Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER SIX

In order to understand who may have killed her, Morgan wanted to understand who Emily Whitmore—the first known victim—was as a person. The sun hung high in a cloudless Texas sky as Morgan and Derik pulled up to Rachel Whitmore's modest craftsman home—Emily Whitmore’s sister. Dead leaves skittered across the brown lawn, and a trio of pumpkins flanked the front steps—cheerful decorations that felt obscene in light of Emily's death. The neighborhood was quiet at this hour, with only the distant hum of landscaping equipment breaking the midday silence. Morgan's fingers traced the outline of her badge through her jacket.

Her eyes swept the street, taking in details. Two-car garages, maintained yards, bikes left carelessly in driveways—the trappings of normal life that still felt foreign sometimes. A woman pushed a stroller on the opposite sidewalk, her pace leisurely, unhurried. No signs of surveillance, no unmarked vehicles that might suggest Cordell's people were watching. Still, Morgan made mental note of possible escape routes, counting cross-streets and analyzing lines of sight. Old habits died hard.

A woman's muffled singing drifted through the screen door—a lullaby. Derik's knuckles rapped against the door frame, and the singing stopped.

Rachel Whitmore answered with a baby propped on her hip, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. The infant, no more than six months old, regarded them with solemn eyes that seemed too knowing for such a tiny face. Rachel's free hand clutched a teething ring, and dark circles beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

"Mrs. Whitmore?" Morgan held up her credentials. "I'm Special Agent Morgan Cross, and this is Special Agent Derik Greene. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Emily, if that's all right."

"Oh, of course." Rachel's free hand fluttered to her throat. "Please, come in. I'm sorry about the mess—Lily's teething and sleep is... theoretical these days."

The living room was a battlefield of baby gear and half-folded laundry, with framed photos covering every available surface. Morgan's trained eye caught Emily's face in several of them—smiling, alive, unaware of the horror that awaited her in that cornfield. In one photo, the sisters stood together at what looked like a gallery opening, Emily's professional poise contrasting with Rachel's more relaxed demeanor. The baby squirmed in Rachel's arms, making small sounds of discontent.

"She's beautiful," Morgan said, nodding toward the infant. She meant it—there was something pure about babies, something untouched by the darkness she dealt with daily. In prison, she'd watched mothers cradle their children during visits, seeing how those brief moments of connection could sustain them through months of separation. She remembered one woman, Marie, who'd press her hand against the visiting room glass, matching her palm to her daughter's, trying to memorize the size difference before another year of growth separated them.

"Thank you." Rachel settled into an armchair, adjusting the baby against her shoulder. A burp cloth caught the drool from Lily's teething troubles. "She'll never know her aunt Emily, and that's—" Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry. What did you want to ask about?"

Morgan leaned forward, keeping her posture open, non-threatening. A decade behind bars had taught her how body language could defuse tension, make people feel safe enough to talk. She noted how Rachel's eyes kept drifting to the photos, as if she couldn't quite believe her sister was gone. "We're reviewing Emily's case, and we're particularly interested in the location where she was found. Did cornfields hold any special significance for your sister?"

Rachel's brow furrowed, one hand absently patting the baby's back. The infant's eyes were starting to droop, lulled by the rhythmic motion. "No, nothing like that. Emily was an art dealer—she spent most of her time in galleries, not farms. She specialized in contemporary sculptures, actually. When the police said where they'd found her, it seemed... random. Wrong." She paused, adjusting the baby's position. "Emily was always more comfortable in high heels than hiking boots. She complained if she had to walk on grass in her good shoes."

"What about her routine in the weeks before she died?" Derik asked, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at victim interviews. He'd positioned himself slightly apart from Morgan, giving Rachel space while maintaining eye contact.

Rachel's eyes clouded with memory. "She was working late a lot. There was a big exhibition coming up—some avant-garde artists from Europe. Emily was excited about it, said it could really put her gallery on the map." She absently stroked Lily's fine hair. "But she seemed... distracted, too. Like something was weighing on her."

Morgan leaned forward slightly. "Did she mention any new people in her life? Anyone who made her uncomfortable?"

"I told the other detectives about the argument," Rachel said, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. The infant made a small sound of protest before settling. "At the grocery store. They didn't seem to think it was important, but..."

Morgan felt her pulse quicken. In her peripheral vision, she saw Derik straighten slightly—he'd caught it too. "Tell us about the argument."

"It was maybe two weeks before she—before it happened." Rachel's eyes fixed on a photo of Emily, as if drawing strength from her sister's frozen smile. It showed Emily at what looked like a Christmas gathering, laughing at something off-camera. "I saw her in the parking lot of Marshall's Market, arguing with some man. When I asked her about it later, she brushed it off, said it was nothing. But Emily wasn't the type to argue with strangers. It bothered me."

Morgan noticed Rachel's grip tighten slightly on the baby, a subtle tell that suggested there was more to the story. "What else about it bothered you?"

Rachel bit her lip, bouncing the baby gently as she gathered her thoughts. "Emily was... confident. Self-assured. But when I saw her arguing with that man, her body language was all wrong. She looked... smaller somehow. Scared, maybe. I should have—" She broke off, swallowing hard. "I should have done something."

"Can you describe the man?" Morgan kept her voice steady, professional, though her instincts were screaming that this was important. She thought of the ritualistic elements at both crime scenes, the agricultural symbols carved into cold flesh.

