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Silence stretchedbetween them, taut as a wire. She could almost picture Derik on the other end,running a hand through his slick black hair, his green eyes clouded withconcern and weariness—an echo of his own battles.
"Please,"she implored, softer now. "I need you to respect my decision, even if youdon't agree with it."
She heard himsigh, the sound heavy with resignation. "Okay, Morgan. Okay." Hisvoice was a whisper, revealing more than he likely intended—the fear of losinganother person he cared about.
"Thankyou," she murmured, feeling a weight lift slightly from her shoulders. Theacknowledgment of her autonomy from someone who once betrayed her trust was abalm to her wounded spirit.
"Get somerest," Derik advised gently. "You've been through hell today. You'veearned it."
"Rest,"she echoed, the concept feeling foreign and unattainable. Yet, there wascomfort in his words, a reminder that regardless of the path she chose, Derikwould stand by her side.
"Goodnight,Derik," she said, ending the call before he could hear the tremor in hervoice.
Easing herselfonto the couch beside Skunk, she closed her eyes, letting the silence envelopher. But as her body succumbed to exhaustion, her mind raced on—a relentlessstream of what-ifs and maybes, of the faces of her father and Mary Price,intertwined in a dance that led to her own undoing.
***
Morgan'sconsciousness teetered on the edge of reality, as if she were adrift betweenthe world of the waking and the haunting realm of her dreams. In this liminalspace, her father’s figure loomed—a sentinel overshadowing every other specterthat dared to approach. But as she reached out to grasp the essence of the manshe once believed she knew, his visage blurred and distorted like ink bleedinginto water.
He was there, butnot quite; a face replaced by another with each blink of her dream-laden eyes.First, he was the father who spun her through the air in their backyard,laughter booming like summer thunder. Then he morphed into the stoic man whotaught her to shoot, his features hardened by shadows and secrecy. A flicker,and he became an agent—her mentor—in a world where trust was currency andbetrayal an ever-present ghost. Another flicker, a stranger with cold eyes,shrouded in the same darkness that swallowed Mary Price whole.
Eachtransformation chipped away at Morgan’s understanding, leaving her grapplingwith the shards of a shattered idol. The faces kept coming, faster and morefurious, until they were a kaleidoscope of deceit. Her father—the cornerstoneof her life's foundation—was now the epicenter of her nightmares, embodying theultimate treachery.
She tried to callout, to demand the truth, but her voice was a mere whisper against the tide ofrevelations that drowned her pleas. Her mind fought to escape, to wake from thesuffocating grip of her subconscious, but it held her captive, forcing her towitness the endless parade of lies woven into the fabric of her existence.
Then, suddenly,the cacophony of ringing shattered the silence of her apartment. Morgan's eyessnapped open, heart pounding against her ribcage, a bead of sweat trailing downher temple. Disoriented, she gasped for breath, the remnants of her dreams clingingto her psyche like cobwebs.
The phonecontinued its relentless clamor, a modern-day siren call demanding attention.With trembling hands, she fumbled for the device, the sharp glow of the screenpiercing the remnants of sleep that clouded her vision. The name 'Mueller'flashed ominously, a harbinger of chaos in the stillness of dawn.
"This isCross," she answered, her voice rough with the aftermath of her nocturnaltorment.
"Cross,"came Assistant Director Mueller's clipped tone, "I need you at HQ.Now."
"Is there acase?" Morgan asked, pushing aside the covers and swinging her legs overthe side of the bed, her professional mask sliding into place over thefractured pieces of her night.
"Affirmative,"Mueller replied, and she could almost hear the gears of duty locking intoposition within him. "Get here as fast as you can."
Morgan's mindshifted, compartmentalizing the ghosts of her dreams and redirecting her focusto the reality of her calling. Whatever lay ahead, it promised no respite fromthe storm that brewed within her. But amidst the tumult, there was a thread ofpurpose—one she clung to as she readied herself for whatever challenge awaited.
"Understood,"she said, her response a testament to the resilience that had carried herthrough a decade of injustice. "I'm on my way."
With a click, theline went dead, leaving Morgan in the quiet predawn light. She stood, musclesstiff with tension, the last echoes of her father's many faces fading into thebackground. It was time to face the day, to armor herself in the guise of AgentMorgan Cross, and confront whatever new demons lurked on the horizon.
CHAPTER THREE
Morgan paced thecold, sterile corridor of the FBI headquarters, her boots echoing against thelinoleum floor. As she approached Assistant Director Mueller's office, Morgan'seyes flickered with an unspoken turmoil.
The revelationthat her father was actually John Christopher—an enigmatic figure within thevery organization she now served—gnawed at her insides. She wondered whatMueller knew of it all. Did he see her as the daughter of a colleague or theprogeny of secrets and lies? Did he even know who her father really was? Itwasn't like Mueller ever saw her father while Morgan was around, so maybe hehad disappeared into the woods, changed his name, started a new life forhimself and for Morgan... maybe the FBI never went looking for him.
"Cross,"Mueller's deep voice snapped her from her reverie as she entered his office. Hestood behind his desk, a monolith in a room that felt more like a strategic warchamber than a workspace. His presence commanded attention, even though trustbetween them was a bridge built on shaky ground.
Derik leanedcasually against the wall, his green eyes meeting hers with a mixture ofcamaraderie and concern. Once, he'd betrayed her, yet here they were, partnersagain. Forgiveness was a bitter pill Morgan was still learning to swallow.
"Take aseat," Mueller instructed, gesturing toward the leather chairs before him.As Morgan sat, she kept her face stoic, reading nothing into the pleasantries.They were a prelude to the storm, a dance of formalities before delving intothe chaos of violence and death.
"Let’s getdown to brass tacks," Mueller began, interlocking his fingers as heregarded both agents. "We might have a serial killer on our hands,operating right here in Dallas."
The room fellsilent except for the hum of the air conditioning, which did little to cool thetension. Derik straightened up, his slick black hair seeming to absorb thefluorescent light above.
