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"Actually, there is something," he said, seizing the opportunity. "Could I talk to you outside for a moment? It's important."
"Uh, sure," she answered hesitantly, casting a wary glance at her manager. "Just give me a second."
"Take your time," he assured her, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'll be right outside."
His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for her, his gloved hands gripping the edge of the table. This was it. There was no turning back now. He just hoped that, once it was all over, he could finally convince himself that he wasn't living a lie – that he was doing what was necessary to expose the dishonesty of others.
"Okay, I'm here," the waitress said, stepping outside and closing the door behind her. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Your plans tonight," he replied, his voice cold and steady. "I know what you're planning to do, and I'm here to stop you."
"Wh-what are you talking about?" she stammered, her eyes wide with fear.
"Your elopement," he said bluntly. "It ends now."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Morgan's knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel, weaving through Dallas traffic with a determination that left other drivers honking in her wake. The sun glared down on her, but she paid it no mind; all she could think about was getting to Joe Dancer's house before it was too late.
"Dammit," she muttered under her breath, cursing herself for letting Joe go earlier. She had believed his alibi, that he had been playing piano at the time of the murder. But now, knowing he had been in the neighborhood where one of the victims had been killed, she couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that they had let their suspect slip right through their fingers.
"Focus, Morgan, focus," she told herself, eyes darting between the road and the GPS device on her dashboard. Her heart raced, remembering the weight of the prison jumpsuit she'd worn for ten years after being framed for murder. She'd become too complacent, too distracted by thoughts of those who had betrayed her when she should have been zeroing in on this case.
As she sped past another car, narrowly avoiding a collision, Morgan's mind raced with thoughts of Joe – how he played the piano so beautifully, how he had seemed so innocent. She shook her head, trying to clear it of doubts. If there was even a chance he was their killer, she had to act fast.
"Come on, come on," she urged herself, pressing harder on the gas pedal. The cityscape blurred past her, a whirlwind of colors and shapes that barely registered in her peripheral vision.
Joe Dancer, you better be home.She growled, teeth grinding together as she imagined him slipping away once more. But she refused to let that happen. Not again. Never again would she allow someone to escape justice because of her own mistakes.
As she closed in on Joe's house, Morgan took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might find. There was no turning back now – it was time to face the truth and bring this killer to justice once and for all.
No more fuck-ups, no more distractions. The sirens of the cop cars behind her grew louder, reminding her that she wasn't alone in this pursuit. She had to focus on the task at hand - finding Joe Dancer and bringing him to justice.
Glancing at the rearview mirror, she saw the flashing lights of her backup, a fleet of police cruisers swerving through traffic, determined to keep pace with her. She couldn't help but feel a sense of reassurance knowing they were there, ready to support her when the time came.
"Cross, any updates?" crackled the voice of Derik over the radio.
"Nothing yet," she replied tersely, her eyes scanning the road ahead for any sign of Joe's house. "I'll let you know when I get there."
As she continued driving, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something crucial about the case. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place in her mind, and she realized how Joe had been killing these women. He must have been listening to their darkest secrets while working at the bar, using the information to blackmail them. And all he asked in return was for them to wear those damn gloves.
"Derik," she said urgently into the radio, "I think I know how Joe's doing it. He's blackmailing these women, forcing them to wear the gloves."
"Blackmail? For what purpose? To make them suffer?" Derik's voice conveyed his confusion.
"Maybe," Morgan mused, her thoughts racing. "Or maybe it's about control. By making them wear the gloves, he knows their deepest secrets are safe with him."
"But why kill them?"
"Perhaps it's his twisted sense of justice," Morgan offered. "He believes he's ridding the world of 'fakes' - people who hide their true selves."
"Jesus," Derik muttered. "We need to find him, now."
"Agreed," Morgan said, her resolve hardening. This was it - the moment she had been working towards since returning to the FBI. She would not let this killer slip through her fingers again.
With renewed determination, Morgan pressed down on the accelerator, the powerful engine roaring beneath her as she sped towards Joe Dancer's house, ready to confront the man behind the gloves and put an end to his reign of terror.
Morgan's heart pounded in her chest as she swerved through the Dallas streets, the flashing lights of the squad cars reflecting off the glass buildings around her. The gravity of the situation weighed on her like a lead vest, her mind racing with the horrifying details of Joe Dancer's sick and twisted methods. The poison he had concocted for those gloves was slow-acting but lethal, giving his victims just enough time to fully comprehend the consequences of their darkest secrets before succumbing to their fate.
