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Morgan watchedhim closely, noting the way his fingers fumbled with the frayed edge of acushion, the way grief seemed to emanate from him like heat from a fire. Sherecognized the signs of someone clinging to the remnants of a past life, tryingto hold onto the pieces of a sibling bond that death had violently rippedapart.
"Tell meabout her, Chad," Morgan urged gently. "What was she like as asister?"
His gaze finallymet hers, and there was a flicker of something akin to relief in being giventhe chance to speak of her. "She was... vibrant, full of life, you know?Always pushing both of us to be better, to live fully." A ghost of a smiletouched his lips, then vanished. "We were a team, Emily and I. Withouther, everything is just... gray."
Morgan leanedforward slightly, her dark hair framing her tattooed features as she offeredhim a nod of understanding. She saw in Chad's grief a reflection of her ownpast, a time when the world had turned its back on her. But unlike her, Chadwas innocent, a victim of circumstance rather than betrayal.
"Your sisterwasn't just a victim, Chad. She was a person, and we will do everything we canto bring her justice," Morgan assured him, her voice tinged with a resolvehardened by years behind bars for a crime she didn't commit.
Chad swallowedhard, and Morgan could see the walls he'd built to contain his sorrow crumblingjust a little. "Thank you, Agent Cross," he said, his voice steadiernow. "That means more than you know."
Morgan nodded,her own heart heavy with the knowledge of what it meant to search for answersin a world that seemed determined to keep them hidden. But she was relentless,a force to be reckoned with, and she would not rest until she unearthed thetruth. For Emily, for Chad, and for the piece of herself that sought redemptionin every case she solved.
Morgan shifted onthe worn-out sofa cushion, feeling the weight of silence hang between her andChad. The apartment was suffocating with the sort of quiet that spoke volumes—atestament to the absence of life where it once thrived. She glanced around, takingin the family photos that dotted the walls, the mismatched furniture, thesubtle yet pervasive sense of loss.
"Chad,"she began, her voice steady despite the heaviness in her chest, "it mighthelp if I could see Emily's room. Sometimes the personal space of a person cangive us insight that we wouldn't find elsewhere."
He hesitated fora moment, his eyes clouded with memories and pain, then stood up with aresigned nod. "Of course, Agent Cross," he said. "Followme."
As they walkeddown the narrow hallway, Morgan’s senses were on high alert. Every detail couldbe significant, every nuance a potential clue that would bring her closer tounderstanding who Emily Harris had been—and by extension, who might have wantedher gone.
Chad pushed opena door at the end of the corridor, and Morgan stepped into a room that feltincredibly alive compared to the rest of the apartment. The walls pulsed withenergy, adorned with colorful posters of marathons and famous runners, quotesabout perseverance and strength. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains,casting a warm glow over the room, but it was the array of running shoes linedup against one wall that truly caught Morgan's eye.
"Wow,"she murmured, walking over to examine the collection. "She really lovedrunning."
"More thananything," Chad's voice was soft, tinged with pride. "It was her wayof coping after our parents... you know." He trailed off, unable tofinish, but Morgan understood all too well.
She crouched downto get a better look at the shoes, noting the wear on the soles, the diversityof brands, the meticulous care with which each pair was maintained. Her fingersbrushed over the laces of a bright pair of sneakers, and she pictured Emily tyingthem, setting out on a run to clear her mind, to feel alive.
Morgan rose toher feet, turning to take in the entirety of the room. The bed was neatly made,a pile of running magazines stacked on the bedside table. There were no signsof chaos or struggle here; this was a sanctuary, a place of discipline andpassion.
"Did shehave a favorite route?" Morgan asked, her mind working through thepossibilities, weaving together the fragments of Emily's life in search ofpatterns.
Chad nodded,pointing to a map tacked onto one wall, routes highlighted in various colors."She liked variety, but there are some she ran more frequently."
Morgan steppedcloser, studying the map, her pulse quickening slightly as she traced the lineswith her gaze. She committed the information to memory, knowing that even themost innocuous detail could be the key to unraveling the mystery of EmilyHarris's death.
Morgan’s eyeslingered on the highlighted routes, her instincts igniting a spark ofcuriosity. "Chad," she began, her voice steady despite the churn ofthoughts within her, "how did Emily come across these historical routes?Was it something she found herself?"
Chad shuffleduncomfortably, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn jeans. Helooked up, his eyes holding a tinge of sorrow that seemed to darken the room."It was someone she met," he said softly. "A stranger at one ofthe local races. They got to talking about the city's history, and he suggestedthese routes. She was intrigued—said it made her runs more... meaningful."
"Did sheever mention his name?" Morgan pressed, her mind already turning over theimplications.
"No, I don'tthink so. Or if she did, I can't remember." Chad's gaze dropped to thefloor. "I never thought much of it until... well, until now."
Morgan nodded,her focus narrowing. The connection seemed tenuous, but intuition niggled ather, whispering that nothing was ever coincidental in cases like these. Thehistorical routes—could they align with the locations where the victims werefound? Was there a pattern emerging from the echoes of the city's past?
She was about todelve deeper when the shrill ring of her phone sliced through the silence.Instinctively, Morgan reached for it, her eyes never leaving the map as sheanswered. "Cross."
"Hey, it'sDerik," came the familiar voice, tinged with urgency that set her nerveson edge.
"Derik, I'min the middle of—"
"Listen, youneed to get back here," he interjected, the strain in his voiceunmistakable. "Something's come up."
"Can't itwait?" Morgan asked, though she already knew the answer. Derik wouldn’tcall unless it was urgent.
"Sorry,Morgan. It's important."
