Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Morgan steered the unmarked sedan past the corroded sign that announced their arrival at Shady Oaks Trailer Park. Derik sat quietly beside her, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding outside the window. The afternoon sun bore down unforgivingly on the east end of Dallas, casting stark shadows and offering no reprieve from the reality of the place.

A wave of discomfort settled heavily in Morgan's stomach as they drove deeper into the trailer park. She had seen places like this before—pockets of despair within the sprawling city where hope seemed foolish. Derik shifted uneasily, his hand brushing against the badge secured to his belt, a small comfort against the unease that filled the car.

The asphalt beneath them was riddled with cracks, weeds poking through in stubborn defiance. Trailers stood in various states of decay, their once-bright colors faded to dusty hues. Broken toys and discarded furniture littered the small yards, telling stories of better times or simply of giving up.

Derik cleared his throat. "Not exactly the Ritz," he commented dryly, but Morgan could hear the underlying concern in his voice. They were partners, after all, each attuned to the other's moods despite their personal entanglements.

"Keep your eyes open," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the gnawing tension. She navigated the sedan around a deep pothole, the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires filling the silence between them.

They passed by figures that seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trailers themselves. Men and women with faces etched by hardship watched the car with suspicion. Eyes squinted against the sunlight and narrowed further at the sight of strangers. Morgan met their stares unflinchingly, her own eyes dark pools of resolve. She was here for answers, not approval.

A group of kids paused their game of makeshift baseball, a battered can serving as the ball. Their curiosity warred with the instinctive caution that life in the trailer park had taught them. Morgan gave them a faint nod as she passed, though she knew it would do little to ease their wariness.

"Feels like we're intruding," Derik murmured, scanning the surroundings. He looked tired, the weight of their case—and perhaps his past betrayals—casting shadows under his eyes.

"Maybe we are," Morgan conceded. But there was work to be done, and neither of them could afford the luxury of hesitation. Not when lives were at stake, not when justice hung in the balance.

She finally slowed the sedan to a stop, parking it next to a rusted-out pickup that had likely seen its last highway miles years ago. This was their destination—the home of the Cranes. A chill ran up her spine, the kind that came from stepping into the unknown, from confronting grief head-on.

"Ready?" she asked, glancing at Derik.

"Let's do it," he said, and together, they stepped out of the safety of the car, ready to face whatever lay behind the door of trailer number 34.

Trailer number 34 loomed ahead, its very structure an embodiment of neglect. The paint on its aluminum siding curled away in strips like birch bark, and the roof sagged as if weighed down by more than years of weather. Morgan noted a lawn chair on the porch, its fabric faded and frayed from too many seasons in the sun. Beside it, a doormat lay threadbare, the word "Welcome" barely discernible. A few potted plants struggled for life amidst the desolation, their leaves yellowed and drooping. It was clear that despite the decay, this place was someone's home.

Morgan killed the engine and sat for a moment, her gaze fixed on the trailer's door. She felt Derik's eyes on her, sharing a silent communication honed by years of partnership. They both knew what lay ahead: they were about to step into the raw, exposed nerve of human suffering. This was not just another lead; it was a confrontation with the intimate pain of a family broken by loss.

Morgan felt the gravel crunch under her boots. Each sound seemed amplified in the stillness of the trailer park, the quiet only broken by the distant bark of a dog or the creak of a swing set swaying in a lazy breeze. She moved toward the trailer, her tattoos hidden beneath the sleeves of her jacket, a stark contrast to the vulnerability she was about to face.

Derik followed close behind, his presence a steady force at her back. He pulled the collar of his coat tighter against the chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. Morgan mounted the first wooden step, listening to the groan of weathered timber under her weight. With each creak, the tension between them tightened, a tangible thing that seemed to echo in the hollow spaces around them.

The porch felt precarious underfoot, a testament to the hard life that had unfolded within the walls of trailer number 34. Morgan paused before the door, her hand resting on the knob, feeling the coarse grain of the wood beneath her fingers. This was the threshold over which countless sorrows must have passed, and now they, too, would enter.

Morgan rapped sharply on the weathered door of trailer number 34. The sound seemed to linger in the air, heavy with the burden of what was to come. After a moment that stretched out too long, the hinges groaned, and the door swung open just enough to reveal a figure that could only belong to Mrs. Crane.

The woman before them was a map of hard-lived years, her features etched with the kind of weariness that comes from a life spent battling demons that refuse to be vanquished. Morgan took in the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes rimmed with red, the jittery shuffle of someone who's always on edge. Mrs. Crane's thin frame was dwarfed by the doorway, her hands fidgeting as if she couldn't quite decide whether to flee or stay. Yet, amid the signs of decay, curiosity sparked within those bloodshot eyes at the sight of two strangers on her dilapidated porch.

"Mrs. Crane?" Morgan asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. She knew the importance of being both firm and compassionate in moments like this.

Derik stepped forward, his eyes solemn as he flipped open his badge for the older woman to see. "We're with the FBI. We need to talk to you about your son, Jace."

