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"Are you really still talking to that new guy? Thomas?" Derik suddenly blurted out, not quite able to mask the jealousy in his voice. Morgan's grip on the door handle tightened, her knuckles turning white. She turned her head to face him, her eyes narrowing.
"Things have changed between you and I, Derik. We're partners, nothing more. My personal life is none of your business," she replied tersely, her voice ice-cold.
Derik winced at her words, clearly hurt. "Can't we at least talk? Like we used to?"
Morgan huffed a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You have a son, Derik. Maybe you should be more worried about being a present father," she retorted, the sting of betrayal still fresh in her mind. The mention of his son seemed to hit home, and Derik's face fell, his gaze returning to the road ahead. Silence enveloped the car once more, heavy and oppressive.
As they continued to drive, Morgan couldn't help but replay their conversation in her mind. She knew she had been harsh, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize. Too much had happened between them, too many lies and secrets for her to ever trust him again. She sighed quietly, her breath fogging up the window. If only things could have been different if only they could go back to the way they were before everything fell apart.
But life wasn't like that, and Morgan knew it. They would have to move forward, somehow, and find a way to work together despite their fractured relationship. She glanced over at Derik, his face tight with unspoken pain and regret. As much as she wanted to despise him, she couldn't deny that there was still a part of her that cared for him. After all, he had been there for her when she was in prison... he was the only one who came to see her aside from her father. For all those years, Morgan had lived in that cage, knowing that she had people on the outside. But then her dad died before she was released, and now she didn't even know who Derik truly was.
It was easier to keep hating him and to keep reminding herself that their relationship was broken beyond repair.
The car pulled up to the curb outside of Mary Jenkins's home, a quaint bungalow with a well-tended garden. Garden gnomes stood guard like sentinels on the front lawn, their faces chipped and faded from the sun. Morgan opened the car door, the afternoon heat billowing in as she stepped out of the car. Skunk immediately jumped out after her, eager for some fresh air.
"Stay close," she murmured to the dog, securing his leash to her wrist. The tension between her and Derik still hung heavy in the air, but she refused to let it distract her from the task at hand. She needed answers about Mary's death, and she was determined to find them – with or without Derik's help.
As they approached the front door, Morgan noticed that one of the garden gnomes had been knocked over, its ceramic hat cracked on the ground. She frowned, an uneasy feeling settling in her gut.
"Something's not right here," she whispered, more to herself than to Derik. She reached out and knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood.
"Hello?" Derik called out, his voice strained. "It's the FBI. Is anyone inside?”
There was no answer, only the distant hum of cicadas hidden in the trees. Morgan tried the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked. To her surprise, it turned easily beneath her grip, and the door creaked open.
"Stay alert," she warned Derik, her eyes scanning the dimly-lit interior. They stepped inside, Skunk padding cautiously beside her.
"Hello?" Morgan called out again, her voice betraying a hint of anxiety. There was still no response, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
Morgan stepped further into the bungalow, Skunk by her side. The air was stale and heavy with the scent of old books and mothballs. Her eyes darted around the living room, taking in the dusty shelves filled with faded family photos and knickknacks collected over a lifetime. A sense of melancholy settled over her as she realized just how isolated Mary must have been.
"Derik, look at this," Morgan said softly, motioning towards a cluster of framed pictures on an end table. "Her kids... they're not in any recent photos." She frowned, feeling a surge of anger toward Mary's absent children. "They should've been here for her."
Derik nodded but didn't say anything, his expression solemn. They continued to explore the house, methodically moving through the rooms in search of any clues that might shed light on Mary's bizarre death.
As they entered the hallway, Skunk suddenly stopped in his tracks, his ears perked up. He approached a closed door, sniffing intently before scratching at it with a low whine.
"Skunk?" Morgan asked, concern lacing her voice. "What is it, boy?"
"Something's got him worked up," Derik observed, his brows furrowing as he studied the dog.
Morgan reached for the doorknob, her heart pounding in anticipation, and slowly turned it.
The door creaked open, revealing a small study cluttered with stacks of papers and boxes.
Morgan's breath caught in her throat as she swung the door open, revealing a dimly lit bedroom. The first thing that hit her was the metallic scent of blood, an unmistakable odor that made her stomach churn. Her eyes darted to the bed in the center of the room, its once-white sheets soaked crimson.
"Jesus Christ," Derik muttered, his hand flying to cover his nose and mouth.
CHAPTER THREE
Skunk whined softly, the fur on his back bristling as he pressed closer to Morgan's leg for comfort. She could feel her own pulse pounding in her ears as she took a step into the room, her FBI training kicking in, despite the horror clawing at her insides.
She studied the grisly scene, taking in every detail – the way the blood had pooled beneath the mattress, the haphazard slashes through the fabric, and the trail of smeared red leading towards the door. It was as if the killer had been in a hurry, leaving behind a macabre mess in their wake.
"Could it be some kind of ritual?" Derik suggested, his voice muffled by his sleeve. "A sick calling card?"
Morgan frowned, considering the possibility. "Maybe, but why move her body afterward? Why leave her in a sandbox for everyone to see, with her teeth glued back in place?"
