Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER THREE

Morgan ran through the darkness, her boots pounding against weathered planks that stretched endlessly before her. The pier seemed to elongate with each step, expanding into infinite blackness while choppy waters churned below. Her lungs burned with effort, but she couldn't stop—not with Thomas's silhouette visible just ahead, his form backlit by a moon she couldn't quite see.

"Thomas!" Her voice came out strangled, barely carrying over the water's roar. "Wait!"

He turned, but remained just out of reach. Blood bloomed across his chest like a dark flower, exactly as it had that night on the real pier. His lips moved, trying to tell her something, but no sound emerged. The same words he'd died trying to say, forever lost to the night air.

The pier boards creaked beneath her feet, the sound morphing into something like laughter—dark and knowing. She was getting closer to Thomas now, close enough to see his features clearly in the strange half-light.

But as she reached for him, his face began to change. The sharp angles of youth softened, lines deepening around eyes that were suddenly so familiar they made her chest ache.

Her father stared back at her, wearing the same flannel shirt he'd had on the last time she'd seen him.

"Dad?" The word caught in her throat. "You're—"

"Gone," he finished for her, his voice carrying the weight of secrets she was only beginning to understand. "Just like Thomas. Just like Mary. All because of—"

The shrill ring of her phone cut through the dream like a blade, yanking Morgan back to consciousness. She bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs, the sheets tangled around her legs like seaweed trying to drag her under. Her first conscious breath carried the lingering scent of rain from the night before, mixed with the familiar comfort of laundered sheets and Derik's aftershave. Beside her, Derik stirred, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon on the nightstand—a habit born from years of field work that mirrored her own vigilance.

Her heart pounded as the dream replayed in her mind. Thomas… her father… god, it was all so horrible.

Her phone continued its insistent cry, vibrating against the wooden surface. Assistant Director Mueller's name flashed on the screen, making her stomach clench. The digital clock beside it read 6:47 AM. Had word of yesterday's cemetery confrontation with Cordell reached him somehow? She caught Derik's concerned glance as he woke up. She swiped to answer, noting the shadows under his eyes that matched her own restless night.

"Cross here." Her voice was steady despite the sleep still clouding her thoughts.

“Morgan,” Mueller said. "I need you and Greene at headquarters. Now." Mueller's tone gave nothing away, clipped and professional as always. Before she could respond, the line went dead, leaving her with nothing but questions and the soft sound of Derik's breathing beside her.

Morgan lowered the phone, meeting Derik's questioning look. The early morning light caught the silver threading through his dark hair, a detail she usually found endearing but now only emphasized how much time they'd lost. "Mueller wants us in. Didn't say why."

"Think Cordell's already making moves?" Derik was fully awake now, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The muscles in his back were tense, coiled with worry. A fading scar traced his shoulder blade—a souvenir from a bust gone wrong three years ago, while she'd been behind bars, unable to watch his back.

"One way to find out." Morgan stood, her joints protesting after yesterday's rain-soaked vigil at the cemetery. The memory of Cordell's smile beneath that black umbrella made her skin crawl. Even in the warm safety of her bedroom, that image chilled her to the bone.

In the living room, Skunk raised his head from his bed, tail wagging hopefully at the sight of them. Morgan paused to scratch behind his ears, drawing comfort from the pit bull's solid presence. "Sorry, boy. No morning walk today."

***

Twenty minutes later, they were navigating through downtown Dallas traffic, the city still shaking off its early morning stupor. The sun caught the glass-and-steel towers at odd angles, throwing sharp reflections across their windshield like warning signals. Morgan's coffee sat untouched in the cupholder, her appetite killed by the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Even the familiar skyline felt different this morning, as if Cordell's appearance had cast everything in a more sinister light.

Derik handled the car with the same quiet competence he brought to everything, but Morgan could see the tension in his grip on the steering wheel, in the way his eyes constantly checked the rearview mirror. After his confession about being blackmailed months ago, about how they'd threatened his son to force his cooperation in her frame-up, he'd developed an almost pathological need to spot threats before they materialized. Morgan sometimes forgot that Derik was once a married man with a son whose life he was never truly in. Cordell and his men had blackmailed him, threatened his child and ex-wife to get information on Morgan, to get her to slip up and put herself in a vulnerable position. But in the end, Derik got his ex-wife and his son on a plane to England, and he'd been by her side ever since.

It wasn’t easy to rebuild trust, but Derik had proven himself to her. After many cases together, they’d finally admitted that they were in love with each other.

The FBI headquarters loomed ahead, its modernist facade a contrast to the historic buildings surrounding it. Morgan's fingers traced the outline of her badge through her jacket—a habit she'd developed since getting it back, as if touching it could confirm this wasn't all some elaborate dream she'd conjured up in her cell. The weight of it was both comfort and burden, a reminder of everything she'd lost and fought to regain.

The parking garage was still relatively empty this early, their footsteps echoing off concrete as they made their way to the elevator. Morgan caught their reflection in the polished metal doors—her, covered in tattoos that told the story of her transformation, and Derik in his perfectly pressed suit. They made an odd pair, but somehow it worked. It had always worked, even before prison, before betrayal, before everything fell apart and reformed into something harder and more complicated.

Mueller was waiting in his office, his expression unreadable as they entered. The morning light streaming through the windows behind him turned him into a silhouette, a technique Morgan recognized from her own interrogations—putting the subject at a visual disadvantage. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chairs before his desk.

