Page 22 of For Silence

"Every day is a struggle without him," he said, his words painting the portrait of a man adrift in a sea of grief. "You think this is about revenge? It's about justice. About making them understand what they took from us…”

His hand moved to the top drawer, withdrawing something metallic and ominous—a handgun.

CHAPTER TEN

The metallic glint of the gun in Oliver's trembling hand was all the confirmation Morgan needed. Instincts honed by years of danger propelled her upward, the chair skidding back with a screech against the wooden floor. Beside her, Derik mirrored the action, his firearm drawn as swiftly as hers. Their training had merged them into a single force of authority.

"Oliver, don't," Morgan commanded, her voice a sharp blade cutting through the thick tension. Her dark eyes locked onto the man who seemed to be teetering on the edge of an abyss.

But Oliver's gaze was inward, fixated on something beyond their reach. "You can't understand," he whispered, the muzzle of the gun cold against his temple. "There's nothing left for me here."

"Please, put down the gun," Morgan implored, her plea wrapped in the authoritative tone of Agent Cross but softened by the empathetic undertones of someone who knew loss. She could almost feel the weight of the weapon in Oliver's hands, heavy with his desolation.

"We do understand, Oliver," Derik added, his voice gentle yet firm. "But this is not the way."

A bitter laugh escaped Oliver's lips as he closed his eyes, shutting out the world. His finger began to tighten on the trigger, and Morgan's heart lurched.

"Oliver!" It was more than a shout; it was a raw, desperate cry as Morgan made a split-second decision. Her finger squeezed the trigger of her own weapon, the report deafening in the stillness of the living room.

Time seemed to fracture, the moment stretching like taffy as the bullet found its mark. Oliver's arm jerked, the gun slipping from his grasp and clattering to the hardwood floor. A sharp cry pierced the air, and Morgan's chest tightened at the sight of blood blossoming across the fabric of his housecoat.

Morgan's breath hitched, her ears still ringing from the gunshot. She barely registered Derik's swift movement as he lunged toward Oliver, his large hands deftly stripping the gun away and sending it skidding across the floor. The metallic clang of it hitting the wall was a punctuation in the chaos.

"Oliver Denton, you're under arrest," Derik declared, his voice steady despite the tremor that Morgan knew was coursing through both their veins. He secured Oliver's uninjured arm behind his back with practiced ease, even as blood seeped through the fabric of his housecoat, dark and accusing.

She watched, her own weapon now feeling like a lead weight in her holster. This wasn't how she envisioned it—she was trained to save lives, not teeter on the edge of taking them. Shooting to disarm was textbook, but reality was a jagged edge that cut deep into her resolve.

"Call it in," Morgan managed to say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. But Derik was already ahead of her, his words a rapid-fire stream into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

"You'll get medical attention soon, Oliver. Hang in there," he said, the kindness in his tone at odds with the iron grip he kept on the suspect.

Morgan knelt beside the broken man, her hands hovering, unsure whether to offer comfort or restraint. He looked up at her, his eyes swimming pools of despair. "Why?" he whispered. The single word hung heavy between them, freighted with the weight of loss and rage. “Why not just let me die?”

"Because we need answers," she replied, her voice firm yet not unkind. "And because your son wouldn't want this for you."

Oliver's breaths came in shuddering gasps, his gaze flickering to the pictures of his child that adorned the walls. For a moment, there was silence, save for the sound of his pain.

"Did you do it, Oliver?" Morgan asked, unable to mask the urgency in her voice. "Did you kill them because of what happened to Ben?"

The question lingered, a specter in the dimly lit room. Oliver's laughter was hollow, void of humor. "Does it matter?" he rasped, his voice laced with bitterness. "They took everything from me. My boy... my life..."

Derik met Morgan's eye, his own green orbs a tumult of emotion. They both knew the gravity of the situation; a confession loomed close, yet Oliver's words were a riddle wrapped in grief.

"Your life isn't over," Morgan countered, though doubt gnawed at her. Was his attempt at ending his life an admission of guilt, or simply the act of a shattered soul?

"Isn't it?" Oliver challenged, his voice growing weaker as the room filled with the sounds of approaching sirens.

Morgan felt a chill run down her spine. Tonight had brought them face-to-face with death, its shadow lingering in the corners of the room. And as they waited for the paramedics to arrive, the uncertainty was a living thing, whispering questions that begged for answers.

Was Oliver Denton their killer, or just another victim in a string of tragedies? As the line between justice and vengeance blurred, Morgan knew one thing for certain—the truth was still out there, waiting to be uncovered. And until it was, none of them could rest.

***

Morgan's boots clicked in a staccato rhythm against the sterile hospital floor. It was a sound that matched the hammering of her heart, relentless and unyielding. The pallid corridor stretched out before her like a runway to uncertainty, fluorescent lights flickering overhead casting long shadows that danced with each turn of her dark-clad form.

"Hey, Morgan," Derik called softly, his voice laced with exhaustion. "You should sit down for a minute."

She shook her head, her dark hair swaying about her shoulders. Pacing was the only thing keeping the adrenaline at bay, the only thing stopping her from crashing. She had shot a man today - Oliver Denton, a desperate father whose life seemed to crumble piece by piece. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than just grief gone wild.

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