At the mention of her son's name, something shifted behind the weariness in Mrs. Crane's gaze. It was as though the words had reached through the fog of her existence and touched a raw, tender place within her soul. She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat, and for an instant, a veil of sorrow softened the harsh lines of her face.

"Jace?" she whispered, barely audible over the distant sounds of the trailer park. Her voice was like a ghost's—haunting and brittle.

"May we come in?" Morgan asked, her tone gentle but insistent.

Mrs. Crane glanced back into the shadowed recesses of the trailer, a silent battle waging in her eyes. Then, with a small nod, she stepped aside. The movement was reluctant, almost protective, as if she were opening up her world of pain to these outsiders, knowing they might carry away pieces of it when they left.

Morgan stepped into the dimly lit trailer, her senses instantly assaulted by the stench of stale cigarette smoke that clung to every surface. The air was heavy with the mustiness of mildew, and she resisted the urge to cough as she scanned the cramped space. Old, mismatched furniture filled the room, their faded fabrics and worn edges telling stories of countless years of use and neglect. Wallpaper, once vibrant but now discolored and peeling, hung limply from the walls, while the scuffed linoleum floors were littered with dirt and debris.

This was not just a home in disrepair; it was a monument to a life of hardship. The very atmosphere seemed to press down on her, thick with despair. Morgan could feel the weight of the Cranes' struggles pressing against her chest, a reminder of the dark corners of the world where hope struggled to survive.

In the corner of the living room, slouched on an old couch that had seen better days, sat Mr. Crane. A beer rested loosely in his hand, condensation dripping onto the threadbare cushion beneath. His attention was fixed on a small television set, its screen flickering with the images of some forgotten daytime program. His face was rugged, etched with deep lines that spoke of years spent battling demons both within and without.

As Morgan and Derik made their presence known, Mr. Crane offered nothing more than a low grunt, an acknowledgment devoid of interest or surprise. He didn't shift his gaze or make any effort to rise, remaining anchored to the couch as if resigned to his spot. There was something profoundly defeated about his posture, a silent surrender to the unrelenting currents that had swept away whatever dreams he might have once held dear.

Morgan felt a pang of sympathy for the man, understanding all too well the feeling of being caught in a tide you couldn't escape. She steeled herself, though, knowing that compassion would not bring them closer to answers. This visit was a necessary intrusion, one that might shine a light on the darkness they were trying to unravel. She cast a glance at Derik, sharing a wordless agreement: they were here for Jace, and whatever truth lay buried beneath the surface of this family's pain.

Mrs. Crane's hand, thin and speckled with age spots, gestured toward two chairs that had seen better days. Morgan noted the kitchen table's surface, a collage of life's remnants—old newspapers, empty cans, dishes stained with the residue of meals past. She took a seat, feeling the chair groan under her weight, its protest echoing in the cramped space.

"Mrs. Crane," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the tension knotting her stomach. "We're here because we need to understand more about Jace. Anything you can tell us might help." The woman's eyes, cloudy with years of hardship, met hers, searching for sincerity or perhaps an accusation.

Morgan could read the trepidation written across Mrs. Crane's face—the fear of dredging up past sorrows was palpable. Yet there was no other path forward but through the thicket of painful memories.

As Derik settled into the chair beside her, the sound of creaking wood momentarily filled the silence. He offered a nod of solidarity to Mrs. Crane, a silent pledge of respect during the difficult conversation ahead.

With practiced hands, Morgan retrieved the photograph from her folder, the symbol stark against the white background. She slid it across the table toward Mrs. Crane, whose gaze dropped to it immediately. The reaction was swift—a sharp intake of breath, a hand reaching out with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.

"Jace... he used to draw this," Mrs. Crane whispered, her voice barely rising above the hum of the decrepit refrigerator. Her fingertip traced the edges of the symbol as if trying to conjure a connection to her lost son.

"Where did he draw it?" Morgan asked, leaning in closer.

"All over... notebooks, scraps of paper," Mrs. Crane murmured, her eyes not leaving the photograph. "Never knew what it meant. Thought it was just doodles."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, both aware that the symbol was far from a mere scribble. It was a thread, one that wove deeper into the tapestry of their case, connecting victims to a mystery that now included Jace Crane.

"Did he mention anything about it? A group or club where he might have seen it?" Morgan prodded gently, each question a delicate step on uncertain ground.

"No," came the response, hollow with resignation. "Jace kept to himself mostly. Quiet boy. This..." Mrs. Crane gestured to the symbol, "was part of his world, not ours."

"Mrs. Crane," she started, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil that the case stirred within her. "Could you tell us more about Jace? What was he like?"

Mrs. Crane glanced at her husband before turning back to Morgan, a frail smile attempting to mask her sorrow. "Jace... he was a good kid," she said, her voice faltering. "Different, y'know? Quiet. Liked his own company."

"Spent a lot of time drawing," Mr. Crane added from his place on the couch, not taking his eyes off the flickering television screen. "We never really got it, but it mattered to him."

"Friends?" Derik asked, his tone soft yet probing.

"A few," Mrs. Crane replied. "Hung around that club downtown sometimes. But he stayed outta trouble."

