Page 1 of For Silence

PROLOGUE

Gina Bellwood's sneakers struck the pavement with a steady beat, her breath forming faint clouds in the crisp night air. The suburban streets of Dallas sprawled around her like a sleeping beast, houses nestled under the watchful gaze of stars twinkling in the vast Texas sky. It was late, but Gina relished these nocturnal runs; they were her respite from the courtroom battles that consumed her days.

She increased her pace, feeling her muscles stretch and warm. The recent trial fluttered through her mind—a father accused, a child silent, a mother insistent. The case had been tangled with inconsistencies, the evidence circumstantial at best. Gina had done what she did best: disentangled the facts, presented a narrative of reasonable doubt. And it had worked. The gavel had fallen, acquitting the man who stood trial for a crime too vile to imagine.

Yet as she ran, the image of the eight-year-old, eyes wide and unseeing in the witness stand, haunted her. Gina remembered the delicate skin of the child's neck, marred by scars that could have been caused by anything... or so the defense argued. She pictured the noose that was said to have once been drawn tight around the child’s throat and the accused: their own father.

As she turned a corner, her shadow elongated on the sidewalk, stretching out before her. The sense of victory that had buoyed her spirits was starting to wane, replaced by the gnawing discomfort of doubt. She had seen the look in the father's eyes when the verdict was read—relief, certainly, but something else too, something unreadable. And that bothered her.

She replayed the trial in her mind, the mother's fervent accusations, the father's adamant denials, and the child's confused, frightened testimony. Gina prided herself on being able to read people, to see the truth behind their eyes, but this time she couldn't shake the unsettling possibility that she might have been duped. What if the scars on that child's neck were indeed from his father's hands? No, she chided herself, it wasn’t her job to decide guilt. A prosecutor’s duty was to present the case, and she had done so effectively enough for an acquittal. Still, the seed of doubt was planted, and with each passing step, it seemed to germinate further.

In an attempt to push these thoughts aside, Gina picked up the pace. She focused on the rhythmic pounding of her heart, the crisp night air filling her lungs, the clarity that physical exertion usually brought her. But as she rounded another corner, the echo of footsteps intruded upon her solitude. They were soft but deliberate, keeping perfect time with hers yet growing steadily louder.

Gina glanced over her shoulder, her pulse quickening not from exertion now but from a sudden spike of adrenaline. There was a figure maintaining a consistent distance behind her—a man, it seemed, though she couldn't make out his features in the dim light. It was probably just another late-night runner, she reasoned, trying to dispel the unease that settled in her chest. This was a safe neighborhood, after all, one where families strolled during daylight and teenagers congregated quietly on porches at night.

She told herself to ignore the footsteps, to let the soothing cadence of her own movements reclaim her focus. But there was something about the way those steps never faltered, never slowed, that kept her senses on edge. Gina forced herself to maintain her pace, her every instinct screaming to sprint but her rational mind insisting she was overreacting.

She made the familiar turn onto Mulberry Street, the tree-lined avenue offering a comforting canopy even in the darkness. But comfort shattered into fragments when she nearly collided with an unexpected silhouette.

A man stood there, his features obscured by the shadow of a hood, but it was what dangled from his hand that seized Gina's attention and throttled her calm—a rope, its end twisted into the unmistakable shape of a noose. Her eyes locked onto it, a chill slicing through the warmth of her run-induced sweat. The sight of it—an echo of the case that lingered on her conscience—was jarringly out of place amidst the manicured lawns and silent houses.

"Sorry, I didn't see...," Gina started, her voice trailing off as instinct screamed at her to back away, to put distance between herself and this potential threat.

But before she could act on her instincts, the man moved with terrifying swiftness. His hands were rough, the force with which he grabbed her shocking in its intensity. Gina's heart hammered, adrenaline flooding her system as she felt the coarse rope encircle her neck.

"Wait—" she choked out, her plea cut short as the loop tightened, pressing cruelly against her windpipe.

Desperation surged within her, and she clawed at the binding, trying to loosen its grip. Her fingers found only unyielding fibers and the strength of the man's hold.

"Help!" Gina managed a strangled scream, her voice barely rising above a whisper as precious air was denied passage.

