CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Morgan's hand was steady as she slid the key into the lock, the metallic click cutting through the night's silence. The door swung open, and an immediate rush of warmth greeted them—not just from the heated interior, but from the welcome sound of four paws tapping eagerly across the hardwood floor. Skunk, the embodiment of loyalty in canine form, charged toward his owner with a zeal that no human betrayal could ever dampen.
His tail whipped back and forth like a metronome set to the tempo of pure joy. His eyes, two pools reflecting the moonlight that filtered through the ajar door, sparkled with the unmistakable love of a dog for its master. Morgan's heart, so often shrouded in the armor of her past and the shadows of her vendetta, felt a crack in its defenses at the sight of her faithful companion.
A smile, unbidden and rare, curved the corners of her lips. She dropped to one knee, the day's grime and the weight of their investigation momentarily forgotten. Her hands delved into Skunk's fur, finding solace in the thick bristles that had weathered years of separation and uncertainty. He leaned into her touch, a silent pact of unconditional support passing between them.
Beside her, Derik crouched down, adding his own gesture of affection to the reunion. His fingers found the sweet spot behind Skunk's ears, eliciting a pleased rumble from the pitbull's throat. In this small act, Derik found a reprieve—a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos of their pursuit. Here, there were no Satanic symbols or cryptic clues, just the simple comfort of a bond shared with an animal whose trust was unwavering.
The stillness of the house enveloped them. For now, the unanswered questions lay dormant, pushed aside by the more pressing need to acknowledge the presence of something good, something untainted by the darkness they faced each day.
"Thanks for letting me crash here," Derik said, a shadow of vulnerability in his eyes.
She nodded, the gesture small but full of understanding. Talking was effort she couldn't muster—not yet. Her mind was a whirlpool, each thought colliding with the next, creating a relentless current that pulled at her concentration. She turned away, leaving the comfort of Skunk's presence behind as she crossed the threshold into the kitchen. The dim light from the fixture above her cast long, wavering shadows across the floor, mirroring the darkness that clung to the edges of her psyche.
Derik watched her move, a silent figure against the sparse light. He knew when to give her space. It was one of the things she valued in him—his ability to sense the storm beneath her calm exterior and not push her toward a shore she wasn't ready to reach.
She opened a cabinet, reaching for the bottle of scotch without hesitation. It was a routine etched into muscle memory, a ritual that promised no answers but offered respite. The liquid poured into the glass, a rich amber captured momentarily by the light before settling into the depths of the tumbler.
Morgan's gaze flickered to Derik, a silent question poised on her lips amid the dim light of the kitchen. "You mind?" she asked, nodding toward the scotch in her hand.
"Of course not," Derik responded, his voice carrying the gentle scratch of weariness. A wry grin lifted the corner of his mouth as he added, "I may have given up drinking, but I'm not about to start judging anyone else for enjoying one after a hard day.”
She managed a half-smile, a ghost of amusement passing through her otherwise stoic demeanor. Lifting the glass to her lips, she savored the slow burn that trailed down her throat, the sharpness momentarily blunting the relentless churn of her thoughts. The liquid heat unfurled within her, and for a fleeting instant, Morgan felt a semblance of peace amidst the turmoil.
In the living room, the couch received them like an old friend, its cushions well-acquainted with the contours of their exhaustion. Skunk trotted over, his nails clicking softly against the hardwood before he leapt up to claim his spot between them. He nestled into Morgan's lap, his warm weight comforting and familiar as her fingers found their way through his fur, moving rhythmically without conscious thought.
The clock ticked quietly from its post on the wall, a soft metronome to the stillness that enveloped the room. Skunk exhaled contentedly, his breaths punctuating the silence. It was the kind of quiet that spoke volumes, rich with the history of shared glances and unspoken understandings. Morgan's eyes drifted closed for a moment, allowing herself to be anchored by the presence of her partner and her dog.
As she opened her eyes, she caught Derik's gaze, his eyes reflecting back the faint light that filtered through the blinds. They both knew the language of silence well, the way it could cushion the harsh reality they faced daily. Yet beneath the quietude lay an undercurrent of tension, a tangle of thoughts and worries neither had yet voiced.
Derik seemed lost in his own reverie, his gaze distant as if replaying the day's events behind his eyelids. He was motionless except for the occasional, almost imperceptible, nod—confirmations to himself or rebuttals to ghosts of conversations past.
Morgan, too, found herself revisiting the day's grim tapestry—their fruitless visit to the nightclub, the stalemate with Rog, the cold faces of those detained after the raid. Each dead end seemed to tighten the knot in her gut, frustration simmering just below the surface.
Her hand continued its steady course through Skunk's fur, each stroke a silent mantra, a wish for clarity amidst the chaos. The dog, blissfully unaware of the human complexities surrounding him, nuzzled into her touch, grounding her in the moment.
