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"Exactly.But Jennifer doesn't fit the pattern; she didn't die where she was found."Morgan's mind raced, connecting dots in the dark. "And I bet if we digdeeper, we'll find out someone led her here too."
"Any ideaabout the connection between these places?" Derik asked, his green eyessearching hers for answers she hadn't yet found.
"Nothingsolid. But it's historical—there's something about the past this killer isfixated on." Morgan's tattoos seemed to pulse with a life of their own asshe spoke, each one a mark from a chapter of her story, a time when the truthwas obscured by lies.
"Let's findout who Jennifer Clarke was, maybe that will give us something more to goon," Derik suggested, always one step ahead.
"Agreed."Morgan stood, feeling the weight of the case pressing down on her shoulders.She was no stranger to carrying burdens, but this one felt heavier, suffusedwith a sense of urgency. "We need to piece together her last hours, findout why she was walking away from home."
"Her storymight tell us what we're missing, why she was chosen," Derik added,already reaching for his coat.
"Chosen andplaced like a final piece in a puzzle we can't see the picture of yet."Morgan's voice was steel wrapped in velvet. She grabbed her own jacket, readyto step once more into the void left by a killer who was as meticulous as hewas merciless.
"Let's goget her story," she stated, striding out of the room with Derik at herheels. Each step was a silent vow that she would not rest until the dead couldspeak through her and justice would whisper through the halls of this city oncemore.
***
The bell abovethe café door chimed as Morgan pushed through, a stark contrast to its usual cheerfuljingle. The air was thick with the scent of espresso and unshed tears. Clustersof waitstaff huddled together, their eyes rimmed red, their whisperedconversations a low hum beneath the clatter of police radio from outside.
"Excuseme," Morgan called out softly, her voice steady despite the gravityweighing on her heart. She had seen death before, it was an old acquaintance,but it never got easier—the faces of the living left behind always told a storyof loss that words could never quite capture.
A young manturned toward her, his apron stained with the day's offerings, his expression amixture of shock and grief. "Agent Cross," he acknowledged,recognition flashing in his eyes as they landed on the badge she presented.
"Can youtell me about Jennifer?" she asked, her gaze scanning the room, takingnote of the way Jennifer's coworkers seemed to orbit around one another,seeking comfort in proximity.
"We can'tbelieve it," the man stuttered, wiping his hands on his apron. "Shejust left work... it was just an hour ago."
"Did sheseem different today? Did she mention any plans or meet anyone?" Morganprobed, her dark hair falling forward as she leaned in slightly, creating aspace for confidences.
"Nothing outof the ordinary," he said, shaking his head. "Jennifer was alwaysso... vibrant. It doesn't make sense."
Morgan nodded,her tattoos stretching with the movement of her arms as she made notes. Shelooked up again, scanning the staff. "Has anyone unusual been aroundlately? Someone who stood out?"
A waitressstepped forward, her face drawn tight with concern. "There was thisguy," she began, her voice tremulous. "He'd come in and sit at theback, spreading these old maps out on the table like he was planning a treasurehunt or something."
"Maps?"Morgan's interest piqued. "What kind of maps?"
"Old ones,and not just of the city. They looked like they were from different places,different times even," the woman explained, tucking a loose strand of hairbehind her ear. "He was weird, always mumbling to himself, scribblingnotes."
"DidJennifer ever talk to him?" Morgan asked, her mind already racing with thepossibilities this new information presented.
"Not that Isaw," the waitress replied, biting her lip. "But she did serve him afew times."
Morgan's gazelingered on the vacant chair where the map-obsessed customer would sit, the airheavy with the scent of unease that seemed to settle over the café. Thehistorical fountain, the park statue, the old chocolate factory—echoes of apast era whispered through the city's streets and now, through this case. Hermind, always a relentless machine, churned through the implications. A patternwas emerging, one steeped in historical significance. The killer wasn't justchoosing random sites; they were deliberate, each location a thread in a largertapestry of time.
"Was thereanything else about these maps, any specific landmarks or eras he was focusedon?" Morgan asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline that sharpenedher focus.
The waitressshook her head, "Just that they were old. He'd point at things, but itwasn't like I could overhear him."
"Old mapsfor old places," Morgan murmured more to herself than to anyone else. Sheneeded to see those maps to understand the connection between the chosen sitesand the history they represented. This wasn't just about where the victims wereleft; it was about why they were left there.
"Can you getme the security footage from the days he was here?" Morgan addressed thecafé owner, who had been standing by, wringing his hands.
"Of course,Agent Cross," he replied, eager to help. "I'll pull up everything wehave."
Morgan followedhim to the back office, her eyes scanning the room as if she might find someclue hidden among the coffee supplies and stacks of paperwork. The ownerfiddled with the security system, his fingers trembling slightly under theweight of the situation. Screens flickered to life, revealing grainy images ofpatrons coming and going, but it was the solitary figure hunched over a tablefull of parchment that drew Morgan's attention.
"Here,"the owner said, pointing at the screen. "This is him."
