Page 21 of For Silence

"Nothing," Morgan muttered. "No recent cases with car accidents except for Denton's own loss." Her voice was weighed down by frustration, the sense of urgency pressing like a vice. They were missing something, a crucial piece that would make everything click into place.

"Looks like we're grasping at straws here," Derik said, pushing off the wall.

"Either way," she said finally, standing up and gathering the papers, "we can't ignore this. We've got to confront Denton."

"Tonight?" Derik raised an eyebrow, but he was already reaching for his coat, knowing full well that waiting wasn't in Morgan's playbook.

"Every second counts," she replied curtly, her tone leaving no room for debate. The shadows under her eyes spoke volumes of the sleepless nights that had become her norm, but her determination was unwavering.

They moved swiftly through the deserted corridors of the FBI headquarters, their footsteps echoing in the silence. The night air was crisp as they stepped outside, a half-moon casting pale light over the parking lot. Morgan felt the familiar grip of her weapon at her side, a cold comfort that had seen her through too many dark hours.

"Let's go," she said, her voice low, as they climbed into the unmarked sedan.

***

The night air was crisp, the kind that bites at the cheeks and reminds you of your own fragility. Morgan stepped out of the black sedan, the quiet suburban street feeling like a world away from the chaos of the city. She paused, taking in the scene before her—the faint outlines of sidewalk chalk drawings haloed by the soft glow of a streetlamp, a tricycle abandoned by the garage door. Childhood innocence juxtaposed with the darkness they were about to delve into.

"Let's not forget he could be innocent," Derik whispered beside her, his voice carrying the weight of their responsibility.

Morgan merely nodded, her jaw set. This was part of the job, confronting the shattered lives behind the cold veneer of crime scenes. They approached the front door, where the shadows seemed to cling a little tighter, as if reluctant to reveal what lay behind them.

With a practiced motion, Morgan rapped sharply on the wood, the sound cutting through the silence like a verdict. Moments later, it creaked open, revealing a man with eyes red-rimmed from sorrow or sleeplessness—or both. He wore a housecoat that hung loosely around him, a stark contrast to the agents' rigid professionalism.

"Mr. Denton? I'm Agent Cross, and this is Agent Greene, FBI." She flashed her badge, the silver catching the light and casting an angular glare across Oliver Denton's hollowed features.

"Agents? At this hour?" His voice was rough, edged with confusion and a trace of fear.

"May we come in?" Morgan asked, though it was less a question and more of a necessity. Oliver stepped aside, granting them entry into the remnants of his life.

As they entered, the scent of stale coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the ghost of laughter and happier times. Photographs dotted the walls, each frame capturing moments frozen in joy—Oliver with a young boy, smiling wide, innocence and love captured in pixels and ink. The boy Morgan knew would never grow older, forever enshrined in these memories.

"Sorry for the mess," Oliver muttered, gesturing vaguely toward a living room cluttered with the detritus of grief. A toy train lay derailed on the carpet, its cargo of memories spilled out for all to see.

Morgan felt a pang of regret twist in her gut, the kind that comes when duty collides with empathy. Here stood a man broken by loss, and now she had to push a little harder, pry into wounds that were far from healed.

"Mr. Denton, we need to ask you some questions about Judge Mariana Torres," she began, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions brewing behind her stern facade.

"Torres?" Oliver's brow furrowed, and for a moment, Morgan saw a flicker of something raw pass over his face—a spasm of pain, of anger, or perhaps guilt.

"Can we sit?" Derik interjected, his tone gentle, offering a semblance of normalcy in the midst of the chaos that was surely churning inside Oliver Denton's mind. The grieving father nodded.

Morgan sat, her posture rigid, eyes fixed on Oliver Denton as he processed the news. The worn fabric of the couch seemed to swallow them, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the FBI headquarters, where they'd spent countless hours pouring over evidence. Shadows danced across Oliver's face, cast by the single lamp that stood sentry in the corner.

"Judge Torres is dead," Morgan stated flatly, watching for any telltale sign, a flinch or flicker in those red-rimmed eyes – anything.

"Dead?" Oliver echoed, his voice hollow. "What does that have to do with me?"

"We believe she was murdered," Derik chimed in, his tone measured but firm. "Just like the other defense attorneys in town. You've heard about them?"

Oliver nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward a photograph of a young boy with bright, hopeful eyes – a painful reminder of what had been taken from him. "I've heard," he murmured.

Morgan leaned forward, her fingers lacing together as she wrestled with the delicate balance of her duty and the empathy that gnawed at her. "Mr. Denton," she began, her voice a blade slicing through the tension, "we need to know if you hold any resentment towards Judge Torres for the ruling on your case."

"Resentment?" A bitter laugh escaped Oliver's lips, the sound more akin to a sob than any expression of mirth. "She let them get away with it. My Ben... they killed him with their incompetence."

"Did you have anything to do with her death?" Morgan’s question cut through the air, sharp and direct.

Oliver's reaction was a mixture of resignation and derision. He stood abruptly, a weary titan amid the wreckage of his life. As he approached the dresser, his back to the agents, he spoke with a voice laden with sorrow.

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