Morgan shifted her weight, the cushions of the couch compressing beneath her. She drew in a slow breath, her gaze fixed on Derik's profile outlined by the dim light filtering through the windows. The silence stretched between them, not oppressive but full, like the charged air before a storm.
"Derik," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thanks—for today. For everything." It was a simple sentence, yet it carried the weight of unspoken gratitude. Morgan rarely let her guard down, but tonight, raw emotion tinged her words. Her eyes never left his face, searching for something she couldn't quite name.
He turned to her, gaze reflecting a history of shared struggles and victories. "I've got your back, Morgan. Always have, always will," he said, his voice firm with conviction. In that moment, the lines around his eyes seemed to soften, his usual weariness replaced by an unwavering support that reached out to her like an anchor.
Morgan's throat tightened as those words wrapped around her, reminding her of the bond they shared. It had been a long road back to this place of mutual trust, and she felt the strain of the journey in her bones. Swallowing hard, she fought against the tide of emotions that threatened to spill over.
"It's been... hard," she admitted, her voice quivering as if testing the strength of a thin sheet of ice. "Letting you back in after... after everything." She paused, her gaze dropping to the scotch in her hand. The liquid's golden hue mirrored the warmth she used to feel towards him—a warmth she'd barricaded behind walls built from years of betrayal and pain.
Morgan continued, steadying her voice with effort. "What you said the other night, about loving me..." She trailed off, collecting her thoughts like scattered pieces of evidence. "It shook me more than I showed." She looked up at him again, her dark brown eyes veiling the turmoil within. "I love you too, Derik. But showing it, saying it—it doesn't come easy to me. And tailing me like that, not telling me, it’s not okay. I need you to trust me.”
She observed his reaction, looking for a sign, any indication that her confession meant something. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, each movement betraying her inner struggle to articulate the depth of her feelings. "I've been so focused on protecting myself, on keeping my heart guarded," she confessed. Her voice cracked then, revealing the chinks in her emotional armor. "But I need you to know—you mean more to me than I've ever let on."
The words hung heavy in the stillness of the room, a testament to the battles they've faced both together and within themselves. Morgan felt exposed, as if she'd laid out all her cards on the table for him to see. Yet, there was also relief in the confession, a release of pressure from a valve held tight for far too long.
Derik's hand reached out, the motion gentle but purposeful, and Morgan felt her chin being lifted by his warm fingers. Their eyes locked, and she saw the depth of emotion in his gaze—a storm of relief, love, and concern. Then, his lips met hers, a touch that was both tender and resolute. The kiss bridged the chasm of unspoken fears and uncertainties that had lingered between them for far too long. It was a silent promise, a shared acceptance of their complicated past and the vulnerability they both bore.
As he pulled away, the ghost of a smile played on Derik's face. Those green eyes, so often weary from the weight of his own past, now shone with a hint of solace. But even as the moment lightened the shadows in the room, Morgan could see the worry etched into the lines of his face.
"Stay safe," Derik murmured, the words barely louder than a whisper, but they landed with the force of a command. "That's all I want, Morgan."
His concern was a tangible thing, wrapping around her like the cool night air seeping through the cracks of her front door. She knew it stemmed from the place they were headed, professionally hazardous was an understatement—it was a maelstrom of danger that seemed to grow with every new lead, every dead end, and every night spent chasing ghosts.
"And Thomas?" Derik continued, his tone cautious yet laced with an undeniable edge. "Are you sure trusting him is wise?"
Morgan let out a slow breath, feeling the tension knotting in her shoulders. Thomas Grady—the man who had once been a threat, who had taken Skunk and used him as a pawn in his twisted game. Yet now, here they were, uneasy allies linked by the common goal of unraveling the web of corruption that had ensnared them both.
Morgan's hand curled into a fist, the tension in her knuckles an echo of the turmoil churning within. She released a soft groan, conceding to Derik's concerns with a reluctant nod. "You're right," she admitted, her voice a quiet admission amidst the stillness of her living room. "Working with Thomas—it goes against every instinct I have."
Derik's presence, a solid and reassuring force, anchored her as she continued, the disgust palpable in her tone. "His involvement makes my skin crawl. But he’s our ticket to the puppeteers—the cabal manipulating from the shadows." Her eyes, dark embers of resolve, fixed on Derik as she uttered the next name, "Richard Cordell."
At the mention, a shadow crossed Derik's face, his frown deepening like fault lines predicting an earthquake. Richard Cordell was a name they both knew—a high-ranking, long-retired FBI official whose reputation was once untarnished. A legend who seemed to have vanished, leaving only whispers and respect in his wake. Until now.
