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Another faceappeared, and for a second, there was a collective pause—a held breath. A manwith angular features and brown hair stared back from the screen, but as Morgancompared it to the police sketch, her heart sank. The resemblance wassuperficial at best; the nose was too broad, the jawline lacked the sharpnessthat defined their suspect.
"Next,"she said, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat. Derik gave hera sidelong glance, his usually immaculate appearance marred by the strain ofthe case. His tie was loosened, his slick black hair not as orderly as usual.He looked tired, but there was a fire behind those eyes—a fire kindled byregret and the need for redemption.
As they dismissedone face after another, Morgan felt the weight of responsibility bearing downon her. Each mistaken identity was a reminder of the ticking clock, of thewomen who had already fallen prey to this shadowy figure, and of the one stillin his grasp. She wouldn't let Emily, Sarah, Jennifer, and Nicole’s deaths bein vain. She wouldn't let Rachel become just another name on that list.
"Comeon," she muttered, almost to herself. "Where are you?" Thequestion was a whisper lost in the din, but it hung in the air between her andDerik—an unspoken vow that they would not stop until the man responsible wasbehind bars, or better yet, in a grave.
Morgan's eyesnarrowed as a new image flickered onto the wall-mounted monitor. There was acollective intake of breath in the room; it wasn't just her who saw it—theresemblance was uncanny. The grainy figure pulled from Nicole Lee’s cell phonefootage now had a name: Simon Cartwright.
"Pause itthere," she commanded, her voice slicing through the hum of workingmachinery and soft chatter. An agent obligingly froze the frame, the angularface of the man held captive by digital stillness. The police sketch next to itmight as well have been his portrait—same hollow cheeks, same pointed chin,same sharp gaze even though the eyes were but roughly drawn shadows.
"Run his IDagain," Morgan said, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline—part thrill,part trepidation—that always came when a lead solidified into somethingtangible. They were close, so damn close she could almost taste the victorymingled with the bitterness of the past. A past where justice had slippedthrough her fingers like grains of sand, leaving her with nothing but grit andresolve.
Without waitingfor a response, Morgan spun on her heel and strode over to her laptop, hertattoos shifting with the muscles underneath, a living tapestry of her life'sbattles both won and lost. She typed urgently, diving into the FBI database.She typed 'Simon Cartwright' and hit enter, her heart hammering against herribs as if trying to break free.
Informationcascaded onto her screen. Simon Cartwright, a cartography professor at thelocal university—a man who taught others how to navigate the world, yet here hewas, possibly navigating the murky waters of murder. His faculty photo poppedup, and Morgan scrutinized it, comparing every line and angle to the imagesbranded into her memory.
No criminalrecord. That was good; it meant no preconceived notions would cloud herjudgment. But every other detail screamed that they had found their ghost. Thisman, with his academic achievements and benign smile, fit the bill tooperfectly. It was the duality of nature she knew too well—the ability to hidedarkness behind a veneer of normalcy. That's what he had done, hadn't it?Hidden in plain sight, masquerading as a purveyor of knowledge whilepotentially snuffing out lives with the cold hands of a zealot.
"Derik,"she called without taking her eyes off the screen, "Get me everything onthis guy. Classes, colleagues, habits. I want to know what kind of coffee hedrinks in the morning." Her voice left no room for argument; it was anorder, sharp and clear. Morgan Cross had faced her own demons, had beenwrongfully judged by the system she now upheld. She wouldn't let another killerslip through the cracks—not again, not while she could still draw breath andfight back with every fiber of her being.
Morgan’s tattooedhand slammed down onto the table, the inked symbols on her skin emphasizing theurgency of her command. "Run a facial recognition sweep for this SimonCartwright,” she ordered, her voice echoing in the sterile chamber of the techdepartment. “I want to know if he's been caught on any cameras near our crimescenes." The room, already humming with the sound of keystrokes andbeeping machinery, kicked into high gear as agents scrambled to comply.
Her dark eyesdarted across the room, watching as her team fed Cartwright's image into thesystem. Morgan knew the importance of technology in their line of work, but itwas the human element—the ability to connect dots, to feel the pulse of acase—that had always set her apart. She felt the familiar itch, the drive tosolve the puzzle before her. It was that same determination that had kept hersane behind bars, the conviction that she would one day clear her name. Now, itfocused her on preventing another woman from meeting a grim fate.
"Cross,"Derik called out, his fingers flying over his keyboard, "you might want tosee this."
She moved behindhim, peering over his shoulder at the flickering screen. The software churnedthrough countless hours of surveillance footage, pulling images from trafficcams, ATMs, and local businesses. And then, as though the fates themselves hadaligned, there it was: a clear shot of Simon Cartwright's distinct angularface, captured mere blocks from where Jennifer Clarke had worked.
"Gotcha,"Morgan breathed out, a cold satisfaction settling in her chest. Cartwright'simage was time-stamped—it correlated with the day of Jennifer's murder.Coincidence was not a luxury they could afford in their line of work. This wasevidence, hard and undeniable.
"Derik,enhance that frame, print it out." Her command was met with an immediateresponse. The printer whirred to life, soon spitting out the grainy yetunmistakable visage of their person of interest.
"Goodwork." Morgan patted Derik's shoulder, a rare show of camaraderie. In hermind, the pieces were beginning to slot together with a chilling clarity.Cartwright's proximity to the café, the ritualistic undertones of the murders,and his seemingly innocuous public persona—it painted a picture that Morganknew all too well.
"Let's pullup his schedule," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenalinecoursing through her veins. "Find out what he was doing that day. I wantto know his every move."
The hunt was on,and Morgan, once a victim of the system herself, was now its most relentlessenforcer.
There would be nostone left unturned, no shadow in which this killer could hide. Not anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Morgan stood inthe shadow of the dilapidated tenement that Simon Cartwright had called home.Her jaw was set, a physical manifestation of her determination as she scannedthe windows for any sign of life. Derik, just a step behind her, matched herintensity with his own silent vigil. The city's cacophony seemed to fade into adistant hum, their senses tuned only to the task at hand.
"Nothing,"Morgan finally muttered, her voice low, frustration simmering beneath thesurface. She felt the weight of each victim pressing against her, spurring herforward. With each woman found, the case gnawed at her, sharpening her resolvelike a blade on stone.
Derik checked hiswatch, his green eyes flickering with the same urgency that fueled Morgan."We're losing time. Where else could he be?"
"Everywherewe've looked, nowhere we've thought," Morgan answered, turning away fromthe building. There was a rough edge to her voice, honed by years behind barsfor a crime she didn't commit. It was an edge that had kept her alive then, anddrove her now.
They movedthrough the city, a relentless tide washing over every location tied to Simon. They’dchecked the cafes he was known to frequent, visited the library he had anaccount with, talked to his colleagues. But no one was able to point to wherehe was. Desperation clawed at Morgan, each dead end a stark reminder of thechase's futility.
As nightblanketed the city, they found themselves outside Simon's house once again. Thedark windows gaped at them, hollow and uninviting. Morgan's tattoos itchedunder her sleeves, a physical echo of her unease. She approached the door, herhand hovering over the knob before she let it fall away.
"He's nothere," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't need toenter to know. The silence of the house was answer enough – it was the quiet ofabandonment, the stillness of a place left behind.
"Maybe henever intended to come back," Derik offered, running a hand through hisslick black hair. His usual professional attire couldn't hide the weariness inhis posture, the sag of shoulders carrying too many ghosts – a failed marriage,a son turned stranger, a past betrayal of the woman beside him.
