Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The forensics lab's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the evidence table where Marcus Thorn's letters lay spread like tarot cards predicting doom. Morgan traced the edge of one envelope with her gloved finger, studying the precise folds and careful creases that spoke of someone who paid attention to details. The expensive stationery carried a subtle watermark—the kind used in formal correspondence from people who wielded real power. She knew something about that kind of power, about how it could destroy lives with a signature on a warrant or a carefully placed piece of evidence.

Dr. Chan moved around the table with practiced efficiency, her latex gloves making soft whispers against the paper as she worked. The young forensic scientist had been one of the few people who'd welcomed Morgan back without reservation. Now Chan's dark eyes narrowed as she examined another page under specialized lighting, her shoulders tense with concentration.

"No prints," Chan reported, adjusting her magnification goggles. "And the handwriting analysis is fascinating—look at these letter formations." She gestured to the monitor, where microscopic images revealed subtle inconsistencies in the strokes. "Definitely written with the non-dominant hand, probably to disguise natural patterns. But there's confidence in the strokes, even with the wrong hand. Our writer is someone used to detail work, someone with steady hands and excellent motor control."

Derik stood close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed Morgan's, a subtle reminder that she wasn't alone in this hunt anymore. The silver at his temples caught the fluorescent light as he leaned forward to study the monitor, and Morgan found herself watching how the shadows played across his face.

"The paper quality is interesting too," Chan continued, lifting a page to examine its texture. "Cotton fiber content suggests it's from Crane & Co., their premium line. Not something you'd pick up at an office supply store. This is the kind of stationery used for formal correspondence, usually by—"

"People with authority," Morgan finished, her voice carrying the weight of bitter experience. "People who expect their words to carry weight." She'd seen enough official letterhead during her appeals process to recognize quality paper when she saw it.

Then she saw it. The words seemed to leap off the page, burning themselves into her mind: "When I take your sister, Marcus, you'll understand true loss. You'll know the pain of watching someone you love disappear, just as I lost my sister. Only then will you truly appreciate the art of transformation through sacrifice."

Morgan's breath caught as the implications crystallized.

"He lost a sister," she said, straightening from her examination of the letters. The fluorescent lights caught the scars on her knuckles. "The killer lost a sister, and he knew Thorn had one too. That's why he chose him—not just because of the paintings, but because he could use Elizabeth as leverage."

She turned to Derik, seeing the same realization dawning in his eyes. They'd worked enough cases together, before and after her imprisonment, to read each other's thoughts in moments like these. His hand moved unconsciously toward his weapon—a gesture she recognized from their years of partnership, a sign that he was already preparing for whatever came next.

"Chan," Morgan said, already moving toward the door, "I need everything you can get from these letters. Paper source, ink analysis, anything that might tell us who had access to this kind of stationery. And check for any connection to official letterhead—government agencies, law firms, corporate offices."

Derik fell into step beside her as they hurried toward the interrogation room where Thorn waited. Their footsteps echoed off the institutional tiles. She'd learned to read meaning in footsteps during those years inside—to know from the sound alone whether guards were making routine rounds or bringing bad news.

The interrogation room's harsh lighting had not been kind to Marcus Thorn. The elegant artist they'd arrested that morning had been replaced by someone smaller, more fragile, his careful composure crumbling like paint flaking from an old canvas. Sweat had soaked through his expensive shirt, and his hands trembled slightly as he looked up at their entrance. His eyes held a haunted look.

"Do you know anyone who's lost a sister?" Morgan demanded, not bothering with preamble. "Think carefully. Anyone in your professional circles, your social life, anyone who might have known about Elizabeth."

Thorn's brow furrowed with concentration, his artistic sensibilities momentarily overcome by genuine effort to help. His fingers moved unconsciously, as if painting invisible pictures in the air as he thought. "I... I don't know. There might be... The art world is surprisingly small in Dallas, but..." He shook his head, frustration evident in every line of his body. Paint still stained his cuticles, bright spots of color against his pale skin. "I can't think of anyone specific."

"What about Elizabeth?" Derik asked, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at interviews. He settled into the chair across from Thorn, his body language open and non-threatening despite the tension Morgan could read in his shoulders. "Would she know? Could someone in her life have made this connection?"

Thorn's laugh was bitter, empty of humor. The sound bounced off the interrogation room's concrete walls like broken glass. "You'd have to ask her." He ran paint-stained fingers through his disheveled hair, leaving streaks of color that somehow made him look even more unstable. "We're not... close. Haven't been for years. She never approved of my work, thought I was wasting my talent on 'morbid fascinations' instead of pretty landscapes that would sell better." His voice cracked slightly on the word 'better,' suggesting old wounds that had never properly healed. "I don't even know most of her friends."

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, reading the same urgency in his expression that she felt. The ventilation system hummed overhead with monotony. Through the glass, she could see clouds gathering on the horizon, promising the kind of storm that could wash away evidence they desperately needed to find.

Time was running out. Somewhere in Dallas, their killer was probably already planning his next performance, selecting his next victim. But now they had something new—a personal connection, a motivation beyond mere artistic expression. Someone who had lost a sister, who saw murder as a way to spread that pain to others. The game wasn't just about seasonal rituals anymore. It was about loss, about revenge, about transforming private grief into public horror.

They had a new lead now—a thread of personal connection that might finally lead them to the truth.

The autumn sun slanted through the interrogation room's high window, casting prison-bar shadows across Thorn's haunted face. Each bar of light seemed to mark another hour ticking away, another moment when Elizabeth Thorn might be moving closer to becoming their killer's next victim. Outside, Dallas continued its daily rhythm, unaware that somewhere in its maze of streets, a killer was watching, waiting, planning his next transformation of life into death.