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"Who was that?" Morgan queried, her senses prickling with suspicion.
"Oh, that's just Johnny, my assistant," Frank replied, dismissively waving a hand in the direction of the exit. "He's new here – still learning the ropes."
Morgan's gut twisted uneasily. A newcomer, unfamiliar with the morgue's standard operating procedures – was it possible that he was involved somehow? Or was her paranoia getting the better of her?
Morgan's phone vibrated insistently in her pocket, the screen lighting up with an urgent notification. She glanced at Derik and Frank, who were still engrossed in conversation about the morgue's procedures. With a tight-lipped nod, she gestured for them to continue without her.
"Excuse me," she muttered, turning on her heel and stalking towards the exit. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and death, making her head swim as she pushed through the heavy doors and ascended the stairs back to the hospital above.
As soon as she stepped outside, Morgan was greeted by the oppressive heat of a mid-morning Dallas sun. She squinted against the light, shielding her eyes as she navigated her way along the side of the building to the narrow alley behind the morgue. The sudden change from the cool, sterile interior left her feeling disoriented and slightly dizzy.
Slumping against the brick wall, she pulled out her phone and checked the notification. Her jaw clenched when she saw Thomas's name flash across the screen. Taking a steadying breath, she swiped to answer the call.
"Thomas," she snapped, irritation lacing her tone. "This better be important."
"Hey, Morgan," he replied, his voice placating and apologetic. "I'm sorry for interrupting your case. I know you're busy, but I think I've got something that'll make it up to you."
"Go on," she said warily, her eyes darting around the alley as if expecting someone to overhear their conversation.
"Listen, in a few days, I'll have some big news regarding the men who framed you," Thomas explained, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. "I've been working my contacts, and I've found information you need. Trust me, you won't want to miss this."
Morgan's heart pounded in her chest, a mix of hope and anger rising within her. She knew she shouldn't get her hopes up - Thomas had let her down before - but the promise of potentially clearing her name was impossible to ignore.
Still, she couldn’t trust this guy. He’d manipulated her, tried to blackmail her—what else would he do?
She had to end it.
"Enough, Thomas," Morgan snapped, her patience wearing thin. "I don't trust you. You've been stringing me along for far too long with empty promises and breadcrumbs. If you have the information, give it to me now, or don't contact me again until you do. Once this is over, I want you out of my life for good."
"Wait, Morgan—" Thomas's voice held a note of desperation, but she had already disconnected the call, her hand shaking with suppressed fury.
Alone in the alley, Morgan closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to regain her composure. The oppressive heat bore down on her, and the smell of rotting garbage from a nearby dumpster filled her nostrils. She could feel the grit and grime beneath her fingers as she pressed them against the brick wall for support, grounding herself in the unpleasant reality of her surroundings.
She knew she should never have asked for help from a stranger, especially one as persistent and potentially dangerous as Thomas. It was a mistake—one that had cost her precious time and energy, leaving her feeling more vulnerable than ever. As an FBI agent who had been framed for murder ten years ago, she had learned the hard way that working alone was often the safest course. Trusting others was a gamble she couldn't afford, particularly with someone like Thomas, who seemed to know far too much about her already.
Morgan's jaw tightened as she berated herself internally. But what was done was done. All she could do now was focus on the task at hand and hope that the information Thomas claimed to have would finally lead her to the truth she'd been seeking for so long.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan pushed away from the wall and wiped the sweat from her brow. It was time to get back to work. There were still questions that needed answers, and she wasn't going to let Thomas—or anyone else—stand in her way.
Morgan's gaze swept over the alley, taking in the grimy dumpsters and the scattering of refuse that lay strewn across the cracked asphalt. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the harsh realities of her line of work. She was about to turn back toward the hospital entrance when a flicker of movement caught her eye.
Her heart skipped a beat as she spotted Johnny, the morgue assistant, rummaging through a trash bag near the back door. Morgan tensed, her instincts kicking in as she watched him from the shadows. He seemed so engrossed in his task that he didn't notice her presence.
As Johnny retrieved an object from the trash and slipped it into his pocket, Morgan's pulse quickened. What could be so important that he'd risk being caught like this? She held her breath, waiting for him to leave before investigating further.
Once Johnny had disappeared back inside the building, Morgan hurried toward the trash bags, her hands clad in latex gloves. As she sifted through the discarded items, she found little more than used cloths and personal belongings—nothing that seemed out of the ordinary for a morgue.
Maybe it's nothing, she thought, trying to suppress the gnawing feeling in her gut. But why did Johnny sneak out here like this?
With every second that ticked by, Morgan knew she was wasting time. She needed to get back inside to continue questioning Frank and his staff. But she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to Johnny's actions than met the eye.
Morgan was about to dismiss her suspicions and return to Derik when a glint caught her eye. She reached into one of the trash bags, her fingers brushing against something cold and smooth. Pulling it out, she found herself staring at an elderly woman's broach—a delicate piece of jewelry adorned with tiny pearls and intricate engravings.
"Strange," Morgan muttered to herself, turning the broach over in her hand. "Why would this be in the trash?"
As she studied the broach, a feeling of unease began to churn within her. They were going after a man who was murdering elderly women, and this was an antique broach Morgan could only imagine belonged to one. The nagging doubts she had tried to suppress earlier came rushing back, fueled by this new discovery.
She knew that she couldn't afford to waste time on dead ends, but she also couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling that something wasn't right. She needed to trust her instincts—after all, they had kept her alive through some of the most dangerous situations imaginable.
