CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morgan’s eyelids fluttered open, her senses gradually tuning in to the morning. Light seeped through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. She lay still for a moment, feeling the warmth of another body next to hers—a rarity she hadn't experienced in years. It was Derik, breathing evenly in his sleep, his presence bringing an unaccustomed sense of security. She turned slightly, their shoulders brushing, and watched him: the rise and fall of his chest, the faint lines of worry smoothed away by rest. The quiet of the bedroom enveloped them, the outside world momentarily held at bay.
She allowed herself this small respite, the warmth of the bed and the steady rhythm of Derik's breathing lulling her into a brief state of contentment. This was a far cry from the solitary nights that had become her norm, the cold emptiness on the other side of the mattress a constant reminder of her isolation. But now, with Derik beside her, the chill that typically clung to her bones seemed to retreat.
A wave of relief washed over Morgan as memories from the night before surfaced. They had come together after hours fraught with tension, the air between them finally clearing as they spoke words of forgiveness and love. After years of building walls around her heart, she had let Derik back in, if only a little. Her barriers, once impenetrable, had softened under his earnest remorse and the shared burden of their harrowing work. She marveled at how natural it felt to be vulnerable again, even amid the chaos that surrounded their lives.
The cool detachment she had honed over a decade—first in prison, then within the FBI—had been her armor. Yet lying there, with Derik's steady breathing as a backdrop, she glimpsed a future where that armor might not be necessary. Hope, a sensation she'd long dismissed as dangerous, flickered within her, its light tentative but persistent. Perhaps things were changing, shifting in a direction she had not dared to believe possible. With Derik, there was the promise of an ally, a partner not just in duty, but in life.
But the reality of their situation remained close at hand, the urgency of their case a shadow that lingered even in these quiet moments. The victims' faces, the sinister symbol, the unanswered questions—they all awaited her beyond the sanctuary of these walls. For now, though, she pushed those thoughts aside, savoring the fleeting peace that came with the first light of dawn.
Morgan’s fingers brushed against Derik’s shoulder, a gentle yet firm touch that silently communicated the day’s urgency. His eyelids fluttered open, a soft groan escaping as reality settled upon him. They were agents first, lovers second, and duty had a way of curtailing the tenderness of dawn. With few words exchanged, they slipped out of the bed's embrace and into their roles, the ritual of dressing binding them to the world outside.
The fabric of Derik’s shirt whispered as it slid over his head, a mundane sound that contrasted sharply with the weight of the task ahead. It was this, the ordinary minutiae, that kept them tethered when the chaos of their work threatened to sweep them away. Morgan laced up her boots, each pull of the strings a step back into her agent persona. She had barely finished when the vibration of her phone clawed at the stillness.
"Mueller," the screen announced in stark, unfeeling letters. A knot formed in her stomach, instinct warning her of the storm that call heralded. She swiped to answer, holding the device with practiced steadiness despite the tremor of anticipation running through her.
"Cross," Mueller’s voice crackled through, devoid of preamble. "We've got another one. Same M.O., same damn symbol."
The news hit her with the force of a punch, the dread she'd managed to lock away during those tranquil morning moments flooding back with vengeance. Her gaze met Derik's, seeing her own reflection of concern mirrored in his eyes.
"Is the vic—,” she began, but Mueller cut her off, urgency sharpening his tone.
"Alive," he said, and that single word sparked a wildfire of possibilities in Morgan's mind. "Get there. Now."
"Understood," she replied, her voice a blade of ice as she ended the call. The victim's survival was a double-edged sword; an opportunity for invaluable insight, yet also a sign of escalation. Or perhaps desperation.
Derik was already moving, gathering his badge and gun. No need for words now; they both understood the stakes. They had to get to the hospital, to the victim, before the fragile thread of life slipped from grasp. This was their chance, a break in the pattern, and Morgan felt the relentless drive that had propelled her through ten years of wrongful imprisonment surge anew.
It was time to act, and they would not falter.
