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"Anotherbody was found this morning," Mueller continued, his gaze fixed on Morgan,searching for any hint of weakness. "Strangled and left in plain sight.It's not a random act; it fits the pattern of the Harris case last month."
Morgan's mindraced. A serial killer meant a puzzle—a series of clues left by a twisted mind.It was both an agent's nightmare and a challenge she couldn't resist.
Morgan leanedforward, her elbows on the cool surface of the conference table as Muellerflipped open a manila folder. Photos spilled out, glossy and stark against theworn wood. The images were all too familiar — lifeless eyes staring up at theheavens they could no longer see.
"EmilyHarris," Mueller began, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he werereciting statistics rather than describing a tragedy. "Twenty-eight yearsold, worked downtown as a graphic designer. She was found early morning by ajogger, right here in Harris Park."
He pointed to aphoto of a statue, an angelic figure that now seemed to mourn its proximity todeath. Morgan noted the position of the body subtly arranged to face thestatue, as if in conversation with the silent stone.
"Strangled,”Mueller continued, "no sign of sexual assault. She was a regularjogger."
Morgan's gazelingered on Emily's face, framed by long brunette hair that had fanned out likea macabre halo on the ground. Her own pulse quickened at the thought of thevictim’s last moments, the terror that must have clawed at her throat alongwith the killer's hands.
"Anyconnections between her and the second victim?" Morgan asked, trying topiece together the life of Emily Harris from the scant details before her.
"None thatwe've uncovered so far." Mueller's lips tightened, a clear sign offrustration. He hated loose ends as much as she did.
"Moving on.”He shuffled to the next photograph, and another woman’s face met Morgan’sscrutiny. “Sarah Thompson, thirty-one, worked as a social worker, oftenvolunteered at community centers."
The secondvictim, Sarah, with her fiery red hair and a pale complexion, was a contrast tothe previous victim. Mueller laid out a photo of the crime scene — an oldchocolate factory that had been abandoned for years, now a canvas for urbandecay and, apparently, murder.
"Found alsostrangled, same M.O.,” Mueller's fingers tapped the table rhythmically. “Bodywas positioned near the entrance of the factory, not far from where she lived.It seems she was also out for a jog."
"Same methodof killing, public places, attacking joggers...” Morgan murmured, her mindracing. This wasn't random; it was a message, a morbid signature left bysomeone who wanted to be noticed, to be feared. She felt the pull of the chase,the need to dive into the abyss and drag the monster into the light.
Morgan leanedforward, her fingers interlacing as she fixed Mueller with a steely gaze.Determination set her jaw in hard lines, the tattoos on her arms seeming totighten with her resolve. "We'll head to the latest crime scene," shedeclared, her voice carrying the weight of her hardened past and the unyieldingintent to capture this emerging predator.
Mueller noddedonce, his expression unreadable but his eyes bright with something that mighthave been approval—or perhaps anticipation of the results Morgan and Derik wereexpected to deliver. She didn't linger on the thought, though; there was workto be done, and time was slipping through their fingers like grains in anhourglass—one they couldn't afford to let run out.
"Let'smove," Morgan said sharply as she stood up, signaling an end to thebriefing with the urgency of her tone. Derik rose beside her, his green eyesrevealing none of the fatigue that usually haunted them. Today, there was onlyfocus, a shared commitment to the case that seemed to momentarily bridge anyrift their past had carved between them.
Exiting Mueller'soffice, Morgan felt the ghost of her father's presence lingering in thecorridors. The truth about his life, so recently unveiled, clung to her like asecond skin, but she shoved it aside. There was no room for personal demons—notwhen a real one was stalking the streets of Dallas.
***
The morning sunglinted off the glass façades of downtown buildings as Morgan navigated theblack FBI-issued sedan through the city's arteries. Beside her, Derik satsilent, his profile stoic and contemplative against the blur of passingscenery. A tense silence cocooned them, thick with unspoken thoughts and theinvisible weight of the case at hand.
Morgan focused onthe road, her hands gripping the steering wheel with practiced ease, each turnand acceleration a meticulous calculation. The city unfolded around them,transitioning from the polished business district to the grimmer industrialquarter where Sarah Thompson's life had met its untimely end.
Thoughts of thevictims plagued Morgan—Emily Harris, vibrant and creative, reduced to alifeless form in Harris Park. Now, Sarah Thompson, whose dedication tocommunity service would remain unfulfilled. Both women strangled, discardednear landmarks, their last breaths stolen by a killer who remained a shadowwithin the city they called home.
"Derik,"Morgan ventured, breaking the silence that had settled between them like anunwelcome third passenger. "How's your ex doing? And the kid?"
He turned, hisgreen eyes meeting hers for a moment before settling on the dashboard."Still in England," he said, his voice carrying a tinge ofresignation. "And I don't think she's coming back. Our son... he'sstarting to put down roots there."
"Must behard," Morgan probed softly, navigating another turn.
Derik shrugged, asubtle lift of his broad shoulders. "It's for the best, really." Heran a hand through his slick black hair, a gesture teetering on the edge offrustration and acceptance. "He's got a stable life there. Far away fromthe mess I've made here."
The car hummedbeneath them, a sanctuary on wheels hurtling toward an unknown that seemed evermore tangled with each passing case. Morgan sensed the weight of Derik's words,the undercurrent of loss and the specter of alcohol that no doubt hovered just outof reach, tempting him with forgetfulness.
"Hey,"Morgan said, glancing at him again, her voice firmer now. "I'm sorryyou're wrapped up in all this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing thestorm outside, the case, the dark web of their lives. "Whatever this dramais, I'll figure it out. Even if it means working with Thomas."
Derik's gaze wasunreadable, but Morgan saw the briefest flicker of something vulnerable flashacross his face before he masked it with his professional façade. The mentionof Thomas Grady, the cyber security expert with his double-crosses and deceits,invariably brought a tension that neither of them could ignore.
"Thanks,"he murmured, and then fell quiet, his attention returning to the window, to thegray world outside.
Morgan let out abreath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her grip on the steering wheeleased fractionally, the leather warm beneath her fingers. She knew Derik'shistory, the betrayal that still simmered between them, yet forgiveness was ahorizon they were both inching toward—one grueling mile at a time.
