CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Morgan leaned forward, her gaze unwavering as she observed the young woman, Trish, in the dimly lit interrogation room. The only light came from narrow slats in the blinds, casting thin shadows across the table that separated them. The rest of the room was washed in a monotonous gray, the walls bare and uninviting.
Trish's appearance was a contrast to the environment, her youth marred by the hard edges of cynicism etched into the lines of her face. Her arms were crossed, a barrier of defiance against whatever Morgan might throw her way. Chipped black nail polish adorned her fingers, tapping an irregular rhythm on her arm—a sign of impatience or nerves, perhaps both.
Morgan shifted in her chair, her muscles tense but her expression controlled. It was midday, yet the room felt like a place forgotten by time, where the sun was just another stranger passing by outside. She cleared her throat, ready to begin again despite the morning's disappointments. Notes shuffled under her hands, the sound crisp in the silence.
"Let's start with what you saw," Morgan said, her voice betraying none of the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. She knew the routine well, the dance of questioning that more often led to dead ends than revelations. But years of betrayal and hardship had taught her patience, even if every fiber of her being screamed for justice.
She watched Trish closely, looking for any tell-tale sign of recognition, any slip that could lead to a break in the case. Yet, as much as she wanted to find the person who framed her, to unravel the web of corruption within the FBI, this was about more than revenge. This was about stopping a killer—a killer marked by a sinister symbol that seemed to mock Morgan with its mystery.
The young woman before her offered only a bored stare in return, her body language screaming disinterest. But Morgan knew better than to accept appearances at face value. Everyone had something to hide; it was just a matter of finding the leverage to bring it out into the open. She thought of John Christopher, her father, whose secrets had only come to light after his death. He too had been enigmatic, his life a puzzle Morgan was still piecing together.
Morgan leaned back in her chair, observing Trish with the practiced patience of an agent who had interrogated countless suspects. The young woman's gaze wandered around the room, never settling on anything for long, least of all on Morgan.
"Look, lady, it's a club. People go to chill, dance, you know..." Trish's voice trailed off, uninterested in providing details.
"Anyone in particular stand out in the past several months?" Morgan pressed, trying to keep the irritation from seeping into her tone. Each elusive or indifferent response made her task feel more like clawing at a concrete wall with her bare hands.
"Same old crowd. Nothing special," Trish replied, her words dripping with apathy.
Morgan studied the girl. This dance of evasion wasn't new to her. Trish was a closed book, but Morgan's years behind bars had taught her how to spot the subtle cracks in a person's armor. It was just a matter of applying the right pressure.
With a sense of resignation, Morgan reached into her folder and pulled out a photograph. It was a glossy print of the symbol—the same one that had been haunting her investigation, turning up like a grim signature at each crime scene, a cruel mockery of justice.
She slid the photo across the table, the movement smooth and deliberate. "What about this? Ever seen it before?" Her voice held steady, revealing nothing of the weary frustration that had built up inside her.
Trish glanced down at the image nonchalantly, but her casual facade wavered ever so slightly. She hesitated, her eyes lingering longer than they had on anything else since the interview began. It wasn't the blatant acknowledgment Morgan had been desperate to see, yet it was a deviation from Trish's otherwise consistent display of disinterest.
"Should I have?" Trish asked, a hint of caution creeping into her voice.
"Maybe not," Morgan conceded with a shrug, feigning indifference. "But if you do, it could help clear your name. Make things easier for you." She watched Trish carefully, looking for any sign that her bait had been taken.
The silence stretched between them, but Morgan waited. The interrogation room, with its humming lights and barred windows, often acted as a crucible for truth. Given time, most people cracked under the weight of their secrets. And as the quiet settled heavily in the air, she sensed Trish's resolve beginning to wane.
"Looks familiar, doesn't it?" Morgan probed, voice devoid of triumph. It was crucial not to spook the girl now.
"Kinda," Trish muttered, the word barely more than a breath. Her fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to touch the paper. "Reminds me of Jace's stuff."
"Jace?" Morgan seized on the name, a lifeline amidst a sea of dead ends. The walls of the interrogation room seemed to press closer, eager listeners to the unfolding secret.
"Jace Crane," Trish said, suddenly finding the scratched surface of the table fascinating. "He was part of the scene, you know? Always around, always... drawing." Her voice faded, like a radio signal losing strength.
