CHAPTER ONE
Special Agent Morgan Cross felt as if the ground of the graveyard beneath her feet had suddenly given way.
Here, standing in front of the grave of Thomas Grady, she had heard a voice through the sound of raindrops.
She turned to see the man. He took another step closer, his umbrella lifting enough for her to see beneath the veil. She stared at the face she'd been hunting for months—Richard Cordell, in the flesh. The steady patter of rain against his black umbrella filled the silence between them, each drop another heartbeat of tension.
"Very good, Agent Cross." Cordell's smile never reached his eyes, cold and calculating beneath a shock of silver hair. "I was wondering how long it would take you to piece it together."
Morgan's fingers twitched toward where her weapon should be, finding nothing but empty air. She didn’t think to arm up for a funeral, but maybe she should’ve known better. Stupid. The weight of that missing weapon felt like another betrayal, another moment of weakness she couldn't afford.
And here he was—Richard Cordell. The aging man who once worked for the FBI, who once was her father’s superior. The man who she was certain framed her for murder—and got Thomas Grady killed.
Her hand dropped to her side, fingertips brushing against the rough denim of her jeans. Even after returning to the Bureau, she couldn't bring herself to wear the pantsuits that had once been her uniform. Too many memories of court appearances, of being led away in handcuffs while wearing professional attire. The tattoos that snaked up her arms—accumulated during those long years inside—were partially visible beneath her rolled sleeves, a permanent reminder of how much she'd changed.
Three days ago, she'd watched Thomas die on that pier, his blood mixing with the rain as he tried to tell her something about Cordell, about her father. Now here was the puppet master himself, standing at his victim's grave, calm as could be beneath his black umbrella. The manicured cemetery grounds stretched out around them, a sea of granite markers and carefully tended grass. Too peaceful for the violence that had brought them here.
Cordell noticed her aborted reach for a weapon and chuckled, the sound carrying easily over the rain. "The fun and games are over now, Agent Cross. A man is dead." He gestured to Thomas's grave with his free hand, the movement almost graceful. "And now all that's left of John Christopher is you."
Morgan flinched at her father's true name. Even now, weeks after learning it, the sound of it felt wrong. The man she'd known as Christopher Cross had been a different person entirely—or perhaps just a carefully constructed lie. "I only knew him as Christopher Cross," she said, the words bitter on her tongue. Every memory of her father was now tainted with lies—the cabin in the woods where she'd grown up, his stories about working construction, the way he'd tried to talk her out of joining the FBI. She hadn't even been able to attend his funeral, locked in a cell while he was lowered into the ground.
"Ah, yes. The name he chose when he ran." Cordell moved closer, his expensive shoes leaving impressions in the wet grass. Water beaded on his tailored black coat, a stark contrast to Morgan's weathered leather jacket. "Your father's biggest mistake was letting you join the FBI. He should have known I would find out eventually. That I would recognize those eyes—Mary's eyes."
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down Morgan's spine. "What does that mean?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "What was Mary Price to you?"
The rain intensified, drumming against Cordell's umbrella. His expression darkened, decades of carefully contained rage showing through the cracks in his composed facade. "Your father stole my only chance at happiness when he killed her. Accident or not, he took her from me. Then he ran, changed his name, started a new life." His lips curved in a cruel smile. "While I spent forty years building the power to destroy everything he loved."
Morgan's mind raced, trying to piece it together. The irony wasn't lost on her—a year ago, she would have celebrated Thomas Grady's death. He'd infiltrated her life, gained her trust, then betrayed her—even kidnapped her dog, Skunk, as leverage. But then everything had changed. Thomas had revealed the truth about his mother, Mary Price, and the FBI's cover-up of her death. He'd become an unlikely ally in Morgan's quest for justice, and possibly—though she'd never know for certain now—her half-brother.
If Cordell had loved Mary Price... The implications made her head spin. Had her father stolen another man's lover? Had Thomas been Cordell's son? Another secret buried in the grave at her feet. The fresh dirt was still dark against the grass, the flowers from the funeral beginning to wilt in the constant rain.