***
Morgan entered the brightly lit hospital room, the hush of the space enveloping her. Jacob Finch, the victim, lay propped up in bed, his form a contrast to the vitality she remembered from his employee photo. Bandages swathed his head, and the stark white casts imprisoning his limbs seemed to mock the fragility of human life. Morgan's heart clenched at the sight, her FBI training doing little to shield her from the raw empathy that surged within.
The soft beeps of monitors punctuated the silence, serving as a grim metronome to Finch's shallow breaths. The morning light fought against the closed blinds, trying in vain to brighten the room where Finch's battered body rested. It was quiet, too quiet for someone who had cheated death only hours ago.
"Agent Cross," greeted the officer by the bed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Officer," Morgan acknowledged him with a nod. She stepped closer to the bed, her eyes scanning the injuries that marred Finch's features. The bruising along his jawline, the pallor of his skin; every detail etched itself into her memory. "Has he been conscious?" Morgan's question cut through the stillness, her gaze never leaving Finch.
"Once, briefly," the officer replied. "He was disoriented, in pain. They've got him sedated now."
Morgan's jaw set, tension radiating through her. A living witness, yet still so far out of reach. She studied Finch's face, wondering what secrets lay behind those closed eyelids. What had he seen? What could he reveal about the person who had left him for dead?
"Crashed his bike right into a construction site," the officer continued, pulling Morgan back from her thoughts. "First responders found the symbol nearby. Knew right away it wasn't an accident."
The symbol. That damned mark of a killer enjoying his grim theatrics. Morgan's mind raced with the implications. This was no random act—it was a message, a calling card left by someone reveling in chaos and fear.
"Keep us posted," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for delay the moment Finch could speak.
"Of course, Agent Cross," the officer acknowledged with a nod.
She turned away from Finch's still form, catching Derik's gaze. No words needed to pass between them; their shared determination was palpable. They exited the hospital room, the antiseptic smell of the corridors now mingling with their resolve.
Outside, the sun cast long shadows across the parking lot, the morning brightness deceptive in its promise of a new day unmarred by the previous night's horrors. Morgan slid into the passenger seat of their standard-issue FBI sedan, the cool leather a sharp contrast to the warmth of Derik's presence beside her. He started the engine, the hum of the motor a soft backdrop to the silence that enveloped them. That silence wasn't awkward—it was filled with a mutual understanding that conversation would do little to advance their cause at this moment.
The roads were slick with the remnants of last night's rain, the sky scrubbed clean, leaving behind a crispness in the air that seemed at odds with the grim reality of their investigation. As Derik navigated the streets toward the bike path where Finch's life had nearly been snuffed out, Morgan felt the undercurrent of tension pulling at her insides. It coiled around her like a living thing, whispering that evil never rested, and neither could they.
The city passed by in a blur of movement and color, but Morgan's thoughts remained sharply focused on the path ahead. With every turn of the wheels, they drew closer to the place where the killer had laid his trap, where he had left his mark—a signature of his malevolence waiting to be uncovered by those willing to look.
Derik pulled off the main road, guiding the car onto a quieter street that led to the bike path. The serene surroundings stood in contrast to the violence that had occurred mere hours ago. Morgan stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching under her boots as she surveyed the scene—a picturesque route marred by an invisible stain of bloodshed.
"Let's see what we can find," Derik said, scanning the area with the same intensity as Morgan's.
"Agreed," Morgan responded, her mind already cataloguing the details of the scene, preparing herself for whatever clues might await them. She took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs. This was where the hunt continued, where they would pick up the trail of a killer who believed himself to be a master of fate.
And Morgan was determined to prove him wrong.
***
Morgan stepped out of the sedan, her boots sinking slightly into the dew-soaked grass that bordered the bike path. The morning sun cast dappled shadows through the leaves, a mosaic of light and dark that seemed almost purposeful in its design. She noted the idyllic scene with a critical eye, aware that beneath this natural beauty lay a narrative far more sinister.
