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"I didn't ask for a lecture."
"I know," Derik replied, his tone placating. "But I just want to make sure we don't let our emotions get the best of us. This case is already taking a toll on all of us, and we need to be careful."
Morgan let out a deep sigh, her fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel. She knew Derik was right. They couldn't afford to make any mistakes, not with a killer on the loose. But the pressure was mounting, and she could feel herself cracking under the weight of it all.
"I need a break," she muttered, her voice barely audible. It wasn't often that Morgan admitted she needed to take a step back, but now was one of those times. She was exhausted, and her brain felt scrambled.
Just then, Derik's cell phone rang, jolting both of them out of their thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering, his brow furrowing with concern. "It's Mueller," he warned Morgan, lowering his voice as he picked up the call.
Morgan tried not to eavesdrop, focusing instead on the file in her hands. But when she heard her own name spoken by Derik, she couldn't help but listen in.
"Mueller wants to talk to you," Derik said, covering the phone's microphone with his hand.
"Me?" Morgan asked, feeling a sudden knot in her stomach. "What about?"
"I don't know, but it doesn't sound good."
With a deep breath, Morgan started the car and pulled away from the clinic, already dreading the confrontation that awaited them at the FBI headquarters. As they drove, she couldn't shake the feeling that their fragile progress was about to be shattered, leaving them once again grasping at straws in the dark.
CHAPTER TEN
The sound of metal scraping against bone filled the dimly lit room as he hunched over his latest trophy, meticulously carving away at it with a chisel. He hummed to himself, a lighthearted tune that juxtaposed the gruesome nature of his task. It always fascinated him how delicate the human body could be, even after death. In these quiet moments, he felt a sense of connection to his victims, an intimacy that he never experienced in life.
"Ah, there we go," he whispered, admiring his handiwork as he brushed away the bone dust from the now-perfectly smooth surface. A wicked grin spread across his face. This particular trophy was special to him - it had put up quite a struggle, which only heightened the thrill of the hunt. The trophies, each one a tiny piece of his victims, were arranged neatly on shelves around the room, like the macabre collection of a demented curator.
Each one tells a story, he mused, running his fingers along the polished surfaces. A moment in time, forever preserved. His eyes flickered to the next victim in line, their photograph pinned to the wall, and his heart raced with anticipation.
As he continued with his morbid ritual, memories of her invaded his thoughts. She had been the first person to truly see him for who he was, recognizing the darkness lurking beneath the surface. Even back then, the seeds of his obsession with death had been planted - an insatiable curiosity that would eventually drive him down this twisted path.
"Such a shame you couldn't understand me," he muttered to the memory of the woman, feeling a pang of nostalgia. "But I've grown beyond you now."
The low hum of the fluorescent light overhead cast sickly shadows onto the concrete walls as he meticulously arranged his latest "trophies" on a cold metal table. His basement lair was devoid of any warmth or humanity, a reflection of the void within him. The air was damp and musty, clinging to the skin like an unwelcome embrace. But he thrived in this type of darkness. It was where he belonged.
"That was what you said, wasn't it, Mildred?"
A chill ran down his spine as he surveyed his surroundings. There were no family photos, no personal decorations that might offer a glimpse into the man behind the monster. Instead, his domain was characterized by its stark plainness, a blank canvas that seemed to mock him with its emptiness.
His eyes were drawn to an old wooden chest tucked away in a corner, a strange contrast to the clinical efficiency of the rest of the basement. Peering inside, he found a haphazard collection of peculiar items: locks of hair, antique keys, and scraps of fabric, each one holding a special significance known only to him.
And, of course, there were teeth.
Her teeth.
"Such beautiful reminders," he murmured, his fingertips caressing each item, feeling a connection to their history and the lives they had once touched.
It was the smell of lavender that brought it all back - the cloying scent that had filled the room. He remembered how her frail fingers wrapped around a cup of tea.
"Drink up, dear," she would coo, her voice cracked with age, yet warm and inviting. "It'll help soothe your nerves."
He remembered sitting at the kitchen table, barely able to meet her gaze as he clutched the steaming mug in his hands. The warmth seeped into his skin, but it did nothing to quell the tempest raging within him.
"Thank you," he had mumbled, taking a gulp of the bitter tea. "You're so kind to me."
"Of course, dear," she replied, her clouded eyes studying him with concern. "I worry about you, you know? You've always seemed so...troubled."
His heart raced as he recalled those words, an echo of the truth that had been lurking within him for as long as he could remember.
"Troubled," he whispered to himself, his thoughts drifting back to the present. He glanced at the grisly trophies strewn about his workspace, the carvings he'd made out of teeth and bone.
