CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The autumn sun hung low in the Texas sky as Morgan and Derik pulled up behind the marked police cruiser parked in front of Elizabeth Thorn's modest ranch house. Shadows stretched across the manicured lawn like accusing fingers, and dead leaves skittered across the driveway in the late afternoon breeze. The patrol car's presence was a stark reminder of the threats hanging over the Thorn family—threats that had forced Marcus to play his part in someone else's elaborate performance piece.
Morgan studied the house through her windshield, cataloging every detail. Halloween decorations hung slightly askew on the front door, as if Elizabeth had started the seasonal ritual of decorating before fear had interrupted her normal life. A child's purple bicycle lay toppled in the yard, its training wheels catching the dying light—evidence of a normal life disrupted by terror.
"Two-car garage, back gate's locked, security cameras on all corners," Derik noted. "Rodriguez has good sight lines from the porch."
Officer Rodriguez nodded to them from his position by the front door, one hand resting casually on his weapon. His posture was alert but not tense, suggesting he'd found the right balance between vigilance and appearing non-threatening in a residential neighborhood. Morgan appreciated his positioning—close enough to respond instantly, but not so obvious as to alarm the neighbors.
"How long have you been on watch?" Morgan asked as they approached, noting how Rodriguez's eyes never stopped scanning the quiet suburban street.
"Over an hour now," he replied, shifting slightly to maintain his view of both approaches. "Nothing suspicious. Couple of dog walkers, some kids heading to school. Mrs. Thorn hasn't left the house." He lowered his voice. "Her daughter's inside too. Brought her home from school today."
Morgan's heart clenched at that detail. Another child's life is disrupted by violence.
Elizabeth answered their knock looking like someone carrying too much weight on too little sleep. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hands showed slight tremors as she smoothed her apron—a nervous gesture that spoke of someone trying to maintain normalcy through routine. The scent of roasting chicken and herbs wafted from inside, competing with the sound of children's cartoons playing in another room.
"More questions?" Elizabeth asked, her voice tight with barely contained stress. She glanced past them toward the street, a habit born of recent paranoia. "The police showed me the letters Marcus received. The pictures of me, of my house." Her voice caught. "Of my daughter sleeping. I haven't—I haven't told her why she can't play outside anymore. How do you explain something like that to a seven-year-old?"
"May we come in?" Morgan kept her voice gentle but professional, the tone she'd perfected during years of victim interviews. "We have some specific questions that might help us end this."
Elizabeth hesitated, then stepped back to let them enter. The house's interior felt like a museum of interrupted domesticity—a half-folded basket of laundry on the couch, math homework abandoned on the coffee table, crayon drawings taped to walls at child height. Morgan's trained eye caught subtle signs of fear beneath the ordinary chaos: new deadbolts on the doors, curtains drawn despite the afternoon hour, a baseball bat propped in the corner that didn't match the rest of the decor.
"Katie, honey," Elizabeth called toward the sound of cartoons. "Can you play in your room for a bit? Mommy needs to talk to some people."
"But Mom—"
"Please, sweetheart. Just for a little while."
They heard small feet trudging up stairs, followed by a door closing with slightly more force than necessary. Elizabeth's shoulders slumped as she led them into the kitchen, where a chicken was indeed roasting in the oven, filling the air with deceptively normal scents of home and safety.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked, the question automatic rather than genuinely hospitable. "Coffee? Water?"
"We need to ask you about someone specific," Morgan said. "Someone who lost a sister. It would have been years ago, possibly when you were in college."
Elizabeth's hands stilled on her apron strings, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Someone who lost..." Her eyes widened suddenly with horrible recognition. The color drained from her face so quickly that Morgan instinctively moved to guide her into a kitchen chair. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Simon Drayton."
"Tell us about him," Derik prompted gently, settling into another chair while Morgan remained standing, her need to stay mobile never quite forgotten.
"We were at UT Austin together," Elizabeth said, her fingers worrying at a loose thread on her apron. "His sister Mary—she died at Peaceful Valley. The mental health facility?" She shuddered slightly at the memory. "It was all anyone talked about that semester. How the nurse had just... left her alone. With a belt. She was only twenty-two."
Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, reading the same recognition in his eyes that she felt.
"Simon was... different after that," Elizabeth continued, the words spilling out now as if she'd been holding them back for years. "He'd always been intense about his art—he was in the studio program with Marcus—but after Mary died, his work changed. Became darker. All about transformation and rebirth through suffering." She swallowed hard. "Marcus loved it. Said Simon was finally creating real art. That's when I stopped going to their shows."
"Did Simon ever threaten you?" Morgan asked. "Back then or recently?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him since graduation. But..." She paused, something else clearly occurring to her. "Last month, at the grocery store, I got this weird feeling. Like someone was watching me. I told myself I was being paranoid, but..." Her hands trembled as she smoothed her apron again. "That's when it started, isn't it? That's when he started planning all this?"