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik before they took their seats. The office smelled of coffee and gun oil, with an undertone of the same leather that permeated most federal buildings. Better to get ahead of this. "Sir, about yesterday—"

"Cordell approached you at Grady's funeral." Mueller's interruption was calm, matter-of-fact. "I know."

The bottom dropped out of Morgan's stomach. She felt Derik tense beside her, his hand twitching toward hers before stopping short. "How—"

"Because this morning, I received an anonymous threat." Mueller's mustache twitched with barely contained anger, his fingers drumming once against his desk before going still. "Either I terminate your employment with the Bureau, or there will be consequences."

"Sir, I'm sorry," Morgan began, but Mueller held up a hand. The morning light caught his wedding ring, a flash of gold that reminded her of Cordell's umbrella in the rain.

"I don't bend to threats, Cross. Never have, never will. And I'm not about to start by losing one of my best agents." His eyes narrowed, crow's feet deepening at the corners. "Though I wish you'd told me about the cemetery immediately."

"We were going to," Derik said, leaning forward. "We just needed time to process what happened, to think through the implications."

Mueller nodded, his expression softening slightly. The change transformed his face, reminding Morgan of the photograph she'd seen of him with her father—both younger, both smiling, both unaware of the tragedy that would unfold in the years to come. Mueller had never known that Morgan was John Christopher’s son until she told him—he’d thought John had died, had no idea that he’d changed his identity to Christopher Cross. "The question now is who we can trust within the Bureau,” Mueller said. “Cordell's influence runs deep, and after over forty years in the FBI, I still can't be sure who's in his pocket."

Morgan's hands clenched in her lap, short nails digging into her palms. "So what's our next move?"

"For now?" Mueller reached for a stack of files on his desk, the movement deliberate and controlled. "We work. I'll look into the threat, see if I can trace its origin. Cordell is getting reckless—he thinks he owns the FBI, but he doesn’t. I have people in my corner too… and so do you, Cross.”

Morgan smiled, exchanging a look with Derik. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“My family is already on a plane out of the country,” Mueller said. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re going to keep pushing on. I have a job to do… and a job just fell on my desk.”

He slid two manila folders across his desk. The familiar weight and texture of the folders grounded Morgan as she opened hers, but the air left her lungs in a rush when she saw the contents. The crime scene photos were brutal—a young woman, bound and suspended from a dock over the Trinity River. Spring flowers were woven through her hair, despite the season. The contrast between the delicate blooms and the violence of the scene made Morgan's stomach turn.

"Laura Benson, twenty-five," Mueller said, his voice taking on the professional detachment necessary for discussing such things. "Found this morning by a jogger. Keep reading."

Morgan flipped through the pages, her trained eyes catching details that others might miss. The rope burns on the victim's wrists showed signs of struggle. The methodical placement of the flowers suggested ritual significance. The position of the body implied knowledge of knots and rigging.

Then she reached the second set of photos—another victim, another elaborately staged scene.

"Emily Whitmore," Mueller supplied. "Found in a cornfield last week. Different location, similar symbolic elements."

"A possible serial killer," Derik said quietly, studying his own copy of the file. His voice carried the weight of experience of too many similar cases. "With some kind of harvest or seasonal fixation."

Morgan looked up from the photos, her mind already shifting into profiler mode despite the chaos of her personal investigation. Years in prison had actually sharpened her analytical skills—watching other inmates, learning to read subtle cues that might signal violence, categorizing patterns of behavior. "The crime scene at the river—it's still active?"

Mueller nodded, shadows playing across his face as clouds passed outside his window. "CSI is there now. If you leave immediately, you can get eyes on it before they finish processing."

Morgan stood, tucking the file under her arm. The weight of Cordell's threats, of Mueller's investigation, of Thomas's unsolved murder—all of it had to be compartmentalized. There was a killer out there, staging elaborate death scenes along the Trinity River, and that had to take precedence. The dead demanded justice just as surely as she did.

"Sir?" She paused at the door, Derik close behind her, his presence as steady and reassuring as always. "Thank you. For not backing down."

Mueller's expression was grim, the morning light catching the silver in his hair. "Just watch your back, Cross. Both of you. Cordell didn't show his hand without a reason, and I doubt he's done playing games."

Morgan nodded, following Derik into the hallway. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face as he turned to her, concern evident in every line of his features. "You okay?"

She thought about Cordell's threat at the cemetery, about Mueller's refusal to fire her, about the photos of Laura Benson's flower-adorned corpse. Nothing about any of it was okay. But she had a job to do, and maybe that was enough for now. Maybe solving this case could be a step toward proving herself, toward showing Cordell and everyone else hadn't broken her—it had only made her better at hunting monsters.

"Let's go see what our killer left us at the river," she said, already moving toward the elevator. Behind them, Mueller's office door clicked shut, like the sound of a chess piece being moved into position.

The game, it seemed, was far from over. But Morgan had learned long ago that the best defense was a good offense. And right now, offense meant finding whoever had staged that grotesque tableau by the Trinity River. One monster at a time—that was how she'd survive this. That was how she'd win.

As the elevator doors closed, she caught their reflection again—her and Derik, partners despite everything, ready to hunt another killer.

The game wasn't over. It was just beginning.