CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The walls of Morgan's office disappeared behind a collage of horror—crime scene photos and victim profiles arranged in a grim gallery that traced their killer's evolution. Past the harsh glare of her desk lamp, the autumn sun slanted through half-closed blinds, casting shadows across Emily Whitmore's cornfield tableau, Laura Benson's river scene, Hannah Smith's flower-strewn pond, and Jessica Clarke's vineyard installation. Each image spoke of meticulous planning, of death transformed into grotesque art by someone who saw murder as the ultimate creative expression.
Coffee cups from three different trips to the expensive shop down the street littered her desk—the kind of coffee Morgan had developed a taste for after a decade of prison sludge. Each cup marked another hour of staring at photos, searching databases, trying to understand the mind of someone who saw murder as performance art. Her eyes burned from too many hours studying screens and crime scene photos, but she couldn't stop. Not with the weight of four dead women pressing against her conscience.
Derik appeared in her doorway, bearing fresh reinforcements from that same coffee shop. His tie hung loose around his neck, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd gotten as little sleep as she had since finding Jessica's body.
"Marcus Thorn," Morgan said, gesturing to her computer screen where the artist's website displayed a gallery of unsettling images. Agricultural scenes dominated his work, but there was something profoundly wrong about them. Each piece seemed to pulse with barely contained darkness, a window into the mind of someone who saw nature as something to be dominated rather than respected.
"Listen to this," she said, leaning back so Derik could see the screen. The words seemed to writhe like Thorn's painted vines as she read them aloud. "'The cycle of seasons is merely a suggestion to those who understand true transformation. Through death comes transcendence. Through sacrifice, we bend nature to our will.' It's like reading a manifesto that perfectly matches our killer's work."
Derik set their coffee cups down, his expression hardening as he studied the images. "These installation pieces," he said, pointing to a series of photographs. "Look at how he arranges natural elements—flowers blooming in ice, wheat woven into human forms. The compositions mirror our crime scenes in a way that can't be coincidence."
Morgan nodded, pulling up another window that displayed Thorn's exhibition history. The timing of his shows, his fascination with transforming natural elements into twisted art pieces, his deep knowledge of agricultural rituals—it all seemed to fit their profile too perfectly. After her own wrongful conviction, she'd learned to be wary of evidence that aligned too neatly.
"Check this out," Morgan said, opening a document file. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with the same efficiency she'd once used to dig through legal documents during her appeal. "His academic background—he studied under Professor Woods at the university, specializing in historical agricultural practices. That's where he learned about the ritual elements we're seeing in these murders. The same symbols, the same seasonal significance."
She stood, moving to the wall where their victims' photos created a timeline of escalating horror. Emily in her cornfield, Laura by her river, Hannah with flowers spilling from her lips, Jessica transformed by vineyard vines. Each death more elaborate than the last, each scene arranged with an artist's eye for detail. The progression was clear now—a killer growing more confident, more ambitious, more determined to make his grand artistic statement about power and transformation.
"There's something else," Derik said, scrolling through records on his tablet. The blue light from the screen cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "He's been purchasing supplies in bulk—same materials we're seeing at our crime scenes. More preservation chemicals, more out-of-season flowers. Either he's planning something big for his legitimate art..."
"Or he's preparing for his next performance," Morgan finished. But something nagged at her—the evidence felt almost too perfect, too carefully arranged. Like her own frame-up, where every piece had been positioned just so, creating an illusion of guilt that had cost her ten years of her life.
On her desk, crime scene photos seemed to pulse with significance—each victim transformed into art by someone who saw death as the ultimate creative expression. Each scene more elaborate than the last, building toward something even more horrific.
"We need to move on this," Morgan said, already reaching for her jacket. The leather was cool against her skin, grounding her in the present moment. The weight of her gun beneath the jacket was reassuring. "Even if Thorn isn't our killer, he might help us understand what these ritual elements mean. Before whoever's doing this can stage their next performance."
Through her window, the afternoon sun painted Dallas in shades of autumn gold, the city's glass towers reflecting light like signal fires. Inside, their killer's victims stared from countless photographs, their deaths transformed into installations in a grotesque gallery. Morgan thought of Emily in her cornfield, of Laura in her river, of Hannah by her pond, of Jessica in her vineyard—women whose lives had been cut short by someone who saw their deaths as steps toward a twisted vision of transformation.
As they headed for the door, Morgan caught a last glimpse of Thorn's artwork on her computer screen—a field of wheat transformed into something menacing by his vision, just as their killer transformed victims into installations in their gallery of horror. Whether Thorn was their murderer or just another carefully placed piece of evidence in someone else's game remained to be seen. After all, Morgan knew too well how appearances could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told.
The game wasn't over, and she couldn't shake the feeling that they were still missing something crucial. But at least now they had a new direction to pursue, before more spring flowers bloomed in autumn's dying light.