"I've watched you for years, Agent Cross," Cordell continued, his voice taking on an almost wistful tone. "Watched you follow in your father's footsteps, join the Bureau, become the rising star of the BAU. Just like him—so bright, so promising. So easy to destroy."
Rage flared in Morgan's chest, hot enough to burn away the rain's chill. Her hands curled into fists, the scars on her knuckles white with tension. Prison had taught her to channel anger into something useful, something controlled. But standing here, facing the man who had orchestrated her downfall, that control felt paper-thin.
"You framed me. Stole ten years of my life. Had Thomas killed. All because of some decades-old vendetta against my father?" The words came out steady, despite the storm of emotions beneath them. Through the rain, she could see other mourners in the distance, black umbrellas dotting the cemetery like ink drops on paper. How many of them were Cordell's men, she wondered. How many guns were trained on her right now?
"I'm going to give you one chance, Agent Cross." Cordell's voice was almost gentle now, the tone a father might use with a wayward child. "Resign from the FBI. Disappear. Live out whatever life you can build for yourself, far from here. Or I will take that choice from you, just like your father took my choice forty years ago."
Morgan lifted her chin, rain streaming down her face. She thought of all the nights she'd spent in her cell, planning what she'd say if she ever faced the person who framed her. Now, here he was, and none of those carefully rehearsed speeches seemed adequate.
"I'm going to expose you," she said, each word clear and sharp as broken glass. "I'm going to tear down everything you've built. And when I'm done, everyone will know exactly what kind of monster you are."
Cordell laughed again, turning away. "Just like your father—so righteous, so certain." He began walking through the cemetery, his umbrella bobbing between the headstones. "Remember my offer, Agent Cross. It won't remain open long."
Morgan watched him disappear into the rain, her hands trembling with rage and spent adrenaline. She had no doubt Cordell would try to kill her—he'd already destroyed her life once, framed her for murder, stolen ten years she could never get back. But walking away from the FBI, from her chance to destroy him, wasn't an option.
She looked down at Thomas's grave one last time, at the puddles forming in the etched letters of his name. Had he known? Had he suspected that Cordell's obsession with his mother was at the root of everything? She thought of their last conversation on the pier, the urgency in his voice as he'd tried to tell her something about Cordell. Now, she'd never know what it was.
The rain continued to fall as Morgan turned away, leaving footprints in the mud. She thought of her partner, Derik, waiting in the car at the cemetery entrance, trying to give her space while still watching her back. Their relationship was complicated enough without adding Cordell's threats to the mix. But she knew Derik would stand with her, despite everything—despite the way she'd shut him out of her investigation, despite the darkness that prison had left inside her.
She thought of Assistant Director Mueller, who'd known her father back when he was John Christopher, who might have answers she desperately needed. The photograph of him with her father still burned in her memory, a snapshot of a past she'd never known existed. How deep did the lies go? How many more betrayals were waiting to be uncovered?
And she thought of Skunk, who'd stand guard while she paced her apartment tonight, trying to put the pieces together. The pit bull had been her one constant through everything, a reminder of the life she'd had before the frame-up, before everything fell apart. Even after Thomas had taken him, used him as leverage, Skunk had come back to her. Some loyalties, at least, couldn't be broken.
She had survived being framed, survived losing everything. She would survive this, too. And this time, she wasn't just fighting for justice—she was fighting for revenge. The tattoos that marked her skin weren't just decoration; they were a record of her transformation, of the woman she'd become behind bars. Each one told a story of survival, of adaptation, of learning to be something harder than she'd ever imagined possible.
Behind her, Thomas's headstone stood silent in the rain, another marker in the trail of bodies Richard Cordell had left in his wake. But if he thought she would be the next, he had seriously underestimated what ten years in prison had made of her. Morgan wasn't the same young agent he'd framed a decade ago.
She was something much more dangerous now: a woman with nothing left to lose.
The Dallas skyline loomed in the distance, its edges softened by the autumn rain. Somewhere in that maze of steel and glass, Cordell's empire waited to be dismantled. And Morgan Cross intended to tear it down, one brick at a time, no matter what it cost her. She'd already paid in years of her life—what was a little more blood to balance the scales?