CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The autumn wind whipped dead leaves across Jessica Clarke's front lawn as Morgan and Derik approached the modest craftsman home. Wind chimes tinkled a discordant melody from the front porch. Morgan registered every detail of the property—the carefully tended flower beds with their dying autumn blooms, the weekend newspaper still rolled up in its plastic sleeve, the two coffee mugs left on the porch railing from what must have been yesterday's morning routine. Such ordinary signs of life made the horror of Jessica's death feel even more acute.
A child's bicycle lay abandoned on its side in the neighbor's yard, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked at passing traffic. The normalcy of the suburban street felt obscene against the weight of what they had to do. Morgan thought of her own family receiving news of her arrest ten years ago, of how ordinary moments could shatter into irreparable pieces with just a few words.
Eric Chen opened the door before they could knock, his face bearing hollow-eyed shock. He was younger than she'd expected, probably in his early thirties, wearing wrinkled scrubs that suggested he'd come straight from his hospital shift. A hospital ID badge still hung from his pocket, the smiling photo presenting a stark contrast to his current devastation. The house behind him smelled of coffee and cinnamon, domestic comfort turned tragic by circumstance.
"You must be the FBI agents," he said, his voice carrying the flat effect of someone moving through deep shock. "Please, come in. I've been trying to... to remember anything that might help." His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, like birds with broken wings. A half-eaten piece of toast sat abandoned on a side table, suggesting he'd been trying to force himself to eat when they arrived.
The living room was a museum of happiness interrupted—framed photos of the couple hiking, cooking, laughing together. A half-completed wedding seating chart lay abandoned on the coffee table, along with bridal magazines whose cheerful covers now seemed to mock their presence. Morgan’s eyes caught on a photo of Jessica and Eric in chef's coats, flour dusting their faces as they smiled at each other across a kitchen counter. The date stamp showed it was taken just last week.
Derik settled into an armchair while Morgan remained standing, her need to stay mobile, to keep exits in view, never quite forgotten. The room held so many small touches of a life shared—matching coffee mugs, a throw blanket draped over the couch that still held the impression of two people sitting close together, a calendar on the wall marked with both their schedules in different colored inks.
"I just saw her this morning," Eric said as he sank onto the couch, his fingers worrying at the hem of his scrubs, creating a loose thread that he couldn't seem to stop pulling. A medical textbook lay open on the coffee table, its pages marked with Post-its in Jessica's handwriting—she'd been helping him study for some exam. "Before my shift at the hospital. She was going to go shopping, run some errands. She was fine. She was..." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "She was planning what to make for dinner."
A motorcycle roared past outside, its engine sound muffled by the closed windows but still making Eric flinch. Morgan noticed how his eyes kept returning to a particular photo on the mantel—Jessica in her chef's coat, receiving some kind of culinary award, her smile radiant with pride and accomplishment.
"She was excited about the wine event," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Spent weeks planning the perfect menu. We were going to announce our engagement officially at the end of the night. She wanted to wait until after she'd proven herself to the restaurant's investors." His hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white with tension. "I should have driven her to work. I usually do, but I had an early surgery scheduled..."
Derik leaned forward, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at these impossible conversations. "Can you tell us where she planned to shop? Any detail might help, no matter how small."
"The strip mall on Henderson," Eric said, his eyes fixed on the photo of Jessica laughing in her chef's coat, her face dusted with flour. "She loved going there during quiet hours, when the lunch rush was over. Said it helped her think about menu planning." His voice hitched on the last words, present tense shifting to past in the cruelest way possible. "There's a spice shop there she liked. And a kitchenware store. She was always finding little things to improve her techniques."
Morgan noticed a stack of cookbooks on a nearby shelf, their spines cracked with frequent use, pages bristling with sticky notes and handwritten annotations. Jessica's passion for her craft was evident in every corner of the home. Even now, a recipe card sat on the kitchen counter through the open doorway, written in her careful hand, never to be completed.
"Did she mention meeting anyone?" Morgan asked, keeping her voice gentle but professional. "Any appointments or plans beyond shopping?"
Eric shook his head, then paused, his brow furrowing with effort. "She mentioned wanting to look at some art piece she'd seen in a window. Something about how it reminded her of harvest seasons in wine country." His voice broke on the last word, perhaps remembering the vineyard where Jessica's body had been found. "I'm sorry, I can't... I can't remember anything else."
Morgan nodded, her eyes softening with empathy. "That's helpful, Mr. Chen. Thank you." She glanced at Derik, a silent communication passing between them. The art piece could be significant, another potential link to the killer's obsession with harvest symbolism.