Beside her, Derik's gaze followed the winding path, his face set in a determined frown that mirrored Morgan's own feelings. Here, at this bucolic fork in the road, Jacob Finch had nearly met his end, and it was their job to decipher the silent story told by the disturbed earth and altered signs.
"Look," Derik said softly, pointing toward a cluster of trees where the foliage thinned. They moved closer, their steps careful and measured. The joggers and cyclists that passed seemed blithely unaware of the two FBI agents scrutinizing their everyday route, their minds surely untouched by the darkness that now enveloped Morgan's every waking thought.
The symbol loomed ahead, an aberration on the landscape. It was crudely rendered in black spray paint, stark against the rough bark of an oak tree. It appeared almost like a wound, an infection spreading its tendrils into the wood, an intentional desecration by someone who wanted to leave a mark of chaos in this pocket of calm.
Morgan's jaw tightened as she studied the sign—a pentagram encased within a circle, deliberate and mocking. Her mind worked methodically, piecing together the killer's possible movements, imagining him here under cover of darkness, laying out the final touches of a deadly trap.
"Finch would've come from that direction," she murmured, nodding toward the north bend of the fork. "It was still dark. He might not have seen anything until it was too late."
"Didn't stand a chance," Derik replied, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and regret.
Morgan stepped closer to the symbol, her eyes narrowed as she took in its crude lines. Derik hovered at her shoulder, watching her with a quiet intensity that spoke to his understanding of the gravity of their situation.
"Derik," Morgan began, her voice low and contemplative, "I think our killer is not picking his victims personally. It's like he's setting up a stage for a macabre play and waiting to see who stumbles onto it."
Derik nodded, the morning light casting shadows on his face that seemed to emphasize the tired lines around his eyes. "You mean he's leaving it up to chance? That's... chilling."
"Exactly." She circled the symbol, taking it in from every angle. "It's not about who they are; it's about where they are. Wrong place, wrong time. And this" —she gestured to the black mark— "is his grand finale."
"Randomness of fate..." Derik murmured, almost to himself.
"Right," Morgan confirmed with a grimace. "And fate can be cruel."
They stood in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts about the implications of such randomness. The idea that anyone could be next was a heavy burden to bear.
The symbol before them seemed to mock their efforts, a stark reminder that they were dealing with a mind that reveled in chaos and death. Morgan turned away from the tree, her gaze sweeping over the tranquil path once more. Any one of these unsuspecting joggers or cyclists could have been a victim.
"Let's keep moving," she said, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.
As they walked, Morgan shared another theory that had been forming in her mind. "I'm starting to think he doesn't paint the symbol until after he believes his victim is dead. It's like his signature, but meant only for the deceased."
"Post-mortem?" Derik asked, his brow furrowing. "That would mean..."
"Exactly," Morgan interjected. "He's likely done this before. Experimented with different spots, perfecting his method."
"Finch surviving threw a wrench in his plans," Derik added, glancing back at the symbol. “But maybe he doesn’t know.”
"Which means there could be other traps out there," Morgan finished, her voice steady despite the shiver that ran down her spine. The thought of the city being littered with hidden dangers, each waiting for an unsuspecting soul to trigger its deadly mechanism, was enough to make her blood run cold. “It also means that anyone we arrested last night can’t be the killer.”
The stark realization hung heavy in the air between her and Derik—the killer could not be one of Rog's men. Every single person from the raid was accounted for, their alibis cross-checked and locked down tight behind bars. This narrowed the field of suspects but complicated the case even further.
"Could have been someone who slipped through during the commotion," Derik suggested, his voice low as he scanned the area, looking for anything that might have been missed.
"Or someone completely off our radar," Morgan replied curtly, her mind spinning with possibilities. She knew the killer was clever, cunning enough to operate undetected, to set traps that ensnared innocent lives in a cruel twist of fate. "Either way," she continued, her tone turning steely, "we need more information. Let’s go have a word with some of them.""
Derik nodded in agreement, his eyes meeting hers with a shared intensity. They both understood what was at stake—more lives could be on the line if they didn't act fast.