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"Maybe we'remissing something," he suggested, but the doubt seeping in around theedges of his words betrayed him.
Morgan consideredthe victims—four women, four senseless deaths, each one a grim echo of theothers. They were strangled, discarded near landmarks, almost reverently posed.And now, a common thread they'd unearthed: vocal opposition to the occult. Itgnawed at her, this pattern, but it was intangible, elusive like smoke.
"Let's callit..." Morgan began, the resignation tugging at her lips, when a glint ofsomething unexpected caught her eye. Her finger paused mid-air, hovering overthe 'close' button on the browser tab.
"Wait,"she said, leaning in. A photo emerged from the digital sea, posted by ateenager whose excitement bled through in exaggerated emojis and hashtags.#MrReed #CoolTattoo #ArtTeacherGoals
"Derik, lookat this." She pointed at the image, a snapshot of skin inked withintricate lines that spiraled and twisted into a symbol. It was eerilyfamiliar, resonating with the same energy as the ley lines she had studied forhours.
"Isn'tthat—" Derik leaned closer, his earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Exactly,"Morgan confirmed. "It looks like an occult symbol. And if this Mr. Reed isas cool as his student thinks..."
"Then maybehe's our connection," Derik finished, a spark igniting in his gaze.
Morgan's mindraced with the implications. The tattoo could be a coincidence, or it could bethe break they desperately needed. Tattoos were a language she understood; herown skin was a tapestry of ink and memories, a testament to a life livedfiercely and without retreat.
"Let's findout who Mr. Reed is," Morgan decided, already clicking through to thestudent's profile, piecing together the breadcrumbs leading to their new personof interest.
As the earlymorning unfolded into day, the heaviness that had settled over HQ began tolift. They had a lead, fragile as it may be, and with it came the faintestwhisper of hope. All they needed to do was follow the ink.
The fluorescentlights of the FBI headquarters hummed overhead, casting a pallid glow over herworkstation. With Derik hovering at her shoulder, she delved into the digitalworld, seeking out the mysterious Mr. Reed.
"Local highschools," she muttered, narrowing her search to the Dallas area."Come on, come on..."
And then, nestledamidst a sea of educational websites and school district pages, she found him.David Reed, an art teacher listed on the faculty page of a Dallas high school.His smile in the staff photo was benign, his eyes crinkling at the corners –nothing like the dark persona she had conjured in her mind.
"Gotyou," Morgan whispered, her gaze tracing the outline of his face. Shecouldn't tell much from the picture alone, but it was a starting point. Aflicker of intuition urged her forward; this man with a penchant for occulttattoos was worth pursuing.
"Artteacher," Derik read over her shoulder. "Seems pretty normal."
"Appearancescan deceive," Morgan retorted, clicking through to open another window.Now, it was time to see what the Bureau had on Mr. David Reed.
Accessing the FBIdatabase required a higher level of clearance, but Morgan's credentials werebeyond reproach. As her clearance was verified, the record of David Reedunfolded before her onscreen. She scanned the document quickly, absorbing everydetail. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed each entry, looking for any hint ofdarkness lurking beneath the surface.
But there wasnothing. The file was disappointingly sparse: no prior arrests, no flaggedbehavior, not even a speeding ticket marred David Reed's record. He was clean,almost unnervingly so.
"Nothing?"Derik's voice held a note of disbelief.
"Clean as awhistle," Morgan confirmed, her disappointment a bitter taste in hermouth. It didn't make sense. The tattoo's intricate design, so closelyresembling the ley lines they had been examining for connections to themurders, suggested a depth to Reed that his record didn't reflect.
"Maybe he'sjust a good guy who likes weird tattoos," Derik offered, but Morgan shookher head.
"Nobody'sthat clean, Derik. There's always something," she said, convictionsteeling her voice.
"Could be adead end," Derik countered, but Morgan wasn't ready to concede.
"Or he'scareful," she posited, her gut telling her there was more to David Reedthan met the eye. "Very, very careful."
Morgan pulled upsocial media profiles and community forums. She was looking for anything thatcould provide insight into David Reed, the art teacher with the peculiartattoo. Students' comments scrolled down her screen, a stream of praise andadoration for the man who brought color to their black-and-white high schoolexperience.
"Look atthis," she murmured, eyes scanning the words. "They love him."
"Whowouldn't love the cool teacher?" Derik quipped from over her shoulder, hisbreath warm on her neck as he peered at her monitor.
"Art can bea mask, a facade," Morgan mused, her gaze not leaving the glowing screen."It's easy to hide behind creativity, to make people see what you wantthem to see."
"Or maybehe's just a good teacher," Derik suggested, but there was a question inhis voice, the same niggling doubt that clawed at the edges of Morgan'sinstincts.