"Is there anyone who might have had a grudge against Jessica?" Derik asked gently. "Any conflicts at work, or with friends?"
Eric shook his head, his gaze distant. "Everyone loved Jessica. She was... she was sunshine." His voice cracked on the last word.
Eric's words hung in the air, heavy with grief. Morgan's eyes swept the room again, searching for any detail that might offer a clue. Her gaze settled on a small succulent plant on the windowsill, its leaves drooping slightly. Jessica had probably meant to water it before leaving for work that fateful day.
"Mr. Chen," Morgan said, her voice low and controlled, "did Jessica ever mention feeling watched or followed? Any strange occurrences, no matter how small?"
Eric's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "I... I don't think so. I just know she was going to the strip mall today.”
Morgan nodded, taking it all in. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”
***
Twenty minutes later, Morgan guided their vehicle into the strip mall's parking lot, her mind racing with possibilities. The shopping center was like dozens of others scattered across Dallas—a collection of small businesses arranged in a horseshoe around a central parking area. The morning sun cast long shadows across the asphalt. But something about one storefront caught her attention immediately.
"Derik," she said sharply, nodding toward an art supply shop tucked between a dry cleaner and a sandwich place. In the window, a painting dominated the display—corn stalks rendered in oils, their golden heads bowing beneath an autumn sky. The style was distinctive, almost grotesque in its intensity, transforming a simple agricultural scene into something more ominous. The artist had captured the corn in a way that made it seem almost predatory, the stalks reaching toward the viewer like grasping fingers.
They approached the shop on foot, their reflections ghosting across the glass as they studied the painting. Morgan bristled at the way the artist had captured the corn—not as life-giving sustenance, but as something darker, more ritualistic. The brushstrokes were aggressive, almost violent, creating texture that seemed to writhe and twist in the morning light. It reminded her too much of Emily Whitmore's crime scene, of how their killer transformed natural elements into instruments of death.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the dry cleaner's, arms full of plastic-wrapped garments. Her name tag identified her as Susan, and laugh lines around her eyes suggested a naturally friendly disposition. Morgan touched her FBI credentials as she approached, noting how the woman's expression shifted from open to concerned at the sight of the badge.
"Excuse me, do you know who owns the art supply shop?" Morgan asked, gesturing toward the darkened storefront.
"Oh, that's Marcus Thorn's place," the woman said, shifting her cleaning to one arm. Her keys jingled nervously as she adjusted her burden. "He did that painting too—does all sorts of agricultural scenes. Talented, but..." She hesitated, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers. The morning sun caught her silver hair as she leaned closer. "Intense. Something about him always seemed a little off, you know? The way he'd talk about his paintings, like they were more than just art. Like they meant something deeper."
She paused, then added in a lower voice, "But he's closed today. Actually, I haven't seen him open all week. Which is strange—he usually keeps strict hours. Very particular about his routine."
Morgan caught Derik's eye, reading the same tension there that she felt. Another piece clicked into place, another connection forming in their tangled web of evidence. Marcus Thorn—an artist obsessed with agricultural imagery, whose painting style transformed natural scenes into something darker, whose shop sat in the last place Jessica Clarke had planned to visit.
Through the gallery window, other paintings were visible in the dimness—more agricultural scenes, each rendered with the same unsettling intensity. A wheat field at harvest time, the stalks seeming to bend of their own volition. A vineyard in autumn, its vines twisted into shapes that looked almost human in the shadows. Each piece seemed to capture nature not as it was, but as something warped and dangerous.
Morgan thought of Jessica suspended in that vineyard, of Emily in her cornfield, of Laura by her river, of Hannah with flowers spilling from her lips. Each death a performance piece, each scene arranged with artistic precision. The corn painting seemed to watch them through the glass, its golden stalks transformed into something sinister by shadow and skilled brushwork.
They had another name to investigate, another thread to pull in their increasingly complex tapestry of evidence. The question was whether Marcus Thorn would prove to be their killer, or just another carefully placed piece of evidence in someone else's elaborate deception.
Above them, clouds scudded across the Texas sky like harbingers of approaching winter, while behind the gallery window, that corn painting seemed to watch their departure with malevolent intent. Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were being led down another carefully constructed path, yet something about those paintings spoke of a darkness she recognized—the same darkness she'd seen in the vineyard at dawn, where Jessica's body had been transformed into the killer's latest artistic statement about power and control.
The wind carried the scent of dying leaves and distant rain as they returned to their vehicle, each step taking them closer to whatever twisted revelation awaited them at the end of this new lead.