"Does that name mean something?" Elizabeth asked, reading their reactions. "Is he—is he the one who's been watching me? Who made Marcus..." She trailed off, fear tightening her features as she glanced toward the stairs where her daughter had disappeared.
"We're going to increase your protection," Morgan assured her, noting how Officer Rodriguez had moved closer to the kitchen window at Elizabeth's obvious distress. "But this could help us stop him before he can hurt anyone else."
Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white against the floral pattern of her apron. "I should have known," she whispered, more to herself than to Morgan and Derik. "The way he looked at me that day in the store... it was like he was seeing right through me. Like I wasn't even there."
Morgan leaned forward, her voice low and urgent. "Elizabeth, I need you to think carefully. Did Simon ever mention anything about agricultural rituals or seasonal ceremonies? Anything that might have seemed odd or out of place at the time?"
Elizabeth's brow furrowed in concentration. "He was obsessed with cycles. Life and death, seasons changing. There was this one piece he did..." She trailed off, her eyes growing distant. "It was a series of paintings. Four canvases, one for each season. But they were all twisted, wrong somehow. Spring had dead flowers. Winter had blooming trees. And autumn..." She shuddered. "Autumn was the worst. It looked like a harvest festival, but instead of crops, there were bodies."
Derik's pen scratched across his notepad, capturing every detail. "Do you remember what happened to those paintings?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “No, I have no idea. I just remember they were creepy.”
Morgan's mind raced, connecting the dots between Elizabeth's recollections and the crime scenes they'd encountered. "These paintings," she pressed, "did they incorporate any specific symbols? Anything that stood out?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to recall details from years ago. "There were... vines, I think. Twisting around everything. And in the autumn painting, there was this figure. Hooded, like the Grim Reaper, but instead of a scythe, it held..." She paused, her face paling further. "It held a paintbrush dripping with red."
Derik and Morgan exchanged a loaded glance. The symbolism was unmistakable, aligning perfectly with the killer's modus operandi.
"Elizabeth," Morgan said softly, "I know this is difficult, but we need to know everything you can remember about Simon. His habits, his interests, any places he frequented. Anything could be crucial."
Elizabeth nodded, visibly steeling herself. "He was always researching obscure rituals, especially ones related to agriculture and seasons. He'd spend hours in the university library, poring over old texts.”
A small voice from the doorway made them all start. "Mommy? Are we in trouble?”
Katie stood there in Frozen pajamas despite the early hour, clutching a well-loved stuffed rabbit. Elizabeth moved to her daughter with desperate speed, gathering her close. "No, baby. Remember what I said about Officer Rodriguez? He's here to protect us."
Morgan's heart ached at the scene—another child touched by violence, another family living in fear because of someone else's twisted vision.
“Sorry,” Morgan said, standing up. “We’ve used up enough time. We have enough on Simon to know we need to find him.”
"We'll be in touch," Derik added, rising from his chair. "Officer Rodriguez will remain posted outside, and we're increasing patrols in the area. If you think of anything else, no matter how small, please call us immediately."
Elizabeth nodded, her arms still wrapped protectively around Katie.
***
Back in their vehicle, Morgan's fingers flew across her tablet's screen, pulling up records with practiced efficiency. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting Dallas in shades of dusk that seemed to echo the darkness they were uncovering. Simon Drayton's history emerged in digital fragments—his sister's death ruled negligent suicide, the facility's attempts to contain the scandal, the nurse who'd failed in her duty of care.
"Look at this," Morgan said, turning the tablet so Derik could see. "The facility had community partnerships. Reading rooms at Laura Benson's library. Art therapy exhibitions at Emily Whitmore's gallery." She scrolled through more records, each connection clicking into place like tumblers in a lock. "It's all connected. Every victim had some link to where Mary died."
"And now?" Derik asked, though his tone suggested he already knew where this was leading.
Morgan pulled up another file, her heart racing as the final piece fell into place. "Vanessa Green. The nurse who left Mary alone that day. She quit nursing after the incident, couldn't handle the guilt. Now she's a dancer with the Dallas Contemporary Ballet."
The implications hung heavy in the autumn twilight. They'd found their killer's motivation—not just artistic expression or ritual significance, but vengeance. Each murder had been a step toward some greater retribution, each death a carefully choreographed movement in a dance of revenge.
Morgan's jaw tightened as she processed the implications. "He's been playing us this whole time. Each murder, each 'performance' - it's all been leading up to this final act."
Derik started the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "We need to get to Vanessa Green before he does. If she's his endgame..."
"She won't just be another victim," Morgan finished grimly. "She'll be the centerpiece of his grand finale."
As they sped through the darkening streets of Dallas, Morgan's mind raced. The killer's obsession with cycles, with transformation - it wasn't just about the seasons or agricultural rituals. It was personal. Each murder had been a stepping stone, a rehearsal for this moment.
Through Elizabeth's front window, they could see her holding Katie close, the patrol car's presence both protection and reminder of the danger surrounding them. They had a name now, but the question remained whether they could reach Vanessa Green before Simon Drayton could transform her into his final masterpiece.