soft yet firm anchor in the quiet room. "I want to start by offering our deepest condolences for your loss. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you." Her words were sincere, spoken not just as an agent but as someone who knew the cold embrace of injustice all too well.

Mary nodded, a fragile smile wavering on her lips as she absorbed Morgan's empathy. "Thank you," she murmured, the simple gratitude laced with an ocean of unsaid pain. “It is hard, losing Elizabeth like this, but… we must keep moving on, right?”

“Right.” Morgan met Mary's gaze, holding it steady. "Mrs. Harmon," she started, her tone even and deliberate, "was there anything unusual about Elizabeth's behavior before she passed? Any changes at all?"

Mary's eyes seemed to look through them, lost in the recent past. "No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "She was... herself. Happy, even. It was so sudden." Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap, a rhythmic dance of anxiety and sorrow.

Morgan nodded, filing away Mary's responses. The lack of warning signs made the case more perplexing. No red flags, no cries for help—just a life extinguished without preamble.

Derik shifted next to Morgan, his attention fixed on Mary. He leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a different timbre of concern. "Elizabeth was a talented graphic designer, wasn't she?" he asked, his eyes earnest. "Why was she still living at home?"

Mary's gaze lowered, fixating on her intertwined fingers. "After she and Nate broke up, she took it hard," she said, the strain clear in her voice. "They'd been together for a long time, and she... she didn't recover easily. Coming back here seemed to comfort her."

"Did she talk about moving out again?" Morgan interjected, watching for any flicker of insight in Mary's expression.

"There were mentions, yes," Mary admitted, a note of regret in her tone. "But she never acted on them. I think... I think she needed this place, her childhood home, to heal. And I needed her just as much."

Morgan noted the subtle shift in Mary's voice, a tremor that betrayed something more than grief. "You mentioned Nate," Morgan said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What happened after he left?"

"Moved away," Mary corrected, her words laden with a resigned sorrow. "Elizabeth was heartbroken, truly lost without him. For months, she barely left her room. But then..." A pause hung in the air, filled with the weight of unspoken change.

"Then?" Morgan prompted, leaning in.

"Something shifted," Mary continued, her gaze flickering to a corner of the room as if trying to visualize the past. "In the last six months or so, Elizabeth... she found new purpose. I couldn't grasp it—didn't agree with it, really. But she seemed determined, alive in ways she hadn't been since before Nate."

Morgan processed this revelation, her analytical mind piecing together the behavioral patterns. Elizabeth's newfound direction could be a key piece in understanding her untimely demise. "What kind of purpose?" she asked, her tone steady yet probing.

Mary sighed, a sound heavy with conflict and maternal concern. "She started seeing a new crowd," she said, a frown creasing her brow. "They were different from her old friends. Not the type you'd expect a graphic designer to mingle with."

"Describe them to me," Morgan insisted, sensing the importance of every detail.

"Odd," Mary muttered. "They had piercings in places you don't usually see. Tattoos that looked more like warnings than art. And they carried an unsettling energy around them." She shuddered slightly, recalling the unease that accompanied their visits. "They'd come at all hours, knocking on our door, leaving me feeling... disturbed."

"And did Elizabeth ever talk about these people? About what drew her to them?" Morgan asked, her mind racing with possibilities; cults, radical groups, dangerous liaisons—all potential avenues leading to the cryptic symbol and Elizabeth's death.

"Only bits and pieces," Mary admitted, her fingers nervously tracing the armrest. "She said they understood her, made her feel part of something bigger. But whenever I asked for details, she shut down. Said I wouldn't understand." Her voice trailed off, tinged with regret for not pushing harder.

"Did you confront her about this group?" Derik interjected, his expression mirroring Morgan's concern.

"I wanted to," Mary confessed, her shoulders sagging. "But every instinct told me not to push her away. She was already so fragile, and I feared losing the little connection we still had." Her eyes met Morgan's, pleading for understanding.

Morgan nodded, the pieces beginning to form a clearer picture in her mind. Elizabeth's vulnerability post-breakup, her attraction to a group that offered belonging—a dangerous combination ripe for exploitation. She logged every word, knowing they were inching closer to unraveling the mystery that cloaked Elizabeth Harmon's death.

Morgan's hand was steady as she retrieved the photograph from her leather bag. The image, a stark black symbol against a white background, seemed to pulse with an ominous energy even in print. She passed it across to Mary, who sat rigid in the armchair, her eyes shadowed with sorrow.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Morgan asked, her voice low and even.

