Page 27 of For Silence

Reggie shook his head, his eyes lost. "No. It wasn't public. Mariana... she had connections. Kept it quiet."

"Connections," Morgan echoed, the word tasting like bile. It was a thread, frayed and thin, but it connected. Someone with access, someone who knew things they shouldn't. Her eyes met Derik's, a silent exchange passing between them.

"Someone who knew about your bail might have had a motive," Derik added, his tone careful. "They targeted Mariana because of what she did for you."

"But I don't..." Reggie trailed off, helpless. "I don't know who would do that. Who could?"

“We’re hoping we can find that out. Thank you, Reggie," Morgan said, standing.

As they left the house, the morning sun did little to warm the chill that had settled in Morgan's bones. The neighborhood was waking up, life going on as if nothing had changed, as if Mariana Torres hadn't been brutally murdered.

"Someone with access to sealed records," Morgan mused aloud, her thoughts a whirlwind of profiles and possibilities. "A cop, a clerk... anyone in the judicial system."

"Or someone hacking into it," Derik suggested. "We need to look at everyone who touched those files."

"Everyone," Morgan agreed, her resolve hardening. The game was afoot, and she was no stranger to hunting monsters. They lurked in the shadows of data and in the light of day, hiding behind smiles and badges. But she would find this one. She had to.

"Let's get to HQ," she said, unlocking the car. "We have work to do."

The engine roared to life, a growl of determination as they pulled away from the curb. Reggie's house faded into the rearview mirror, but the image of Mariana Torres—judge, savior, victim—lingered in Morgan's mind, a specter demanding justice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The morning sun barely filtered through the blinds of the FBI headquarters’ briefing room, casting elongated shadows across the whiteboards littered with crime scene photos. Morgan stood motionless, her gaze locked on the images that painted a grisly narrative. Beside her, Derik hunched over a cluttered desk, sifting through a pile of suspect profiles.

"Loss," Morgan muttered, more to herself than to Derik. "It's about loss."

Derik looked up, his green eyes reflecting the gravity of their situation. "A child," he agreed, connecting the dots. "And they're targeting the justice system."

Mariana Torres's photo held the center spot on the board, her dark eyes conveying a story cut short. The document beside it showed she’d bailed out her brother Reggie after his DUI. The killer had to have seen this, known it.

"Okay, we need to figure out who had access," Morgan stated firmly, her voice cutting through the stillness of the room. She turned to face the team of agents assembled before her, their faces expectant and alert. "Secretaries, custodians, anyone in the courthouse could be our guy," she instructed, pacing slowly before them. "I want every angle covered. If they've touched a file, spoken to a clerk, or just breathed too close to a document, I want to know."

"Remember, they knew about Reggie," Derik added, standing beside Morgan now. His tone was kind, yet carried an undercurrent of urgency. "That info isn't public. Our suspect got it from inside."

Nods rippled through the agents as fingers flew over keyboards, phones were dialed, and leads were chased. The hum of activity filled the room, but Morgan's mind raced ahead, analyzing, predicting, planning steps in a dance with a killer always one beat ahead.

"Time is not our ally," she said, quieter now, her words meant for Derik alone. He met her gaze, understanding passing between them without need for further words.

"Let’s keep pushing," Derik replied, his voice steady despite the fatigue that lined his face—a testament to countless sleepless nights and personal demons fought in silence.

They returned to the task at hand, each clue a potential key, every lead a path to follow. And behind them, the whiteboards watched, silent witnesses to a story unfolding—one of vengeance, justice, and the thin line that separated hunter from hunted.

Morgan’s eyes darted across the room, a predator scanning the terrain for signs of movement. The buzz of agents collaborating formed a backdrop to her laser-focused thoughts. She could feel the weight of the whiteboards behind her, plastered with crime scene photos that seemed to taunt her with their silent screams for justice.

"Agent Cross," came a voice, slicing through the hum of activity. Morgan turned to see Agent Sanders approaching, a file clasped in her hands like a lifeline. Young, eager, with determination etched into her features, Sanders stopped at Morgan’s desk, her posture stiff with the formality of delivering potentially vital information.

"Got something?" Morgan’s question was sharp, cutting to the chase as always.

Sanders nodded, placing the file before Morgan. "Theodore Nash," she said. "Custodian at the courthouse. Forty-five, divorced, and—this might be important—he recently lost a custody battle for his eight-year-old child."

Morgan’s fingers flipped open the file, her gaze quickly absorbing the details of Theodore Nash’s life splashed across the pages. Divorced. Custodian. A recent tear in the fabric of his family life. It wasn't the thread of a child’s death they had been following, but the loss was palpable, and loss could breed the kind of fury they were hunting.

"Interesting," Morgan murmured, her brain already churning over the implications. She lifted her head to lock eyes with Sanders. "How recent?"

"Last month," Sanders replied, her voice steady despite the charged atmosphere.

Morgan leaned back in her chair, the creak of leather barely audible over the din. A loss of custody was a different kind of bereavement, but it could carve out just as deep a hunger for retribution. Her mind raced with the possibilities, weaving this new thread into the pattern of psychopathy they were up against.

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