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"Urbanexploration, social media posts... He's watching them, selecting them for theirsignificance to the city's history," Derik said, his voice low, almost tohimself. He glanced up at Morgan, searching her face for confirmation.
"Exactly,"she confirmed with a grim nod. "Their visibility made them targets. Weneed to find the missing link between the locations." The weight of herwrongful imprisonment and the years lost sharpened her resolve; she would notlet another innocent life fall through the cracks.
The room fellaway as Morgan's gaze hardened on the map, each victim's end etched into theurban landscape—a morbid constellation that only she could see connecting.
The starkbriefing room had been cleared for their investigation, a silent partner totheir search for truth. The large-scale map of the city dominated the space,pinned meticulously to the corkboard wall. Derik rolled his sleeves up,preparing for the task ahead, while Morgan retrieved colored pins from thedesk.
"Let's startwith Emily Harris," she said, placing a red pin into Greenfield Park.Derik followed suit, marking where Sarah Thompson was found. One by one, theyanchored the victims to the city, the sharp pinpricks declaring a silentaccusation against the geography that had claimed them.
"Patternswithin patterns," Morgan mused aloud. She felt the edges of the web thatheld them captive, the symmetry of a predator's design woven deep into thefabric of the metropolis. Every victim was a bright star now dull, everylocation a stage set for a final act.
"Is it aboutthe places, or is it about the women?" Derik asked, his professionalismmasking the personal tremors that this case stirred within him. His own historywith loss and betrayal hung unspoken between them, a shared specter that neithercould outrun.
"Both,"Morgan replied, her voice steady as she surveyed their work. "He's makinga statement with where he leaves them, but there has to be more. There's amessage in the madness."
Their collectionof pins and threads began to form a grim tapestry, a testament to a killer'scruel craft. Each location bore significance, a landmark in a city oblivious tothe shadows lurking in plain sight.
"Nicole'slast post about the war memorial—it's like she announced her presence to thekiller," Derik observed, running a hand through his hair, frustrationlining his features.
"Or maybeshe signed her own death warrant," Morgan added quietly, the harsh realitysettling over her. She knew too well how easily fate could pivot on a singleaction, a singular moment broadcasted to the world—or to a killer waiting inthe wings.
As they continuedtheir work, the map transformed under their hands, becoming a battleground fortheir wits against a hidden adversary who had turned the city into a deadlyplayground.
Morgan hoveredover the map, her fingers tracing the lines that connected the city's arteries,the streets where life pulsed and tragedy now festered. Pinpoints of red markedwhere each woman had been found—silent sentinels to atrocities committed. She triedto coax sense from chaos, a pattern from the scattered stars on this urbanfirmament, but the constellation eluded her. Derik leaned in beside her, hisshadow merging with hers over the paper city.
"Look atthis," he said, tapping on a location, then drawing an invisible line toanother. "There’s no discernable radius, no commonality in neighborhooddemographics."
"Right."Morgan's voice was a low rasp, as if she could command the answer to rise fromthe table. Her eyes, dark and intense, flicked from one pin to the next,searching for the unseen thread between them.
"Could berandom," Derik proposed, though they both knew such randomness was apredator's ruse.
"Killerslike this don't do random." Morgan straightened up, tension rolling offher shoulders. They were missing something; some vital piece of this perversepuzzle lay just beyond their grasp. The frustration gnawed at her, an itch inthe back of her mind she couldn’t scratch.
The room feltsuffocatingly small, the weight of urgency pressing down on them. The clockticked mockingly in the background, a relentless reminder of lives hanging inthe balance, of a killer moving freely under the cover of night and anonymity.This wasn't just another case; it was a taunt, a personal challenge thrown downby someone who delighted in the macabre dance of death.
As Morgansurveyed the maze of pins and strings once more, desperation surged within her.Time was a luxury they didn't have, each moment wasted a silent concession totheir adversary. The realization hit her like a cold wave—their own expertisewasn't enough.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sun hung highabove the cityscape, indifferent to the urgency thrumming in Morgan's veins.She strode out of the government building, her shadow sharp and elongated onthe concrete, a stark reminder of the time slipping away. Derik followed in herwake, his professional attire a stark contrast to her inked arms that barelycontained the frustration boiling within her.
"Anotherdead end," Morgan muttered, her voice carrying a gravelly edge as theydescended the steps. Derik’s green eyes flickered with empathy, but he remainedsilent, knowing better than to offer empty reassurances.
They hadcanvassed every inch of those offices, spoken to planners with starched collarsand engineers with rolled-up sleeves—people who knew the city's veins betterthan anyone. Yet none could shed light on the pattern behind the women'sdeaths, if there was one at all. The locations seemed random, scattered dots onthe map of tragedy.
"Emily,Sarah, Jennifer, Nicole," Morgan recited the names like a litany, her mindreplaying each crime scene with clinical precision. Parks, monuments, relics ofthe past—sites chosen with care or at random? The lack of connection gnawed ather, a puzzle missing its keystone.
"Maybe we'renot looking at it right," Derik suggested tentatively, his gaze distant,haunted perhaps by his own ghosts—the estranged son he couldn’t reach, thebottle he fought daily to ignore.
Morgan shook herhead, the motion dismissive. "We'll canvas the areas again, talk to morelocals." But her words lacked conviction. They’d already tread thosepaths, asked those questions. And nothing.
A familiarrestlessness took hold, the same one that had dogged her during the years spentbehind bars for a murder she didn’t commit. Back then, it had been aboutsurvival, now it was about justice. For the victims. For herself.
"Time's noton our side," she said, more to herself than to Derik. Each second tickingby was an ally to the killer, an adversary in their quest to prevent anothername from being added to the macabre list.
Derik nodded, theweariness in his eyes mirroring her own. "We'll figure it out, Morgan. Wealways do." His voice held a note of assurance that felt brittle in themidday air.
But Morgan feltthe weight, heavy as the tattoos etched into her skin—a constant reminder ofbattles fought, of innocence claimed and lost. The clock was indeed ticking,and with every beat, she felt the pressure mounting, a crescendo in a symphonyof unanswered questions. Her jaw set, determination etching her features into amask of resolve.