"His death," Morgan interjected, "you believe it was an accident?"

"God's honest truth," Mr. Crane said firmly, finally turning to face them. His eyes held a resolute sadness that bordered on defeat. "It tore us apart, Agent Cross. Tore us right apart."

Morgan felt the weight of their pain, a somber echo of her own past grievances. Yet she had to delve further, for Jace's memory and the living victims who demanded justice.

"Was Elliott close with Jace?" She watched as the temperature of the room plummeted, the name alone conjuring ghosts that clung to the peeling wallpaper.

The shift was tangible. Mrs. Crane's hands knotted together, her knuckles whitening. Beside her, Mr. Crane's form stiffened, beer forgotten.

"Elliott..." Mrs. Crane began, then stopped. The word was a key to a locked door they dared not open.

"Can you tell us about him?" Derik pressed, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table that bore the remnants of countless meals and unspoken words.

"Nothing to tell," Mr. Crane muttered, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the confines of the trailer.

"Something happened between them?" Morgan's question hung in the air, a dare to shatter the silence.

"We don't talk to Elliott no more," Mrs. Crane said. It wasn't just a statement; it was a wall, built brick by brick with every unsaid reason and hidden hurt.

"Can you give us any idea why?" Morgan's inquiry was gentle but persistent, seeking the cracks in the facade.

But the Cranes remained tight-lipped, guardians of a painful secret. Their refusal spoke volumes, even as they said nothing of substance. Morgan's instincts flared—there was a story here, one that could blow open the doors to understanding the tragedies entwining their lives.

Yet she held back, recognizing the boundary before her. There were lines one did not cross without invitation, and the Cranes' guarded expressions were clear deterrents. For now, Elliott was a shadow in the background of Jace's life, and the darkness he carried was one they weren't ready to illuminate.

Morgan watched the Cranes closely, feeling the weight of unspoken truths hanging between them. She eased back in her chair, giving them space, but every instinct told her there was more to this story. "Where can we find Elliott?" she asked, her voice measured, betraying none of the urgency she felt.

Mrs. Crane's fingers twitched, a nervous dance on the tabletop. "Elliott?" She exhaled a shaky breath, eyes darting away. "We ain't heard from him since... since the funeral."

"Jace's funeral," Mr. Crane clarified, his voice rough like gravel. He took a slow pull from his beer, the can crinkling slightly under his grip. "Something happened that day. Elliott, he was never right in the head, always messed up. But he loved Jace, God knows he did."

"Was there a fight?" Derik interjected, his tone careful not to push too hard.

"More like a breakdown," Mrs. Crane muttered, a shadow crossing her worn face. "After that, he just... vanished. Cut us out like we were nothing."

Morgan absorbed their words, noting the mix of resentment and sorrow that laced them. A rift at a funeral could mean many things, but it was clear that the event was a turning point for Elliott—and potentially for their investigation.

"Thank you," Morgan said quietly, though she knew they had uncovered only the tip of an iceberg.

She and Derik exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Elliott Crane was no longer just a name; he was a vital piece of the puzzle, his absence from the family as loud as any statement could be. There was more here, hidden beneath layers of family drama and grief. Whatever had driven Elliott away was tied to the mystery they were unraveling, and it was imperative they found him.

"Did Elliott have any place he frequented? Any friends who might know where he is?" Derik pressed gently.

The Cranes shook their heads, a united front of ignorance—or perhaps refusal—to divulge anything more.

"Alright," Morgan conceded..

Morgan stood, the chair groaning in protest as she shifted her weight. The dimly lit interior of the trailer had done nothing to illuminate their investigation, and the silence that followed their questions about Elliott hung heavy in the stale air. She glanced at Derik, who was already gathering his notepad and pen, his brows furrowed in thought.

"Mrs. Crane, Mr. Crane," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface. "We appreciate you speaking with us today."

The Cranes offered brief nods, their faces etched with lines of hardship and a trace of relief at the agents' impending departure. It was clear they were eager to retreat back into the cocoon of their suffering, away from the prying eyes of the FBI.

"Thank you for your time," Morgan repeated, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was well-versed in the dance of decorum, even when every fiber of her being screamed to push harder, to demand answers. But she understood that sometimes, pressure yielded nothing but resistance.

As she stepped out of the trailer, Morgan felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly in the open air. The trailer park was still, the only sound the distant hum of traffic beyond its confines. She and Derik walked side by side to their car, their silence a shared contemplation of the task ahead.

"Where do we go from here?" Derik's voice broke through her thoughts, low and serious.

Morgan unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat, the leather creaking under her. She took a moment before answering, starting the engine and letting the AC chase away the oppressive heat of Texas autumn.

"We find Elliott," she said, her resolve firm. "He's the missing link. If he cared for Jace as much as they claim, then he might be our best shot at understanding the motive behind these symbols."

"Assuming he's willing to talk," Derik added, buckling his seatbelt.

"Assuming," Morgan echoed. She pulled the car onto the road, leaving behind the desolate landscape of the trailer park. Her mind was already racing with possibilities, with the threads of this tangled web they were desperate to unravel.