Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At HQ, facial recognition got a quick match on the ID of the woman seen lurking near the gallery.

Diana Grove.

The harsh glow of Morgan's computer screen cast shadows across her face as she studied Diana Grove's profile. The FBI database photo showed a woman with striking features—raven-black hair, pale skin, and green eyes that seemed to pierce through the camera. Exactly as the gallery receptionist had described.

"Professional background's a perfect fit," Derik said from his desk, his voice tight with the energy of a promising lead. His tie hung loose around his neck, and empty coffee cups littered his workspace. "PhD in Botanical Sciences, research focus on ethnobotany and traditional plant medicine. Published multiple papers on ritual use of plants in harvest ceremonies."

Morgan leaned closer to her screen, scanning Diana's publication history. The titles jumped out at her: "Sacred Flora: Agricultural Rituals and Seasonal Transitions," "Blooming Death: Plant Symbolism in Ancient Harvest Rites," "The Language of Flowers in Traditional Sacrifice." Each one echoed their killer's methodology with unsettling precision.

"It's too perfect," Morgan muttered. Like Victor Hale's greenhouse, everything about Diana Grove aligned too neatly with their profile. She'd learned the hard way how evidence could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told. Her own frame-up had been just as meticulously crafted.

The office was quiet at this hour, most agents having left for the night. Outside, Dallas's skyline glittered against the darkness like a constellation of artificial stars. Somewhere out there, Hannah Smith was running out of time.

“I didn’t expect the killer could be a woman,” Morgan said, “but I guess we can’t rule it out.”

Derik nodded, his eyes still fixed on his own screen. "We've been assuming a male perpetrator, but Diana Grove fits the profile in every other way. The knowledge, the access, the symbolism—it's all there."

“Where does she live?” Morgan asked.

“One second…” Derik’s eyebrow twitched as he focused on his screen, typing away. "Got a current address, west side of Dallas," Derik said, breaking into her thoughts. He rolled his chair closer, the movement familiar and grounding. "And her workplace. She runs the experimental greenhouse complex at the Botanical Research Center."

“Get me her number,” Morgan said. “It’s late—she might just be at home.”

Morgan's fingers hovered over her phone, her mind racing. She knew the risks of tipping off a potential suspect, but the urgency of Hannah's disappearance outweighed protocol. With a deep breath, she dialed the number Derik showed her.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Morgan's heart pounded in her chest. On the fourth ring, a male voice answered.

"Grove residence."

"This is Special Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI," Morgan said, letting authority fill her voice. "I need to speak with Diana Grove."

A pause, then: "She's not here. Working late at the greenhouse. Some kind of special project she's been obsessing over."

Morgan's eyes met Derik's across their desks. Special project. Like Laura Benson's flower-crowned corpse in the river? Like Emily Whitmore's harvest-ritual death in the cornfield? Like whatever performance piece awaited Hannah Smith?

"Thank you," Morgan said, already reaching for her jacket. "That's all we needed."

***

The drive to the Botanical Research Center passed in tense silence, broken only by the soft sounds of Dallas traffic and the occasional crackle of their police radio. Morgan watched the city scroll past, its architecture transforming from downtown steel and glass to the lower, sprawling buildings of the research district. Even at this late hour, lights still burned in several of the greenhouse wings.

The Center's complex loomed before them, its glass panels glowing softly from security lighting and the occasional work lamp. The facility was massive—multiple connected buildings stretching out like a crystalline labyrinth. A sign near the entrance listed specialized areas: Desert Biome, Tropical Collection, Rare Species Research.

"Remember," Morgan said quietly, "she's either completely innocent or very dangerous. No middle ground with this kind of ritual staging."

Derik nodded. "Either way, we need her downtown for questioning."

The greenhouse air hit them like a wall—humid, organic, alive with the breath of thousands of plants. Their footsteps echoed softly against the concrete paths as they followed signs toward the western wing, where rare specimens were housed.

Then they saw them—daffodils and tulips, arranged in precise rows. The same varieties found at their crime scenes, forced to bloom months before their natural season. Morgan's pulse quickened as she studied the careful cultivation, the obviously recent activity around the planters.

Morgan and Derik exchanged a knowing glance, their steps slowing as they approached the greenhouse entrance. The air grew thicker, heavy with the scent of earth and chlorophyll. Through the glass, they could see a lone figure moving among the plants, her dark hair a stark contrast against the vibrant greens and yellows.

"Diana Grove?" Morgan called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The figure stiffened, then turned slowly. Even from a distance, those piercing green eyes were unmistakable. Diana's gaze flicked between Morgan and Derik, her expression unreadable.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of an accent Morgan couldn't quite place.

"FBI," Morgan said, holding up her badge. "We need to ask you a few questions about your work here."

Diana's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded, setting down the pruning shears she'd been holding. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

As they stepped closer, Morgan's trained eye took in every detail. Diana's hands were stained with soil, her fingernails rimmed with green.

"Maybe it’s better for this conversation to happen at the station,” Morgan said. “We need you to come downtown with us."

Diana's professional demeanor hardened instantly. "I'm in the middle of crucial research. Whatever this is about, it can wait until morning."

"It can't," Morgan said evenly. "This is about Hannah Smith."

"I don't know anyone by that name." Diana's voice carried a sharp edge now. She set down her shears with deliberate care, her movements precise and controlled. "And I don't appreciate being interrupted in my work by federal agents who won't explain themselves."

"Dr. Grove," Derik stepped forward, his tone reasonable but firm. "We’re investigating a series of murder—and a kidnapping that is currently in progress. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have a strong reason for it.”

Diana's eyes darted between them, something calculating beneath her academic exterior. “You think I am a murderer and a kidnapper?” She laughed lightly. “Come now, that is simply ridiculous.”

Morgan’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you have nothing to hide, then you won’t mind coming with us.”

Diana's fingers tightened around the pruning shears, her knuckles whitening. For a tense moment, Morgan thought she might lash out. But then Diana's shoulders sagged, and she set the tool down on a nearby workbench.

"Very well," she said, her voice tight. "But I insist on knowing the charges."

"No charges yet," Morgan replied, keeping her tone neutral. "We’ll explain everything at our headquarters.”

As Diana removed her work gloves and lab coat, Morgan's eyes swept the greenhouse. The carefully arranged flowers, the meticulous notes pinned to boards, the array of specialized tools – it all spoke to an obsessive attention to detail. Just like their killer.