Morgan's mind latched onto the morsel of information. Jace Crane—a name previously unspoken in this investigation, yet one that carried weight in Trish's world. He could be the key they had been searching for, the bridge between the victims and the symbol that mocked the gravity of their deaths.
"Tell me about Jace," Morgan prompted, her tone soft but insistent. She needed more, anything to flesh out the specter of a lead before her.
Trish's eyes remained downcast, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. The bravado that had cloaked her was gone, replaced by a hint of vulnerability. "He was just this guy, okay? Liked to party with us. And he drew... stuff like that," she nodded at the photo, her words tinged with an unease that reached beyond the confines of the interrogation room. “Exactly like that, actually.”
Morgan noted every shift in Trish's demeanor, every nuance that betrayed a connection to the case. This wasn't just another disaffected youth caught up in the raid; this was someone who knew something.
"You knew him well?"
Trish uncrossed her arms, leaning forward with elbows on the table. The defensive slouch was gone, replaced by an earnestness that drew Morgan's full attention. "Yeah, we hung out a lot," she admitted, biting her lip. "Jace was... different. He liked to sketch, always scribbling in his notebook."
"And you saw these drawings?" Morgan asked, nodding subtly at the symbol still lying between them.
"Sure," Trish replied, her fingers tracing the edge of the photograph without touching it. "He drew that thing everywhere—on napkins, flyers. It was like he was obsessed or something."
"Obsessed how?" Morgan pressed, her gaze never wavering from Trish's face.
"Like, he wouldn't talk about anything else when he got going. Said it was powerful, that it meant something big." Trish shrugged, her eyes taking on a distant glint. "I thought it was just Jace being Jace, you know?"
Morgan nodded, though her mind raced ahead. Powerful. Something big. This wasn't the idle doodling of a club-goer; this was deliberate, meaningful. And if Jace Crane had plastered this symbol across his world, he'd left breadcrumbs leading directly to the core of their investigation.
"Are you sure it's the same symbol?" Morgan needed confirmation, something tangible to grasp onto.
Trish's nod was emphatic, her earlier indifference completely gone. "No doubt about it. That's Jace's thing." She pointed at the photo, her finger hovering just above the surface. "He talked about it enough."
"Tell me more about his obsession," Morgan coaxed gently, aware that pushing too hard could spook Trish into silence.
"It was like he found religion or something," Trish said, her voice hushed. "He wouldn't shut up about its power, how it connected to something ancient. I didn't get it, but it was important to him."
"Did he ever mention where he learned about it? Any groups or people he might've been involved with because of it?"
Trish shook her head. "Nah, Jace was always kinda secretive about that stuff. Like it was his personal treasure or whatever."
Morgan shifted in her chair, the sterile light of the interrogation room casting long shadows on the table. Her eyes locked onto Trish's face, searching for any flicker of deceit or evasion. The air was thick with tension, and she could see the girl was on the edge of something significant. “And where could I find Jace now?” Morgan asked.
"Oh, didn’t I make it clear?” Trish said, checking her nails. “Jace Crane is dead.”
The news hit Morgan like a physical blow. Dead ends were part of the job, but this felt different—like losing grip just before the summit. For a moment, silence reigned, oppressive as the walls around them. She collected herself, her training kicking in to push past the shock.
"How did Jace die?" Morgan asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Trish's eyes, which had been defiant and challenging throughout the interview, softened. "It was an accident, they said." Her gaze drifted to some unseen point in the room, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He was at a construction site late one night. No one really knows why he was there."
"Go on," Morgan urged gently, sensing the shift in Trish's demeanor.
"He fell," Trish continued, her arms wrapping around herself as if the memory brought a chill. "There was a pit, supposed to be marked off, but the signs... they weren't where they should've been. By the time he realized it wasn't safe, it was too late." A tear glistened at the corner of her eye, quickly brushed away by a sleeve.
"Did anyone see what happened? Was there an investigation?" Morgan probed, her mind already drawing parallels to the recent cases.
"Sure, there was an investigation," Trish scoffed, the sarcasm briefly returning. "But it was over pretty quick. Just a tragic accident, that's what they called it." She looked up, meeting Morgan's gaze with an intensity that conveyed the depth of her skepticism. "But accidents don't just happen, not like that."