"Tall, I think. Wearing overalls, like a farmer or something. I was too far away to see his face clearly." Rachel's lips trembled. The baby had finally drifted off, tiny fingers curled against her mother's shirt. "I should have pushed harder, made her tell me what was wrong. Maybe if I had—"

"You couldn't have known," Derik said softly, cutting off the spiral of guilt Morgan had seen consume too many survivors. "But you can help us now. Which Marshall's Market was this?"

***

Morgan steered the car through Dallas’s traffic, Derik quiet in the passenger seat beside her. She wasn’t sure what to make of all this so far, and judging by the look on Derik’s face in her periphery, he was on the same page.

“What are you thinking?” Morgan asked him.

Derik rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. "I'm thinking we need to get our hands on that security footage from Marshall's Market. If we can ID this mystery man in overalls, it could give us a solid lead."

Morgan nodded, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Agreed. But something doesn't add up. An art dealer specializing in contemporary sculptures, arguing with a man in farmer's overalls? It's an odd juxtaposition."

"Could be nothing," Derik mused. "But given the agricultural symbols at the crime scenes, it's a connection we can't ignore."

They drove in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Morgan's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of information they'd gathered. The cornfield, the out-of-season flowers, and now this mysterious confrontation with a man who looked like he'd stepped off a farm.

Ten minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot of a grocery store that had seen better days. The faded sign advertised local produce, and Morgan noted several stands displaying pumpkins and decorative corn—seasonal touches that now felt sinister in light of Emily's death. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the asphalt, and Morgan thought of other shadows: prison bars across concrete floors, the patterns they made like a sundial counting down endless days.

Inside, they found the manager—a teenager whose nametag identified him as Justin—more interested in his phone than their badges. But he perked up at the mention of security footage, perhaps hoping for some excitement to break the monotony of his shift.

"Two weeks ago?" He led them to a cramped back office that smelled of stale coffee and microwave popcorn, fingers flying over a keyboard. "Yeah, we keep everything for like a month. Some corporate thing about slip-and-fall lawsuits."

The footage was grainy but clear enough to show Emily Whitmore in the parking lot, her professional attire marking her as different from the usual afternoon shoppers. She stood near her car—the same car they'd found hidden in the drainage ditch—keys clutched in one hand. And there, approaching her with purposeful strides, was a man in overalls. The camera angle caught his profile as he gestured angrily—a strong nose, a jaw tensed with barely contained rage, shoulders broad from physical labor.

Morgan leaned closer to the monitor, registering every detail of his body language. The way he invaded Emily's space spoke of someone used to intimidation, someone who knew how to make others feel small. She'd seen that stance too many times in the yard not to recognize it. He moved with the confidence of someone who believed absolutely in his own authority, his own righteousness.

"Can you enhance this?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. On screen, Emily took a step back, her heel catching on the curb. The man followed, maintaining the pressure.

Justin snorted. "This ain't CSI, lady. What you see is what you get." He slouched in his chair, clearly proud of his clever reference.

But what they saw was enough. Their killer had a face now, or at least part of one. Morgan studied the angular profile, the way his hands clenched into fists as he spoke to Emily. Here was their first real lead—a man who fit their emerging profile, who had confronted their victim before her death, who wore the clothes of someone familiar with agriculture. Someone who understood the significance of corn silk and harvest rituals.

"We need a copy of this footage," Derik said, already pulling out his phone to call it in. "And we'll need to know if he's been back here since."

Justin shrugged, but started working on copying the files. "Want me to check the rewards card database too? Most of our regulars have one."

Morgan exchanged a look with Derik. Sometimes, the best leads came from the most mundane sources. "Yes," she said. "Check for any purchases of rope, particularly marine-grade."

The teenager's fingers clattered across the keyboard while Morgan kept her eyes on the screen, watching the silent confrontation play out. The man's movements were controlled, deliberate—not the wild gestures of someone losing control, but the measured actions of someone marking their prey. She'd seen that kind of calculated violence before, both in the criminals she'd hunted and the predators she'd lived among for ten years.

As Justin scrolled through the database, Morgan's mind raced. The man in the footage wasn't just angry—he was ritualistic, purposeful. His confrontation with Emily wasn't random; it was a prelude to something far more sinister.

“I don’t see any purchases for the rope you described here,” Justin eventually said. “Sorry…”

Morgan nodded, unsurprised. Their killer was too meticulous to leave such an obvious trail. "What about fertilizers? Pesticides? Anything used in large-scale agriculture?"

Justin's brow furrowed as he typed. "Yeah, actually. There's a guy who buys a ton of stuff like that. Always pays cash though, doesn't use a rewards card. Actually, he dresses a lot like the guy in the video there.”

Morgan’s jaw clenched. The evidence—while circumstantial for now—was piling up.

Either way, she needed to find the name of the man in the video.

Their killer had just made his first mistake. He'd shown his face, however briefly, to a camera. And Morgan intended to make it his last mistake.

The grainy figure on the screen continued his silent tirade, unaware that he'd just become the focus of a manhunt. Soon, she would know his name. Soon, she would know why Emily and Laura had to die, why spring flowers bloomed in autumn hair, why ancient symbols were carved into cooling flesh.

And soon, she would stop him before he could choose his next victim.