Mary flinched as if the paper had stung her. Her fingers trembled visibly as she took the photograph, and her breath hitched in her chest. "I-I've seen something like this before," she stammered, eyes widening with recognition and fear. "Elizabeth... she drew things like this. Not exact, but…" Her voice wavered, a whisper of horror creeping into the edges. "In her notebook.”

A cold surge shot through Morgan's veins. This was it—the link they were grasping for in the dark maze of their investigation. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Mary's haunted face. "Can we see her room?" she pressed, the question laced with urgency.

Mary nodded, wordlessly rising from her chair. Her movements were mechanical as if each step required a conscious effort. Morgan followed closely behind, Derik at her side, both agents sensing the gravity of what lay ahead. They ascended the stairs, the carpet muffling their footsteps.

The hallway stretched before them, lined with doors that held secrets of a life interrupted. At the end of the corridor, Mary paused, her hand resting on the doorknob to Elizabeth's bedroom. She turned, her eyes pleading silently for gentleness in what they might find within.

Morgan crossed into Elizabeth's untouched room, a time capsule waiting for its owner. It was neat and orderly, every item carefully placed but lacking the soul of its inhabitant. Her eyes scanned the pristine bed with its smooth covers and plumped yet unused pillows. The furnishings were plain and practical, devoid of any unnecessary extravagance—just essentials for living and now, a crime scene to dissect. The room held an oppressive weight that surpassed mere grief. It felt as if the walls themselves were silent guardians over unuttered dark secrets. There was a tangible unease lingering in the room, suggesting it wasn't entirely tranquil. As Morgan neared the desk tucked away in one corner, this tension seemed to intensify, becoming almost electric. A few disarrayed sketchbooks stood out against the otherwise meticulous space, their existence nonchalant yet strikingly noticeable.

Morgan reached out, her fingers grazing the cover of one sketchbook before flipping it open. The pages revealed themselves one by one, each turn unveiling images that clawed at the edges of sanity. Satanic symbols leaped from the paper, grotesque figures danced in macabre celebration, and dark designs spiraled into madness. The similarities to the symbols found at the crime scenes were undeniable, each stroke of the pen a mirror to the chaos etched on concrete and dirt where Elizabeth and Rachel had died.

“Jesus,” Derik muttered, looking over Morgan’s shoulder at the sketches.

The drawings were rendered with an intricacy that spoke of a mind captivated, if not consumed, by the subject matter. It wasn’t the work of an amateur doodler passing time; this was the visual diary of someone delving deep into realms best left unexplored. Each symbol, each figure was a breadcrumb on the trail leading into the abyss Elizabeth had stumbled upon—or perhaps been led down.

“Do you mind if I take some photos of these?” Morgan asked Mary, taking out her phone. Mary simply nodded.

Morgan's fingers moved swiftly, the camera in her hand capturing the eerie sketches page by page. The shutter clicks were quick and methodical, like the ticking of a clock counting down the precious time they had to solve this case. With each snapshot, she felt closer to the dark heart of the mystery that had claimed Elizabeth Harmon's life. Her mind was focused, analyzing every symbol, every line that twisted across the paper. She worked with a practiced efficiency, knowing that these images were vital pieces of a sinister puzzle.

"Mary," Morgan began, turning her attention from the sketchbooks to the grief-stricken woman before her, "did Elizabeth ever talk about the people she was with? Do you know how we could contact them?"

Mary shook her head, a weary motion filled with the resignation of a mother who had been left in the dark by her own child. "She didn't say much about them. Kept things to herself after... after Nate left." There was a hint of pain as she mentioned the name, a reminder of a wound that hadn't healed. "They weren't the sort of friends she'd bring home for dinner, not like her childhood ones."

"Anything at all that might help us find where she met with these individuals?" Morgan pressed on, her voice firm yet laced with empathy. The agent knew well the wall of silence that often stood between parents and their grown children's secrets.

"Only that it was some kind of church," Mary replied after a moment's hesitation, her brow furrowing as she grappled with the memory. "But I doubt it was a traditional place of worship. My Liz would go there, and come back reeking of alcohol.”

"Could you show us where?" Derik interjected, his tone gentle but insistent. They both recognized the potential lead when they heard one.

Mary nodded slowly. “I followed her there once, because I was worried. It’s an old building… I’ll show you.” Mary took out her phone, opening up a map. Morgan held her breath. Maybe this place would finally bring them the answers they needed.