Page 23 of For Silence

"Can you believe he's our guy?" Derik probed cautiously, leaning against the cool wall. His green eyes searched hers, looking for an answer she wasn't sure she had.

Morgan stopped and turned to him, her tattoos shifting with the movement of her arms. "I don't know, Derik. Something doesn't add up," she replied, her voice a stark whisper in the empty hall. "The evidence... it's thin. All this time, we thought it was a vendetta against the system that took his son. But pulling a gun on himself?"

Derik ran a hand through his slick black hair, a nervous gesture she had come to recognize. "Yeah, I wish we knew what was going through his mind. Maybe we pushed too hard, cornered him into thinking there was no other way out."

"Or maybe he's just that good at playing the victim," Morgan countered, her gut twisting with doubt. This case had burrowed under her skin, reminiscent of her own past, a time when the truth had been so skillfully manipulated against her.

"Oliver's motive, it felt right initially," Derik added, "but now... I can't reconcile the man who wanted to end his pain with the cold-blooded precision of these murders."

"Neither can I." Morgan resumed her pacing, her thoughts chasing each other in circles. "I keep thinking about the toy bear pieces left at the crime scenes. It's personal, symbolic. Does it really track back to Oliver's loss?"

"Everything's muddled. Grief, anger, revenge – they can push anyone over the edge. But is it enough to make you murder three people?" Derik pondered aloud.

"Dammit." Morgan's fist clenched. They were professionals, trained to follow the evidence, yet here they were, doubting their instincts, questioning the path they had taken.

"Hey," Derik's voice broke through the cacophony in her head, gentle yet firm. "You save a life tonight, Morgan. That shot—"

"It wasn't a choice, Derik." Her words cut the air, sharp as the memory of gunfire.

"But it wasn't us because of you. Because of what you did." His affirmation was unwavering, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the comfort of believing it. “And Oliver will live too. He couldn’t hurt himself either.”

"Yeah." The admission came grudgingly from Morgan; she didn’t love having to fire her weapon. Her mind replayed the scene—a blur of movement, the glint of metal, the split second where everything had hung in the balance.

The sterile hush of the hospital corridor was broken by the approaching footsteps of a nurse. She stopped before them, her face etched with the weariness that came with too many hours on a too-long shift.

"Agents?" Her voice was soft, a stark contrast to the chaos that had led them here. "You can see him now."

Morgan nodded in acknowledgment, her body moving on autopilot as she followed the nurse into the room where Oliver Denton lay. The scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils as she entered, and she saw him there—the man whose life had teetered on the edge of her decision.

Oliver's arm was bandaged, stark white against his skin that had turned an unhealthy pallor. Tubes and wires snaked from his body to the monitors that beeped with a rhythm he was lucky to still have. His eyes were closed, the shadows beneath them telling tales of torment and loss.

She studied his face, searching for any clue that might betray the truth of the man who lay before them. Was he the architect of sorrow that had claimed three innocent lives? There was no satisfaction in this tableau, no clear answers—just the complex tapestry of human frailty.

"Been through hell, hasn't he?" Derik murmured from beside her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Looks like he brought some back with him," Morgan replied, her gaze never leaving Oliver. She could see the remnants of anguish that clung to him; it mirrored the darkness she'd seen in too many eyes, including her own at times.

Oliver stirred then, a slight twitch of his fingers drawing their attention. Whether it was the pain or the presence of strangers that roused him, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that seemed to have lost their fire.

For a moment, Morgan felt the weight of the badge on her chest grow heavier. Here was a man who had suffered, who had almost succumbed to despair. And here she stood, the arbiter of his fate, hoping against hope that justice would not be another casualty in an already tragic tale.

Oliver's breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life in the otherwise still figure on the bed. She had seen this vulnerability before, in those who had reached their breaking point, and it never got easier. He looked at them then.

“Hello again,” was all he said.

"Oliver," she began, her voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. "I need to ask you again. Do you know anything about the deaths of Mariana Torres, Elaine Harrows, or Gina Bellwood?"

His eyes met hers, a flicker of something that might have been indignation—or fear—passing through them before he answered. "No," Oliver rasped, each word punctuated by pain. "I would never... I didn't hurt anyone."

She scrutinized him, searching for any telltale signs of deception. But there was something in his voice, a raw honesty that seemed to cut through the clinical sterility of the room.

"Look, I swear it," he continued, his voice gaining strength as he clung to his innocence. "I'll do whatever you need. I'll cooperate."

His gaze held hers, and for a moment, Morgan saw the man behind the bloodshot eyes—a man cornered by circumstances, perhaps, but not a killer.

"You talked about Ben," Morgan pressed on, invoking the memory of his son. "You remember what you were willing to do for him. He wouldn't want this for you, Oliver. You have to keep living."

Oliver's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his bandaged arm a stark reminder of how close he had come to a different choice. "You're right," he admitted with a shaky exhale. "Ben... he was everything. And you're right. I have to live—for him. I am not a murderer, Agent Cross."

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