The noose tightened. Gina’s head swam. Everything slowly faded to white.

CHAPTER ONE

Morgan's grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, each turn through Dallas's night-cloaked streets a sharp jab in the direction of her reckoning. Streetlights streaked overhead, fleeting guardians in the darkness that swathed the city. The engine's steady hum was a mantra, urging her forward to meet Thomas—an adversary turned dubious ally.

She hadn't whispered a word to Derik about this clandestine journey. Guilt gnawed at her as she envisioned him still tangled in the bed sheets, blissfully oblivious to her departure. They had crossed a threshold last night, one she'd fortified against him for so long. But as his breathing steadied in sleep, the insistent buzz of her phone severed the brief spell of intimacy. Thomas's voice on the line, urgent yet cryptic, had propelled her into the night.

Morgan could still feel Derik's touch lingering on her skin, a reminder of what she'd left behind. Their shared warmth contrasted with the chill that now seeped through her car's vents. This quest, though—this unearthing of truth—was a path Morgan knew she must tread alone. Each mile brought her closer to answers that had eluded her for over a decade.

The men who framed her for murder had remained in the shadows, their identities shrouded in enigma. Their motives, however, were crystallizing with every piece of the puzzle she painstakingly assembled. It all circled back to her father, Christopher Cross—or John Christopher, as she had come to know his true identity. The former FBI agent, her father, had harbored secrets dense enough to suffocate the carefree image she held of him.

Her hands tightened further as she replayed memories of her father—their hikes in the woods, his laughter echoing around the cabin they called home. Had his eyes ever betrayed the weight of his past? Or had she been too enamored with the facade to notice? The revelation of his double life had shaken the foundations of her world, leaving her to question the man she thought she knew.

Morgan's dark hair whipped around her face as she rolled down her window, inviting the cool air to clear her mind. She needed to focus, to prepare for whatever game Thomas was playing. The road stretched out before her like a dark serpent, coiling through the city's underbelly. She drove with the determined precision of a woman on the edge of unraveling a decade-long lie. The dashboard clock's neon glow marked each minute with an eerie insistence, syncing with the palpitations that drummed against her chest. She was close now, so tantalizingly close to the answers that had evaded her for ten torturous years.

Morgan's thoughts were a maelstrom, each one colliding with the next as she grappled with the knowledge of her father's tragic mistake—the death of Mary Price at his hands. An accident that spiraled into an unfathomable cover-up. Thomas's mother. The thought festered in her mind like a wound refusing to heal. It explained the vitriol behind Thomas's eyes—hatred born of grief. Yet, it wasn't just her father who had buried the truth; other men lurked in the shadows of that secret, their identities elusive, their hands just as bloodstained.

She could almost hear her father's voice, feel his presence beside her, urging her to dig deeper, to expose the rot beneath the surface. But would understanding his sins change anything? Would it absolve her of the years stolen from her life? No, but it might offer a semblance of peace—a chance to reclaim the remnants of her fractured existence.

As the industrial skeletons of the warehouse district loomed closer, Morgan's focus narrowed. She parked near the water's edge, the last stop before the precipice of truth. The night air was tangy with the scent of brine and metal. The undulating waves whispered secrets in a sibilant hush, but none as damning as what awaited her within the cold embrace of the warehouse.

Are you walking into another trap, Morgan? she asked herself, her voice barely audible above the lapping water. But the question hung unanswered in the void. With nothing left to lose, fear had become a luxury she couldn't afford. Her hand found the door handle, and with a resolute push, she stepped out into the night. The chill of the breeze embraced her, but it was the chill of anticipation that caused her skin to prickle with goosebumps.

She didn't allow herself the comfort of hesitation, knowing full well that hesitation was a luxury reserved for those who had something to spare. Morgan had been robbed of everything except her resolve. And so she moved towards the looming warehouse, its gaping entrance a maw ready to swallow her whole—or perhaps, to finally spit out the truth.

Morgan's boots echoed off the concrete floor, each step a drumbeat in the cavernous space. Shadows played tricks on her eyes, but she was no stranger to darkness—both literal and metaphorical. Her hand rested on the butt of her gun, a weighty promise against her hip.

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