"Thomas has connections we can't ignore. As distasteful as it is, he's the thread we need to follow," Morgan's voice was firm, a testament to the bitter pill they had to swallow. "And Cordell... he wants me gone, Derik." Her words hung heavy between them, a weight of history and vendetta. "It all loops back to something old, something buried."
Morgan paused, gathering the fragments of a story that had shaped not just her life but also the lives of those entangled by fate's cruel design. "Years ago, there was a shootout—an accident. My father killed Mary Price. Thomas's mother."
The air seemed to thicken, charged with the revelation that tied their past to their present. Morgan's gaze never wavered from Derik's, her expression etched with seriousness. "Cordell's grudge against me stems from that day. The details are murky, layers upon layers that I can't quite peel back. Thomas claims he knows more, offers pieces of truth wrapped in his agenda." She exhaled slowly, a breath she'd been holding for years. "Fragmented, yes, but it's all we have."
Derik's gaze held worry, a silent storm that she knew all too well. "Morgan," he started, his voice laced with caution, "Thomas cannot be trusted. You know this. Whatever truth he claims to hold could just as easily be poisoned by his own interests."
She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "I know," Morgan admitted, her voice steady despite the anxiety gnawing at her insides. "Trusting Thomas is like dancing on the edge of a knife. But he's the only one with any connection to those who framed me—to Cordell." Her eyes, usually so full of resolve, flickered with the uncertainty of her choices.
"Thomas is your only lead because he wants it that way, Morgan. He's manipulating the situation," Derik insisted.
"Isn't that what we do?" Morgan countered, her tone soft but firm. "We use the resources we have, however flawed, to get to the truth." She paused, considering her next words. "I need to walk this line, Derik. It's the only way I'll ever get close to clearing my name and stopping them for good."
Derik nodded, conceding the point, though the lines that creased his forehead spoke volumes of his unease. They both understood the stakes, the precarious nature of the web they were untangling.
Morgan shifted her focus, the case looming over them like an unsolved puzzle demanding attention. "We've got a killer out there. Someone leading women off their paths, using symbols of darkness to mark their demise," she said, the agent in her taking command. "Elizabeth and Rachel were led to their deaths, and if we don't move fast, there will be more victims."
"Those women had families, dreams... futures," Derik murmured, his thoughts aligning with hers. "We can't let whoever did this continue on unchecked."
"Exactly." The word was sharp, a blade cutting through the haze of complexity that shrouded their investigation. "The symbolism, the patterns—there has to be a connection we're missing." Morgan's mind raced, replaying the evidence, the interviews, searching for the thread that would unravel the killer's identity.
"Every second we spend questioning our leads is another moment the killer remains free," she continued, her gaze fixed on the distance as if she could see the answers hovering on the horizon.
"We'll find him, Morgan," Derik assured her, his voice a bastion of support amidst the uncertainty. "We'll bring him to justice."
Morgan's brain buzzed with the day’s revelations, each new detail etching itself into her memory. The symbols, the victims, and the ever-looming figure of Richard Cordell danced on the edge of her consciousness, refusing to be silenced. She could feel exhaustion clawing at her, pulling her down into a void where sleep promised oblivion, if only for a few hours.
"Hey," Derik's voice broke through the fog of her thoughts. "We're no good to anyone if we can't think straight. We need rest, Morgan."
She looked up at him, his eyes reflecting the same fatigue that was likely mirrored in her own. His concern was tangible, an anchor in the storm that raged inside her. She hesitated, considering another hour, another lead, anything that might bring them closer to the killer.
Morgan took a deep breath, letting go of the relentless drive for vengeance that fueled her days—and too many of her nights. Reluctantly, she conceded to the logic in his words. Standing slowly, she placed her glass on the dark wood of the coffee table, the liquid barely disturbed from her contemplation.
Skunk, ever-present, shifted to look up at her, his tail thumping against the cushion. She reached down, her hand smoothing over his short fur, the solid reality of his presence a balm to her frayed nerves.
"Good boy," she murmured, more to herself than to the dog. It was a reminder that there was still goodness, loyalty, love—somewhere beyond the scope of their grim work.
Derik rose with her, towering and reassuring. Their eyes met, a silent conversation passing between them, worn agents who understood the price of the hunt. They were far from done, questions unanswered, justice unserved, yet they both recognized the necessity of retreat, if only to fight another day.
They moved toward the bedroom, the sanctuary against the demands of the world outside. Morgan felt a slight easing in her shoulders, a release of tension she hadn’t realized she'd been holding. Beside her, Derik matched her pace, his presence a steady pulse in the quiet of the house.
As the doorway approached, a sense of shared resolve settled around them. The case would wait, the darkness would hold off for a few more hours, and they would be ready when the sun rose again.
For now, the weight of the day fell away, layer by layer, until what remained was the simple comfort of not being alone. In a life defined by loss and betrayal, the solace found in another's silent understanding was rare and precious.