Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The interrogation room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Elliot Woods' face as he gestured animatedly, his academic passion transforming the sterile space into an impromptu lecture hall. Morgan watched him from across the metal table, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle tell that might reveal something beneath his scholarly facade.

The room smelled of stale coffee and nervous sweat, undercut by the sharp tang of industrial cleaner that seemed universal to all institutional settings. A paper cup sat untouched near Woods' elbow, its contents long since gone cold. The professor had been talking for nearly two hours, his academic enthusiasm seemingly inexhaustible as he detailed the historical significance of various harvest rituals.

"The mixing of corn silk with a harvest moon phase—it's a perversion of ancient fertility rites," Woods explained, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he leaned forward. Papers covered the table between them, ancient agricultural diagrams and ritual calendars spread out like evidence at a crime scene. His fingers traced the lines of a particularly complex diagram, leaving slight smudges on the pristine photocopy. "But combining it with spring flowers? That's not just unorthodox—it's a deliberate violation of sacred boundaries. Whoever's doing this understands the power of these rituals but rejects their fundamental purpose."

A ceiling tile above them had a water stain in the shape of Texas, and Morgan found her eyes drawn to it repeatedly as Woods spoke. She'd spent ten years studying similar stains in her cell, finding patterns in the random marks left by time and decay. The habit had stayed with her, along with so many others forged in that decade of captivity.

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, who stood near the door with his arms crossed. His tie hung loose around his neck.

The academic's tweed jacket was worn at the elbows, and ink stains marked his shirt cuff—small details that spoke of a life spent among books rather than in the field. But something about his enthusiasm felt off to Morgan's practiced eye.

"You're saying he's not just killing them," Morgan said, drawing Woods' attention back from whatever academic tangent he'd been about to pursue. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh under the table, a habit she'd developed inside to help maintain focus during long interrogations. "He's making a statement about control. About power over natural law itself."

Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, its sound muffled by thick concrete walls. The autumn sun had begun its descent, painting the high window's light in shades of amber that seemed to mock the artificial brightness of the interrogation room. Morgan thought of all the sunsets she'd missed during her incarceration, each one marked only by the changing angle of shadows in her cell.

"Exactly!" Woods' eyes lit up with scholarly enthusiasm, though something darker lurked beneath his academic excitement. A vein pulsed at his temple as he shuffled through his papers, selecting another diagram with trembling fingers. "These aren't just murders—they're demonstrations. Each death is arranged to show mastery over nature's most fundamental boundaries. Spring flowers in autumn, harvest symbols out of season—he's declaring himself above natural law."

She thought of Hannah Smith's face in those crime scene photos, of spring flowers spilling from lifeless lips, of how their killer transformed death into grotesque art. Everything about this case felt arranged, curated. She'd spent ten years paying for someone else's carefully constructed lies, and she wasn't about to let another killer hide behind false facades.

A fly buzzed against the high window, its drone mixing with the ventilation system's hum to create a discordant symphony that set Morgan's teeth on edge.

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss, cutting through Woods' theoretical discourse. Assistant Director Mueller stood in the doorway, his expression grim enough to make Morgan's instincts immediately shift to high alert. The fluorescent lights caught his wedding ring as he gestured for her to join him, a flash of gold that reminded her of autumn leaves in morning sun. His mustache twitched with barely contained urgency—a tell she'd learned to read during their years of working together.

"A minute, Agent Cross?"

In the hallway, the lighting was no less harsh, but at least the air felt cleaner. Morgan noticed the tension in Mueller's jaw, the way his shoulder holster hung slightly askew beneath his suit jacket—small details that suggested he'd moved quickly to bring her this news.

"They found another body," Mueller said without preamble. His voice was low, meant only for her, but the words seemed to echo off the cinderblock walls like prayers in an empty church. "Vineyard this time. Female victim, arranged with some kind of ritual elements. First responders are saying it's... elaborate." He paused, his expression darkening. "More elaborate than the others."

Morgan's blood ran cold. "It's too soon," she said, her mind racing through implications. "Hannah Smith's body was found less than twenty-four hours ago. He's never escalated this fast."

The building's heating system kicked on with a clang that made them both start slightly. Through a nearby window, Morgan could see the Dallas skyline silhouetted against the autumn sunset, its glass towers reflecting orange light like signal fires. Somewhere in that urban maze, their killer was probably already planning his next performance.

"He's accelerating." Mueller's expression hardened, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern. "And there's more. The victim... she's been identified as Jessica Clarke. Local chef, scheduled to cater a wine event tonight. Her staff reported her missing when she didn't show up for prep work."

A custodian pushed his cart past them, wheels squeaking against the polished floor. She watched the man disappear around a corner, leaving behind the sharp smell of cleaning solution that made her think of crime scene cleanup crews.

"Woods?" she asked, glancing back toward the interrogation room where the professor was still arranging his papers with academic precision. Through the two-way mirror, she could see him muttering to himself as he sorted documents into neat piles, his movements almost ritualistic in their attention to detail.

"Keep him here," Mueller ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "If he's not involved, maybe he can help us understand what this new scene means. If he is involved..." He let the implication hang in the air between them, heavy with potential consequences.

Morgan nodded, already calculating next steps.