Page 25 of For Silence

The stillness of the room was a stark contrast to the storm raging in his mind—a tempest set to break at the dawn of a new day. He slept soundly, the bear nestled close, as the shadows whispered promises of the vengeance yet to come.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Morgan's feet hammered the damp earth, each breath tearing at her throat as she raced through the dense forest. The trees blurred into a tangle of shadows under the moon's half-hearted glow. Ahead, the outline of her father's cabin emerged, a dark silhouette against the night. This was the place she had unearthed so many buried truths, where secrets whispered through the timber walls.

She burst into the clearing and there he stood—John Christopher, her father, his weathered hand trembling on the grip of a revolver. His aim fixed on a figure before him: a woman, visibly pregnant, her eyes wide with terror. Morgan's heart clenched; every instinct screamed to intervene. "Dad, stop!" Her voice shredded the silence, but it was like screaming into a void.

The gun roared, a final verdict. The woman crumpled, a life extinguished, a future stolen. Morgan felt the scream rip from her, a sound of anguish and betrayal, but no one heard—the woods swallowed her plea.

Suddenly, the pines vanished, replaced by four cold walls steeped in darkness. Morgan sat, wrists chafing against the restraints that bound her to the chair. A solitary bulb swung overhead, casting an oscillating light over her interrogator—a man obscured in shadow, his presence heavy with accusation.

"Murderer," the voice rasped, a label she'd fought to shed for a decade. The word echoed off the concrete, a ghostly jury delivering its sentence over and over.

"Prove it," Morgan spat, her voice laced with venom. She glared into the darkness, challenging the faceless entity to reveal itself. The chair scraped against the floor as the man leaned forward, the bulb swinging erratically now.

Light sliced across the man's features, etching out the lines of time and malice. Richard Cordell stepped into clarity—a visage from a past Morgan wished could remain buried. His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, one that held no warmth, only a chilling satisfaction.

"Agent Cross," he began, his tone mocking the title she once held. "Or should I say, inmate Cross?"

"Go to hell, Cordell," she shot back, her words sharp as daggers. He had orchestrated her downfall once, but she would not cower before the puppeteer of her misfortunes.

Cordell moved closer, the light now steady upon his aged face. "You're already there, Morgan. And this time, there's no escape."

Her pulse thundered in her ears, a crescendo of rage and fear. This was the man who had framed her, the architect of her darkest days. And here he was, weaving another web of lies to ensnare her. But the truth remained her weapon, her unwavering ally amidst the deceit.

"Wrong again, old man," Morgan growled, defiance flaring within her. "I've been to hell and back. And I'll tear down your legacy brick by brick if I have to."

Cordell's smile wavered, the first crack in his façade. Morgan saw it, the glimpse of uncertainty. She leaned into it, pressing her advantage. "Your empire is crumbling, and I'll be the one to watch it fall."

Morgan jolted awake, gasping for air as if she had been drowning. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a relentless drumbeat echoing the terror that clung to her skin like cold sweat. Derik shifted beside her, his voice heavy with concern.

"Hey," he murmured, his hand finding her shoulder in the dim light of predawn. "You were tossing and turning like you were fighting off demons."

She blinked rapidly, chasing away the remnants of her nightmare, the image of her father and the pregnant woman dissolving into the shadows of her room. "Just a dream," she rasped, her throat tight with unshed emotions.

"Another one about your dad?" Derik probed gently, green eyes searching hers for the truth she habitually concealed.

"Doesn't matter." Morgan swung her legs over the edge of the bed, distancing herself from the comfort he offered. She could still feel Richard Cordell's accusing gaze, the phantom weight of it bearing down on her even in wakefulness.

"Are you sure?" His voice was soft, tinged with the kind of patience that only someone who had known the jagged edges of pain could offer.

"Positive." She stood, her body moving on autopilot as she straightened her spine and forced herself to focus on the present. There was no time for the luxury of unraveling dreams when reality held far more pressing horrors.

Her eyes flicked to the digital numbers on the bedside clock—six a.m.—bold and unforgiving. Time didn't pause for personal demons or restless nights. With a deep breath, she collected the scattered pieces of herself, the agent overtaking the haunted daughter.

"Time to get up and keep working anyway," she declared, her voice steady now, the tremor banished. It was a mantra, a lifeline that had pulled her through ten years of hell and back.

Derik watched her, the lines of his face etched with quiet understanding. He knew better than to push; they both carried their scars, after all. But his presence, solid and reassuring, reminded her that she wasn't alone—not anymore.

"Right behind you," he said, matching her resolve as he rose from the bed. They were partners, in more ways than one, bound by a shared determination to untangle the web of death that had ensnared them.

As they readied themselves for the day, the silence between them was comfortable, a mutual respect hanging in the air. Morgan’s fingers drummed against the bathroom countertop, a staccato rhythm that matched her racing thoughts. She caught her reflection in the mirror—a visage of determination etched into features that bore the weight of unresolved mysteries. The dream had been vivid, disturbingly so, but she pushed it down, locking it away where it couldn’t distract her.

"Hey," Derik's voice floated through the crack of the partially opened door, tinged with concern. "That dream seemed to rattle you pretty bad. Want to talk about it?"

She met his gaze in the mirror, her dark eyes resolute. "No," Morgan replied curtly, turning off the faucet. "It's nothing. Just echoes of the past."

"Alright," he conceded, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer before retreating.

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