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She refocused onthe road ahead, the old chocolate factory drawing nearer. With every revolutionof the tires, Morgan vowed to unravel the truth, to clear her own name, and toprotect those caught in the crossfire of her quest for justice—no matter the personalcost.
The Dallasskyline loomed ahead, a collection of towering shapes etched against theovercast sky. The car's engine hummed—a low, steady drone—as Morgan navigatedthe morning traffic with practiced ease. She stole a glance at Derik, who hadretreated into his own thoughts since their last exchange.
"Approachingthe industrial district," she announced, more to break the silence thanout of necessity.
Derik nodded, hiseyes fixed on the passing landscape, but offered no words. His jaw was set, amuscle ticking near his temple, and Morgan sensed the shift in him. It was afamiliar transition; the closer they got to a crime scene, the more withdrawnhe became. She understood it, that mental preparation for the horror they mightface, the steeling of nerves. He was slipping into his role, the same way sheslipped into her inked skin each day—a barrier against the world.
With a turn ofthe wheel, Morgan guided the vehicle into the shadow of the old chocolatefactory. The building stood derelict, its once sweet legacy now soured byabandonment and decay, if not for the officers that swarmed around it. Yellowtape fluttered in the breeze like morbid streamers, marking the boundarybetween everyday life and the darkness they were about to enter.
"Here we are,"she said quietly as she parked the car.
Derik simplyunbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door, his movements precise,automatic. He stepped out into the morning, and Morgan followed suit. The airwas heavy with the scent of dew and something else, something metallic thatlingered beneath. She knew it well—death.
She closed thecar door with a soft click and rounded the hood to join her partner. They movedin unison towards the cordoned-off area, their footsteps synchronized on thewet asphalt. Morgan could feel the weight of Derik's silence beside her,oppressive as the gray clouds above.
"Ready?"she asked, already knowing the answer.
He gave a curtnod, his green eyes hardening with resolve. "Let's do this."
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning sunbarely pierced the gray veil of clouds as Morgan stepped under the police tapecordoning off the latest crime scene. The industrial district was a ghostlyecho of its former self, with the derelict chocolate factory standing as atombstone to a bygone era. She approached cautiously, her boots crunching onscattered debris.
Sarah Thompson’sbody lay against the cold brick wall, her lifeless form slumped in an unnaturalrepose. Derik followed close behind, scanning the surroundings before theysettled on Sarah. He adjusted the collar of his crisp suit, a stark contrast toMorgan's inked arms that emerged from beneath her jacket.
"Looks likeshe was positioned," Derik murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Morgan nodded,her gaze fixed on the body. "Staged," she confirmed, noting how thevictim's arms were carefully placed in her lap. It was a display meant forthem, a message from a killer who had eluded their grasp once already.
"Verysimilar M.O. as Emily Harris," Derik continued, his voice tight. He stillwore the fatigue of yesterday's late-night stakeout and the weight of a caseunsolved.
"Let's seewhat the officers have found," Morgan suggested, her tone betraying noneof the anger that simmered within her—a reminder of the time she lost entangledin a wrongful conviction.
They approached acluster of uniformed officers near the perimeter. One young patrolman steppedforward, clipboard in hand, as he caught sight of Morgan.
"AgentCross," he greeted her with a deferential nod. "The body wasdiscovered by a jogger—early bird type. He’s pretty shaken up, but he’s overthere with Detective Mears."
"Anywitnesses?" Morgan asked, her dark hair swaying slightly as she turned toglance at the specified direction where a man sat on the back of an ambulance,wrapped in a blanket despite the mild weather.
"None thatwe've found yet," the officer replied. "The jogger didn't see anyoneelse around. And given the state of this place..." His voice trailed offas he gestured to the surrounding desolation.
Morgan's trainedgaze drifted from the somber faces of the uniformed officers to the decrepitwalls of the chocolate factory, its bricks carrying the weight of history andneglect. The structure loomed like a silent sentinel above them—its windowsdarkened with grime, casting shadows over the crime scene.
"Did youknow," an officer mentioned offhand, breaking through Morgan'sconcentration, "they're planning to take this old place down soon? Heardit might be demolished."
She turnedsharply toward the source of the information, her eyes narrowing slightly."Demolished?" Morgan echoed, the word tasting strange on her tongue."This building's been a landmark for ages."
"Talks aboutit, yeah." He shrugged, his nonchalance at odds with the gravity of theirsurroundings. "Guess it’s becoming more of a hazard than a piece ofhistory."
Morgan's browscreased, a flash of surprise evident on her otherwise stoic features. Thethought of erasing such an iconic sight from the cityscape felt abrupt,unnecessary even. But she quickly shelved the feeling. Now wasn't the time forsentiment; she had a killer to catch. With a brisk nod, she dismissed thenotion, refocusing on the task at hand. What mattered was the victim beforeher, not the fate of some old building.
"Keep meposted on that," she instructed before walking away.
Approaching SarahThompson's body, Morgan's demeanor hardened, her jaw setting firm. She kneltbeside the lifeless form, the chill of the morning air doing nothing to deterthe warmth of her resolve. Her gloved hands worked meticulously, examining thebruises that marred Sarah's neck—purple imprints that told a silent tale ofviolence.
From her coatpocket, she produced a set of photographs, each capturing the grim details ofEmily Harris's final moments. As she laid the pictures side by side withSarah's injuries, Morgan's analytical mind began to draw lines between themorbid dots.
The pattern ofbruising, the size, the depth—she noted the cruel symmetry with a detective'sprecision. It was a match. The same force, the same fury. Her lips pressed intoa thin line as she confirmed what she had suspected: the two women had facedthe same brutal end at the hands of the same assailant.