Morgan scribbled notes, her hand moving mechanically while her brain raced. This was more than coincidence—the same pattern, the misplaced warning signs, now linked to someone connected to the symbol. It couldn't be dismissed; it was a clue that demanded attention, possibly the key to understanding the killer's motives. She needed to dig deeper, to uncover the truth behind Jace Crane's death and how it tied into the chaos unfolding before her.
Morgan's fingers tightened around the pen, her knuckles whitening. The sterile light of the interrogation room hummed above, casting stark shadows across Trish's face as she recounted Jace Crane's death—a fall into an unmarked pit. The emotion in Trish's voice had been unmistakable, a blend of sorrow and suspicion that resonated with Morgan's own instincts.
"Thanks, Trish," Morgan said, her voice low, steady. She glanced down at her notes, but the script seemed to blur before her eyes. Her gaze lifted, settling on the vacant chair where Trish had sat moments ago. In the silence that followed, Morgan's mind whirred, piecing together a pattern too distinct to ignore.
The cold dread crept through her, seeping into her bones like the chill of an unwelcome shadow. The signs at the construction sites—moved. The fatal accidents—they weren't just random occurrences. And now, Jace's death, another piece, another life claimed under eerily similar circumstances.
Her thoughts flickered to the symbol, its lines etched into her memory as clearly as it had been spray-painted near those tragic scenes. It was a marker, a signpost to something darker, more sinister than they had anticipated. Could it be coincidence that Jace, associated with that very symbol, met a fate so closely resembling the murders?
***
Morgan pushed open the door to the briefing room, her movements swift and purposeful. Inside, Derik hunched over a sprawl of case files, his eyes scanning page after page, seeking something he hadn't found yet. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on his slicked black hair, evidence of another sleepless night etched beneath his eyes.
"Derik," Morgan announced, cutting through the silence. "Trish, from the nightclub raid—she gave us something."
He looked up, attention snapping to her like a magnet. In the starkness of the room, Morgan noticed anew how the years had carved deeper lines into his face, a map of the struggles they'd faced together.
"Jace Crane," she continued, not wasting a moment.
Derik straightened, rubbing at his temple. "Fill me in."
"Trish recognized the symbol from the crime scenes," Morgan said, her voice tight with controlled urgency. "Said it was Crane's handiwork. He used to show up at the club before he died."
"Another dead end?" Derik asked, skepticism lacing his tone.
"Maybe not. Crane's death—earlier this year," she pressed on, "another 'accident' at a construction site."
Derik's tired gaze sharpened. "You're saying there's a pattern."
"Exactly." Morgan leaned against the cold metal table, arms folded. The scent of stale coffee mingled with the tension that suddenly charged the air. She could almost feel the weight of the inked symbols that adorned her skin, reminders of a past that never stopped chasing her.
"Elizabeth Harmon, Rachel Marquez—both redirected to their deaths by misplaced signs," she reminded him. Each name felt like a stone in her mouth, heavy with the responsibility they bore.
"Crane too," Derik murmured, the pieces clicking into place behind his eyes. "And now this new guy, Finch, nearly buys it the same way."
"Too similar to be coincidence," Morgan stated flatly. Her mind raced, tracing the killer's steps, a shadow just out of reach. Every victim, every clue seemed to pull her deeper into a maze with no clear exit.
"Damn," Derik exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots as if trying to extract some elusive truth hidden within. "Construction sites, symbols... What the hell is the connection?"
“I don’t know, but I feel like Jace Crane is where all of this began. We need to know more about him.” Morgan opened her laptop and clicked open the file, her fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the keyboard. The photograph of Jace Crane filled the screen: a young man with an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. She squinted at the birth date. "Twenty-four," she murmured. "Too young."
"Any next of kin?" Derik asked, leaning in closer to view the details on the laptop.
"Parents and an older brother, Elliott," Morgan read aloud, scrolling through the text. "No mention of them being questioned extensively after his death. Just a brief statement about the accident."
"Accidental fall into a pit," Derik echoed, scanning the report. His voice held a hint of doubt, a questioning lilt that mirrored Morgan's own skepticism.
"Doesn't sit right, does it?" Morgan said, her gaze still fixed on the screen. The image of Jace Crane seemed to taunt her, a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into their case.
Derik nodded, his eyes sharp with analytical focus. "Especially given our current string of 'accidents'. We should go see what the Cranes have to say.”