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Morgan exhaledslowly, pressing her fingers to her temples as she contemplated their nextmove. The clock was ticking, and somewhere out there, the killer was likelyplotting the next point on this deadly ley line grid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Morgan's fingersdanced across the keyboard, the staccato taps echoing in the near-deserted FBIheadquarters. The clock had long since given up on telling time that matteredto anyone but her and Derik. They were a two-person island in a sea of darkenedcubicles, the glow from their monitors casting an otherworldly pallor overtheir faces. Morgan squinted at the maps splayed across her screen, linescrisscrossing like veins across the historical heart of the city. She leanedback in her chair, rubbing her eyes, the images blurring into a kaleidoscope ofstreets and symbols.
"Derik,"she called out, her voice low and tinged with fatigue, "you still withme?"
"Always,"came the reply, his tone equally weary. He was hunched over his ownworkstation, green eyes scanning files upon files, seeking a pattern, a clue,anything. His black hair, usually slick and professional, now looked limp, atestament to the hours they were putting in. The light caught his face,accentuating the lines of strain around his eyes, evidence of too manysleepless nights and the weight of a personal history fraught with struggle.
"We'remissing something," Morgan said, her frustration evident. "Theselocations—historical sites, all on ley lines—it's not random. It can'tbe."
"Agreed,"Derik nodded. He pushed away from the desk, stretching his lean frame."The killer's obsessed with history, the occult maybe. Each site issteeped in it. But we don't know how these women fit into his twistednarrative."
"Right."Morgan's gaze returned to the map, tracing the ley lines as if she couldphysically pull the answer from them. "We need a connection, somethingpersonal to him... or them. Something that ties our victims to this sickgame."
She paused,considering the ink that wound its way up her own arms—each tattoo a marker ofher past, each line a story etched in skin. They were reminders of her timebehind bars, where she learned that every detail mattered, no matter how smallor seemingly inconsequential. Her past had hardened her, made her resilient,but also left her with a lingering sense of isolation.
"Maybe it'sabout what they represent," Morgan mused aloud, her mind cycling throughpossibilities. "A message he's trying to send, or a wrong he thinks he'srighting."
"Couldbe," Derik agreed, coming to stand beside her. Their partnership was acomplex tapestry of trust and betrayal, forgiveness still being woven into itsfabric. She glanced at him, a flicker of appreciation passing between them forthe unspoken commitment to see this through, despite the shadows of their owndemons.
"Let's diginto the history of these sites," Morgan suggested, her determinationreigniting. "Find out what stories they're whispering. Maybe then we'llhear what he's trying to say."
Derik nodded, thefaintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll takethe chocolate factory and the war memorial. You handle the park and themonument?"
"Done."Morgan turned back to her computer, the hunt resuming with renewed vigor.Together, they delved into the night, chasing ghosts through the annals oftime, hoping to find the living among the dead.
The sterile glowof the computer screen cast her face in stark relief against the dimness of theFBI headquarters, where the quiet hum of nocturnal activity buzzed beneath thesurface. She was looking for a ghost—a specter woven from the threads of historyand darkness that seemed to be targeting women who shared an unstatedcommonality.
"NicoleLee," she whispered under her breath, summoning the most recent victim'sonline persona to life on her monitor. Morgan knew that social media was oftena facade, but it could also be a treasure trove of personal convictions andoverlooked details. Nicole had been prolific in her posts, providing Morganwith a labyrinthine digital footprint to navigate.
Images of ancientruins, sepia-toned maps, and artifacts scrolled past in an endless parade asMorgan delved into Nicole's fascination with history. She paused occasionallyto study a photograph or read a snippet of commentary, seeking the elusivethread that might connect Nicole to the killer's twisted game.
Her eyes weregritty with fatigue, the numbers on the clock edging towards a new day, whenshe almost scrolled past it—a post from Nicole that stood out like a discordantnote in a symphony. It was an article Nicole had shared, accompanied by her ownscathing critique. "We must not romanticize the occult," Nicole hadwritten. "Its roots are entangled with the persecution and stigmatizationof countless innocent women."
Morgan's pulsequickened as she absorbed the words. Here, at last, was a voice raised againstthe shadowy backdrop that their suspect seemed to revere. It was a stance, boldand unequivocal, that painted a target on Nicole's back—a dissenting opinion inthe face of an obsession with the arcane.
The room feltcolder, the weight of revelation settling upon Morgan's shoulders. She leanedback in her chair, her mind racing to align this new piece of the puzzle. Akiller fixated on history and the occult, disposing of his victims on leylines, and now, a woman whose outspoken views clashed with the very essence ofhis apparent beliefs.
"Derik,"Morgan called out, her voice slicing through the quiet. But then she caughtherself. This clue, it wasn't enough—not yet. She needed more, a pattern, adefinitive link. With a weary sigh, she turned back to her screen, ready tochase the ghosts of the other victims through the digital realm, searching forthe echoes of their voices against the occult that might have sealed theirfates.
Morgan’s fingersdanced over the keyboard, their movements a silent ballet that brought up thedigital files of the slain. The clock on the wall ticked away, its soundmagnified in the near-empty FBI headquarters. With each passing minute, theurgency to connect the dots grew more intense. She clicked open the file of thefirst victim, Emily Harris.
A high-resolutionphoto of Emily's smiling face greeted her—a stark contrast to the grim realityof her fate. Morgan scanned the documents for anything out of place, siftingthrough the mundane details of Emily's life as if she were panning for gold.Then it happened—the flash of something unexpected, buried within pages ofprocedural text.
"Gotcha,"Morgan whispered to herself as she peered closer at the screen.
It was a picturetaken at the crime scene, a close-up of Emily's ankle. There, inked into herskin, was a tattoo—a circle with a line slashed through it, a symbol known forits anti-witchcraft connotations. A statement made permanent, a declarationagainst the occult, now a clue that could not be ignored.
Morgan's eyesflicked towards Derik, who was hunched over his own computer. His green eyeswere narrowed in concentration beneath furrowed brows, the glow of the monitorcasting shadows across his weary face. The temptation to call out to him wasthere, but she held back, her instincts telling her to gather more evidencebefore drawing any conclusions.
"Derik,"she finally said, her tone carrying an edge of urgency. "Look atthis." She motioned him over, her dark hair swaying slightly as she turnedin her chair.
He rose from hisdesk and joined her, leaning down to examine the image on the screen. The linesof his face softened from focus to surprise as he took in the significance ofthe tattoo.
"EmilyHarris," Morgan started, pointing to the mark, "had this tattoo—ananti-witchcraft symbol. It might be nothing, but Nicole Lee posted negativeviews about the occult online. We need to know if Sarah Thompson and JenniferClarke had similar sentiments."
Derikstraightened up, his slick black hair reflecting the fluorescent lights above."You think the killer is targeting women who are outspoken against theoccult?"
