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"Where are you?" Morgan hissed into her microphone, her chest heaving with exertion.
"Third door on the left," Thompson replied, his voice strained.
Morgan's heart pounded in her ears as she shoved the door open, revealing a dimly lit room. The smell of blood hit her first, metallic and thick, before her eyes focused on the bed. There, sprawled across the floral comforter, lay an elderly woman. Blood stained her mouth and pooled beneath her head, creating a grotesque halo around her lifeless body.
"Damn it," Morgan whispered under her breath, clenching her fists. This scene was different – the carnage fresh, the killer yet to move the body. She felt a bitter taste rise in her throat as she realized they were closer than ever before, but still too late to save Beverly McBridge.
"Thompson, secure the area," she ordered, her voice cracking with anger and frustration. "The rest of you, start searching the rest of the house. He can't be far."
As the agents fanned out, Morgan took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady herself. The fear and rage that bubbled up inside her threatened to overwhelm her senses, but she needed to remain focused. They were so close – she couldn't let her emotions get the better of her now.
A sudden noise from outside snapped her back to attention. She crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked the curtains aside, peering into the dark backyard. The moonlight illuminated a figure sprinting away from the house, stumbling over the unkempt lawn.
"Hey!" Morgan shouted, her voice sharp and loud in the deathly quiet night. "Stop right there!"
The man hesitated for a moment before continuing his escape, but that brief pause was all Morgan needed. Her mind raced as she weighed her options, calculating the risk of chasing him down. If he was the killer, then capturing him would bring justice for Beverly and the other victims. But if he was just an opportunistic thief, then they would lose precious time in their search for the real murderer.
"Cross, are you okay?" Thompson's voice cut through her thoughts, concerned and breathless from his search of the house.
"Thompson, I need you to cover me," Morgan said, making up her mind. "I'm going after him."
"Understood," Thompson replied, moving into position. "Be careful."
Morgan didn't waste another second. Morgan's pulse quickened as she charged down the stairs, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the dark, silent house. She burst through the back door, her gun at the ready and her eyes scanning the backyard for any sign of movement. Just as she stepped onto the dew-dampened grass, she spotted the man struggling to climb over a wooden fence.
"Freeze! FBI!" she shouted, training her weapon on him with unwavering precision. The man hesitated, his leg caught in the fence slats, and turned to face her.
Time seemed to slow down as Morgan took in the sight before her. That unmistakable, hollow, toothless grin sent a shiver down her spine. It was Skipper – the squatter from the abandoned dentist clinic.
The one she had let get away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Skipper," Morgan muttered under her breath, her mind racing with questions. What was he doing here? Was he the killer? She couldn't deny that this was far too coincidental, and she mentally cursed herself for letting him get away. If he was the killer, she'd never forgive herself for this oversight.
But as she studied Skipper's face, she saw something that didn't quite fit with the cold, calculated murderer she had been hunting. There was fear in his eyes, a trembling in his limbs that suggested he was just as terrified as she was. It didn't make sense.
"Get down on the ground!" she barked, her gun still trained on him. Skipper obeyed, dropping to his knees and raising his hands above his head. "What are you doing here?" Morgan demanded, moving closer to him but keeping her weapon at the ready. "Answer me, Skipper."
"P-please," he stammered, his voice shaky and desperate. "I didn't do it. You gotta believe me."
She tightened her grip on her gun, her finger hovering over the trigger. Her instincts screamed that there was more to this than met the eye, but the facts were staring her right in the face. He was at the scene of the crime, trying to escape. Yet something about his fear-stricken expression gave her pause.
Morgan lowered her gun slightly, but kept her guard up. "Why were you running?" she asked, her voice low and steady. "Why were you in that house?"
Skipper's face contorted in anguish as he struggled to form the words. "I was just...looking for a place to sleep. I didn't know anyone was here, I swear."
Morgan studied him for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception. But all she saw was raw fear and desperation. It didn't add up. "You're telling me you broke into a random house to sleep?" she asked skeptically.
Skipper's eyes darted around nervously before he met her gaze again. "I'm homeless," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know where else to go. You blew my cover at the clinic--"
"Bullshit!" Morgan spat, and Skipper flinched. Morgan took a step closer to Skipper, her gun still pointed at him. "Why were you running?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous. "You know you're not supposed to be here. This is a crime scene. Tell me why you're really here."
"I--I was just--I don't know!" he shouted. Morgan had had enough. She inched toward him with her handcuffs out, ready to take him in.
"Fine," she said, "if you're not going to answer me here, you can do it down at the police station."
Skipper began to panic, his eyes darting around frantically as if searching for an escape. "No, wait, you can't do that!" he protested, scrambling to his feet. "I didn't do anything wrong! You have to believe me!"
