Page 17 of For Silence

"Thanks, Derik," Morgan replied, the burden lightening ever so slightly at his words. She watched him go, the set of his shoulders telling her he felt the weight of their mission just as heavily.

Alone now, Morgan allowed herself a moment to breathe, her gaze resting on the empty chair where Mueller had been. Gratitude mingled with a relentless drive; she had linked the cases, a victory in its own right. Yet the taste of success was bitter, laced with the knowledge that somewhere out there, a killer prowled the streets of Dallas.

Her dark eyes flickered to the board where the names of Gina and Elaine stood out starkly against the white. It was for them she fought, for justice that seemed elusive in the creeping darkness of the city. The game was afoot, and Morgan was no stranger to the hunt.

"Time to get to work," she murmured to the silence, rolling her sleeves up past the ink that adorned her arms—the marks of her past, her pain, and her unwavering resolve. This was no win, not yet. But it was a start, and Morgan would follow it to the end, wherever it led, whatever the cost.

First thing was first—she needed to build a psychological profile based on what they knew. They knew he was targeting women in law. He knew they were defense lawyers, and he was killing them the same as some of her clients had been accused of. There was clearly some sort of justice—or revenge—there, but not connected to the actual cases themselves.

And the teddy bear fibers… what could they mean?

Had the killer lost a child, perhaps?

And how did that play into the victims he chose?

As the questions swirled, Morgan forced herself to slow down, drawing on every psychological profiling technique she'd honed over years of experience. These were more than crimes; they were statements, a chilling narrative woven through each victim's fate.

Gina Bellwood. Elaine Harrows. Both career women, young, successful.

Why had the killer chosen them?

And more importantly, who would he choose next?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The evening air in downtown Dallas hummed with the life of a city that never truly sleeps. He stood, just another shadow among the many, up the street from the courthouse. The building's steps were still busy, even as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, angular shadows across the pavement. His posture was casual, relaxed against the cool brick wall, with his phone out like countless others who passed by without giving him a second glance.

His eyes, sharp and calculating beneath the brim of his nondescript cap, watched the stream of people ebbing from the courthouse. Lawyers, he thought with a sneer, sycophants to a flawed system. They clung to their briefcases like lifelines, laughing and chatting about cases and cocktails, oblivious to the predator in their midst.

A buzz from his device broke his silent vigil. The screen lit up with a news application notification—something he'd been anticipating with a morbid sense of satisfaction. A video began to load, buffering for a mere second before revealing a man in a suit. FBI Agent Derik Greene, looking weary yet determined as he addressed the camera.

"Good evening," Greene started, his voice steady. "We are notifying the public about a serious threat. There is a serial killer targeting individuals within our city..."

He listened, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as Greene continued. The agent's green eyes flickered with a hint of fear, perhaps, or determination—it mattered little to him. They didn't understand, none of them did. Justice wasn't something that could be neatly packaged into courtroom proceedings and jury deliberations. It was raw, it was primal, and it demanded sacrifice.

"Everyone in the legal profession, especially women, should take extra caution," Agent Greene's stern voice echoed from the phone, his image blurring as he moved. "There's a predator targeting defense lawyers. I urge you not to walk alone at night."

The man leaned closer, absorbing every syllable with mocking attentiveness. The agent's eyes, sincere and urgent, scanned unseen faces through the camera—the futile plea of a shepherd unable to grasp the wolf amidst his flock.

"Stay vigilant, and report any suspicious activity," Greene concluded, the press hanging on his every word.

As the screen faded to black, the man turned off his phone with a deliberate motion. He clacked his tongue against his teeth—a sound of disdain for the FBI's narrow vision. His thumb hovered over the power button, relishing the momentary silence as if it were a prelude to the symphony of chaos he orchestrated.

He knew better. He understood that the rot ran deeper than the agents dared to admit. It was not merely the defense lawyers who shrouded the guilty with their lies; it was the entire justice system, bloated and blind, that deserved his purgation.

As he lifted his gaze, the courthouse doors swung open, casting a sharp rectangle of light onto the darkening street. Emerging from within its marbled jaws was Mariana Torres. Her confident stride, the precise cut of her pantsuit, and the sway of her dark hair spoke of a woman who believed herself untouchable—above the fray of common fears that plagued lesser mortals.

To him, she was arrogance personified, a beacon of the systemic hubris he loathed. They thought they could control fate with their gavels and legalese, but tonight, he would be the arbiter of destiny. Tonight, Mariana Torres would learn that her newly acquired robes of judgment offered no protection from the true scales of justice.

He pocketed his phone and straightened, blending seamlessly into the evening crowd. His steps were measured, purposeful, as he tailed the judge from a safe distance, undetected. The city around him swirled with life, ignorant of the predator in their midst, but he was patient.

After all, justice never hurried, and neither did he.

The FBI had it all wrong.

Mariana Torres had been freshly appointed to judge. She was no defense lawyer, just another part of the broken, corrupt system that he was correcting.

The echo of her heels against the concrete was more of a magnet than a deterrent. His pace quickened, yet he remained a ghost, his steps silenced by the bustling city soundscape. A rigid smile crept onto his face as he began to close the gap, his target oblivious to the danger.

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