CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Morgan stepped into the Federal Building, her boots silent on the polished floor. The place thrummed with energy—agents darting past with stern faces, the punctuated trill of phones, the low drone of voices. Normally, she'd be swept up in the current of urgency, but today, detachment settled over her like a shroud.
She navigated the familiar halls, senses dulled. Her gaze flicked to the corner where she’d last seen Elliott Crane alive. He haunted the peripherals of her vision—a ghost fading with each heartbeat. The case was closed, the killer gone, yet peace eluded her. Morgan swallowed, the taste of victory ash on her tongue.
"Cross," called a voice, jarring her from her reverie. She turned, finding Derik's green eyes shadowed with shared disquiet. He nodded toward Mueller’s office. No words were needed; they moved in tandem, bound by something deeper than duty.
Assistant Director Mueller stood as they entered, his gray hair and mustache lending him an air of gravitas that the room seemed to absorb. "Cross, Greene," he greeted, voice gravelly with authority.
"Sir," they replied in unison.
"Sit down." His command was softened by a dip of his head, an invitation rather than an order.
Mueller's office was sparse, functional, every item a testament to a career built on discipline. He took his seat again, fingers laced on the desk. "The case you two have been working on," he began, "it's made headlines. Not all press is good press, but this..." He paused, assessing them with a practiced eye. "You did well."
"Thank you, sir," Morgan said, her words clipped. Praise felt misplaced when weighed against a life extinguished too soon.
"Crane's death isn't on you," Mueller continued, interpreting her silence accurately. "You prevented more loss, stopped further tragedies. That's commendable."
Derik gave a curt nod. "We appreciate that, sir."
"Good." Mueller leaned back, steeple of fingers breaking apart as he reached for a file, passing it across the desk. "New directives will be coming your way. Take the day, then get back to it. We've got lives to save."
"Understood," Morgan replied, but her thoughts snagged on Elliott's final moments—the fall, the impact, the end. Mueller saw justice served; she saw a cascade of could-have-beens.
"Dismissed." Mueller's voice was final, a period at the end of a long and taxing sentence.
Morgan rose, feeling Derik's presence beside her, a silent bulwark against the tide of bureaucracy and unspoken reproach. They exited the office, the door closing behind them with a soft click that felt like closure and condemnation all at once.
Morgan stepped out of Mueller's office, the weight of his words tethering her to a reality she wished she could escape. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, a dull metronome to the cacophony of activity around her. She could feel the eyes of other agents on her—some with respect, others with the morbid curiosity that tragedy always seemed to breed. But Morgan felt none of the victory they ascribed to her; inside, there was only a hollow space where relief should have been.
She made her way to her office, passing the everyday bustle of the FBI headquarters, the urgency and purpose of it all feeling alien. The clatter of keyboards, the shuffle of papers, the fragments of overheard conversations—it was all just noise against the backdrop of Elliott Crane's final, fatal decision.
Reaching her sanctuary, Morgan shut the door with a soft click that reverberated louder in her ears than the closing had any right to. She leaned back against the solid wood, letting the coolness seep through her blazer. Here, in this small room lined with case files and commendations, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability.
Elliott's face haunted her—the moment his eyes had met hers across the void, the abyss not just of space but of unbridgeable understanding. She replayed the scene: his figure outlined against the stark night sky, the wind pulling at his clothes like a harbinger of the fall to come. His fractured psyche, laid bare in those last seconds, was the deepest wound—his belief that he could reverse time and reunite with his brother so palpable it nearly convinced her too.
Morgan's hands clenched into fists at her sides. It wasn't supposed to end this way. In her mind, justice was absolute, clean, uncompromising. It did not factor in the tortuous paths of human sorrow or the demons that drove men like Elliott to the edge of sanity. She had wanted to save him from himself as much as she wanted to stop him, maybe more. But the world didn't bend for wants or maybes.
The silence of her office pressed in on her, an oppressive force that sought to squeeze the air from her lungs. She pushed away from the door and moved to sit behind her desk, but the chair offered no comfort. The leather was cold and unyielding—a reflection of the seat of judgment she felt trapped in.
The case was closed, the file would be stamped and stored away, but the ghosts would linger. They always did. Every time she thought she could move past one, another would rise, a specter of doubt and regret. Morgan Cross knew the cost of her job, measured not in accolades or successful prosecutions, but in these silent moments when the soul reckoned with itself.
Alone in her office, surrounded by the trophies of a career built on unmasking monsters, Morgan confronted the one adversary she had no protocol for—her own conscience. The fight was far from over, but today, the battlefield was internal, the enemy, invisible. And in the quiet aftermath of an ended pursuit, the emotional toll etched itself deeper into her being, a scar upon a scarred heart.
Morgan's door creaked open, a sliver of the bustling office noise seeping into her quiet refuge. Derik stepped through, his silhouette momentarily framed by the fluorescent lights of the corridor before he closed the door behind him. He moved with a deliberate calmness that always seemed to counterbalance the chaos of their profession. His eyes found hers, green and steady, offering silent solace.
He crossed the room, every footstep a measured beat in the stillness, and claimed the chair beside her desk. It scraped lightly against the floor, the sound a tangible reminder that he was there, in this space that felt too small for the weight of everything they carried. He sat down, allowing the silence to stretch between them, a shared moment of respite from the demands waiting outside.
When at last they turned towards each other, words began to flow, heavy with the burden of what had transpired. They spoke of Elliott, the case that had unraveled so quickly and ended so tragically. Derik's voice was gentle, but it carried the weight of undeniable truth.
"Elliott lost himself to grief," Morgan said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "It twisted him until he couldn't see past his own pain."
