Page 3 of For Silence

Morgan processed his words with caution. Thomas had betrayed her once; his sudden turn of heart could easily be another ruse. But the enemy of her enemy could also be her key to unlocking a decade of lies.

"Rogue," she echoed, her mind racing.

He stepped closer, and Morgan instinctively tensed, but he halted, maintaining a respectful distance. His gaze softened, and something akin to warmth flickered there—a stark contrast to the cold steel of the warehouse.

"I want you to know," he said quietly, "I really would have loved to take you on a real date."

The confession struck Morgan like an unexpected blow, vile and out of place. Disgust churned within her, a storm cloud threatening to burst. She bit back a scathing retort, knowing that any emotional slip could give him the upper hand.

"Is that supposed to make me trust you?" she asked, coolly masking her revulsion.

Thomas's expression faltered, the sincerity in his eyes now tinged with regret—or perhaps another layer of his deceit. "No," he said softly. "But it’s the truth."

Morgan held his gaze, searching for any sign of duplicity. It was possible that even in his twisted way, Thomas had felt something genuine. But now was not the time for vulnerable hearts; it was the time for hard truths.

"Your truth doesn't change our situation," she stated flatly.

"Perhaps not," Thomas conceded, "but it's all I have to offer."

Morgan's resolve hardened like the concrete beneath her feet. She had been betrayed by those closest to her before, and she wouldn't allow history to repeat itself. Not with so much at stake.

"Save your affections, Grady," she said with icy detachment. "I'm here for answers, not romance. What's our next move?”

Thomas contemplated her question with an intensity that seemed to draw the darkness closer around him. "We'll have to play this strategically," he murmured. "Cordell... he's not just a name you can strike off a list. He's a fortress."

Morgan's gaze narrowed, her mind racing. She knew all about fortresses—she'd been locked within the stone-cold walls of one for ten years, after all. "And?"

He stepped forward, his figure momentarily illuminated by the faint glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through a grimy window. "For now, dig into Cordell. Find out everything. We reconvene when you do. Planning takes precision." His voice, though low, carried the weight of urgency.

"Precision," Morgan echoed, a bitter edge to the word. Precision had been her life’s mantra—the kind that had kept her alive in prison, that had fine-tuned her instincts to razor-sharp acuity. Yet now, it felt like a cruel joke when pitted against the nebulous specter of conspiracy.

"Taking down someone like Cordell..." Thomas trailed off, as if the gravity of their undertaking suddenly loomed over him. "It won't be easy. It’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done."

Morgan's lips pressed into a thin line. The hardest thing? No, nothing could compare to the cold steel of handcuffs and the slam of a cell door, marking the end of her freedom and the beginning of her nightmare. She’d spent ten years in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, framed by the very institution she’d dedicated her life to. She’d gone behind bars at thirty, emerged at forty, having lost ten crucial years of her life.

Nothing could be harder than that.

She could handle anything now.

"Understood," she said tersely. "Anything else, or can I get started on unraveling this mess?"

"That's all I have—for now." There was a hint of something unspoken lingering in his tone, a note of finality that told her the conversation was over. “I’ll be doing my part to find out more information, but you need to do yours too. I’m not in your branch anymore. But you can find out who else in your department might be working with Cordell.”

With a fluid motion that betrayed no hesitation, Thomas turned and strode toward the engulfing blackness at the back of the warehouse. Morgan watched him go, each step he took echoing like a countdown. Then, with the softest whisper of fabric against concrete, he vanished from sight, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She stood still for a long moment, her hand hovering near her holstered gun, the familiar weight of it both a comfort and a reminder of the line she could never cross again. In the solitude of the warehouse, surrounded by the ghosts of conversations past and the weight of revelations yet to come, Morgan allowed herself a moment to gripe, to feel the full force of frustration and anger at the decade stolen from her.

But moments were all she could spare. With a deep breath, she steeled herself, her resolve crystallizing into focus.

Richard Cordell was now more than a name—he was a target.

The Dallas skyline loomed in the rear-view mirror, a jagged silhouette against the night sky. Morgan gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The meeting with Thomas had left her with a cocktail of emotions—anger, betrayal, and a glimmer of hope. Richard Cordell's name echoed in her mind like a siren's wail. Trusting Thomas felt like playing Russian roulette with a semi-automatic, yet he dangled the key to her vindication just out of reach.

A flash of blue and red lights snapped her from her reverie. A cavalcade of police cars tore past her, sirens blaring. Their urgency was a magnet, pulling at instincts honed over years of FBI service. She followed, her dark sedan a silent shadow amidst the chaos.

They headed toward a suburb not unlike her own—a place where lawns were manicured and secrets grew behind closed doors. Morgan's instincts sharpened as she tailed the flashing lights. The road blurred past, her mind sifting through possible scenarios. She wasn't on duty, but the FBI agent within couldn't ignore the pulse of urgency—the call of the chase that set her nerves alight.

Turning a corner, the stark scene unfolded before her. A female body lay sprawled on the sidewalk, illuminated by the harsh glow of streetlights. Morgan's gaze locked onto the rope circling the woman's neck, a cruel imitation of a necklace. Her throat tightened; this was more than a mere tragedy—it was a message.

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