Page 12 of For Silence

"Thank you, Debby," Derik said, his thoughts already on Morgan’s safety. As he stepped back into the sunlight, the pieces of the puzzle began to click together—but the image they formed was dark and unsettling. He needed to find Morgan, and fast.

***

Morgan strode into the lobby of the historical building downtown, its walls echoing with hushed whispers of high-profile cases and confidential conversations. She approached the reception desk, where a polite girl with the nametag Sandra glanced up, her smile practiced and unflinching.

"Daniel Keen," Morgan said, her voice clipped and authoritative. "Where can I find him?"

"Mr. Keen?" Sandra's brow furrowed slightly as she checked her computer. "I'm sorry, he isn't here today."

Before Morgan could press further, the click of leather soles on marble cut through the air. A tall man emerged from the corridor, his presence commanding attention like a conductor before an orchestra. His voice, rich and resonant, filled the space.

"Daniel Keen won’t be coming back at all."

He extended his hand, which Morgan shook firmly, noting the callouses that spoke of someone not afraid to get their hands dirty.

"Roger Oswald," he introduced himself, "the owner of this firm."

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," Morgan replied, her gaze steady. "Daniel Keen. I need to speak with him."

Roger crossed his arms over his fitted suit. "Keen has been...less than cooperative lately. His performance here has suffered—divorce proceedings can unravel even the best of us," he offered, though the statement felt hollow, an afterthought meant for anyone but the seasoned agent before him.

"Problematic how?" Morgan prodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as she registered the calculated neutrality in Roger's tone.

"Let's just say he hasn't been his usual, composed self." Roger's eyes flickered, a telltale sign that he treaded on delicate ground. "Look, Agent Cross, his personal life is not our concern unless it affects this firm's reputation."

Morgan's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Every detail mattered—personal or otherwise. "And where might I find him now?"

"Earlier today, I had to kick him out. He was...disruptive." Roger's lips twisted at the memory, the distaste momentarily breaking through his practiced facade. "If I were to hazard a guess, he's at The Rusted Inn's bar. It's become somewhat of a refuge for him."

"Thank you." Morgan's response was curt, her mind already racing ahead. She turned swiftly and strode toward the exit, the click of her boots resuming their rhythmic report.

Outside, the city hummed with the buzz of mid-morning activity. Morgan navigated through the throng of pedestrians, her path clear and unerring. The Rusted Inn loomed ahead, its vintage sign a beacon amidst the modernity surrounding it. Daniel Keen's choice of sanctuary seemed an apt metaphor—a once shiny coin now tarnished by time and circumstance.

She reached the threshold of the bar, the muted clinks and murmurs from within leaking onto the street like wisps of tobacco smoke. Through the smudged pane of glass by the entrance, Morgan spotted him—a hunched figure nursing a drink, the lines of his suit hanging off him like a shroud, his posture defeated. It was the unmistakable slump of Daniel Keen, the man who had lost too much and perhaps taken even more.

Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the disheveled prosecutor, when her phone vibrated against her hip. Morgan stepped aside, into the shade of an alcove, and answered, "Cross."

"Cross, I’ve got news," Derik's voice came through, carrying an undercurrent of concern that stirred something within her. "The wife, Debby, says he's been violent with her. He's unstable, Morgan."

The words etched themselves into the back of her mind, painting Keen in a more dangerous light. "Understood," she replied, her voice low but firm. "I have eyes on him, Derik. I'm going in."

"Back-up is on the way, just—"

But Morgan had already ended the call; there was no time for hesitation. She knew the stakes. Two women dead, their lives snuffed out callously, brutally. If Keen was their connection, if he was the one who held the answers, then Morgan had to know. She owed it to the victims to brave whatever darkness lay ahead.

Tucking her phone away, Morgan steeled herself against the surge of adrenaline that threatened to quicken her pulse. Without another moment of hesitation, she went inside the bar.

Morgan's shadow fell across the gleaming bar top as she advanced toward Daniel Keen. His reflection in the mirror was marred by bottles of liquor, a man fragmented by his vices. She cleared her throat, asserting her presence.

"Daniel Keen?" Her voice was the crack of a whip in the silence.

He swiveled sluggishly on his stool, his gaze clouded with alcohol but sharp with resentment. "What do you want?"

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI." The badge flashed briefly before she slipped it back into her coat. "I need you to come with me to answer some questions."

"Questions?" Keen sneered, his words slurring. "You gonna ask about my bitch wife? Is that why you're here?"

"Let's keep this civil, Mr. Keen," Morgan cautioned, her tone even but firm. She could see the vitriol churning beneath his demeanor, the embittered fury of a man watching his world unravel thread by thread.

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