"His mind was a maze with no way out," Derik agreed. "All roads led back to his brother. You could see it in his eyes—there was nothing left but that one desperate hope."
She nodded, feeling the truth of it settle in her chest like a stone. The world could be relentlessly cruel, snatching away the light and leaving only darkness in its wake. Elliott Crane had been devoured by that darkness, his actions monstrous yet rooted in an all-too-human agony. Death had driven him to the edge, and beyond it, in search of a miracle that would never come.
Morgan leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking under the shift of her weight. Her gaze lingered on Derik, finding a quiet comfort in his presence. They were both too familiar with the shadowy corners of the human soul—the places where loss and despair festered, turning grief into something unrecognizable.
"It's hard, knowing he saw no other way." Her voice was a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning. "Elliott's pain was real, even if his solution wasn't."
"Real and dangerous," Derik added softly, acknowledging the tightrope they walked between empathy and duty. "We stopped him, Morgan. That's what matters."
"Stopped him from hurting others," she conceded, her thoughts trailing off. Her heart ached for Elliott Crane, the man who had fallen so far in his quest to undo the irreversible. She couldn't condone his actions, but she could mourn the broken soul behind them.
Morgan felt Derik's hand on her shoulder, a silent permission to unravel just a bit within the sanctuary of his understanding. With a heavy sigh, she leaned into his embrace, her arms wrapping around him in a mutual need for solace. His chest was a steady wall against the tumult of emotions churning inside her.
"Thank you," she murmured, allowing herself this moment of vulnerability. Derik's hold tightened, a wordless vow that he was there, as he had always been, even when shadows threatened to swallow them whole.
"Always, Morgan," he replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. She could feel the echo of his own heartache in the grip of his arms—a silent acknowledgment of the shared burden they carried. They were two agents who had seen too much, yet still clung to the fragments of humanity within each other.
Derik's presence was a lifeline, a warm contrast to the cold demands of their profession. In the brief refuge of their hug, the blurred lines between right and wrong, the relentless pursuit of justice, all faded into the background. It was just Morgan and Derik against the world.
As if summoned by some cruel twist of fate, the shrill ring of Morgan's phone sliced through the quiet, pulling them back into reality. Reluctance etched across her face as she unwound from Derik's arms to answer the call that would inevitably yank them from the small comfort they had found.
"Thomas," she mouthed with a frown, her gut twisting at the sight of the name flashing on the screen. Derik's eyes narrowed, a spark of protectiveness flaring up as he recognized the source of Morgan's apprehension.
"Be careful," he cautioned, his words barely audible but laden with concern.
With a deep breath, bracing herself against the flood of unease, Morgan tapped the answer button. "Grady," she greeted curtly, her tone guarded, ready to parry whatever verbal sparring Thomas might throw her way. Her fingers gripped the phone, betraying the tension that Thomas's name alone brought surging to the surface.
“Hello, Morgan,” Thomas said. “Always good to talk to you.”
“What do you want?”
“I have some information on Cordell you might want to hear. We should meet—our usual spot.”
Usual spot. They hadn’t met enough times to justify calling it that, but Morgan decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to be snarky with him. “Fine. Tonight?”
“Tonight. I’ll meet you there.”
Morgan's thumb hovered over the end call button, her mind racing as Thomas's last words echoed in her ears. Information about Cordell—the name was a raw wound, a reminder of betrayal and a decade stolen from her. She pressed the button, severing the connection with a click that felt too gentle for the turmoil roiling within her.
"Thomas?" Derik asked, voice laced with caution.
"Claims he has something on Cordell," Morgan replied, turning to face him. Her eyes met his green ones, the concern etched into his features mirroring the unease tightening her chest. "Says it's big."
"Of course, he does," Derik muttered, a frown creasing his brow. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed as he considered their next move. "You're going?"
"Can't afford not to," she said, her resolve hardening.
"Then I'm coming with you," Derik stated flatly, the protective edge in his voice brooking no argument.
Morgan studied him for a moment. Despite his usually immaculate appearance, the tiredness that seemed permanently etched under his eyes spoke of battles fought and demons wrestled with—both personal and professional. And yet, here he was, ready to dive headlong into danger alongside her.
"Thomas can't know," she finally said, her tone brooking no argument either. They had played this dangerous game long enough to know the rules. Trust was a luxury rarely afforded in their line of work.
"I'll hang back, out of sight," Derik assured her, pushing off from the wall. His tall frame moved with a fluidity that belied the tension Morgan knew he carried—a tension born from years of treading the fine line between law and chaos.
"Alright," she conceded, her lips pressing into a thin line. There was comfort in knowing Derik would be there, a silent guardian watching over the chessboard upon which they were mere players.
"Let's set it up," Morgan continued, her voice steady. In the intricate dance of espionage and deceit, Derik was the partner she hadn't realized she'd needed until fate had harshly thrust them together.
Morgan watched as Derik's gratitude washed over his features, the green of his eyes catching the fluorescent lights above. "Thanks for letting me in on this," he said, his voice tinged with the weight of their shared history. He was an island of calm in the storm that had become their lives, and Morgan could see the resolve etched into the lines of his face.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," she replied, her response carrying more than just a hint of sincerity. For all the scars that marred both their pasts, they were a unit now—steeled by adversity and bound by trust. The silent acknowledgment hung between them: they were no longer just working partners but comrades in arms against the shadows that sought to engulf them.
Derik placed a hand on her shoulder, a wordless promise of his unwavering presence. Despite everything, despite the betrayals and near misses, they had forged something unbreakable.