Page 30 of For Silence

"Tragedies," Nash answered vaguely, his attention drifting back to his boat, as though he could will away their presence.

"Let's not play games, Mr. Nash," Morgan insisted, her patience waning like the morning tide. "You work at the courthouse. Your path crossed with theirs."

Nash's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So? That doesn't mean anything. I'm a janitor, for Christ's sake."

"Which gives you access," Morgan argued, her gaze unrelenting. "You hear things, see things... and you have a history, don't you?"

His blue eyes ignited with a spark of anger. "What are you implying?"

"Your custody battle," she continued, unfazed by his rising temper. "It didn't go well, did it? Those women—"

"Enough!" Nash snapped, the word cutting through the air like a sail catching a gust of wind. "That has nothing to do with anything. My personal life is none of your goddamn business!"

"Except when your personal grievances turn into a pattern that ends in death," Morgan retorted, each word deliberate, probing for the cracks in his facade.

"Is that what this is?" Nash scoffed, but the scorn sounded hollow. "You think because some judge screwed me over, I'm out for blood?"

"Are you?" Morgan asked, her voice steady, her mind racing with the implications of Nash's reactions—each one a piece of the puzzle clicking into place. She watched him, ready for the slightest slip, the smallest confession.

Nash's face contorted with rage, his composure fracturing. "The system is broken! It takes from men like me and—"

"Does it take enough to kill for?" Morgan cut in, her question like a knife poised at the thread of his self-control.

"Get out of here," Nash growled, his body rigid with fury. "Get off my dock and leave me the hell alone."

Morgan's gaze locked onto Nash, noting the twitch in his jaw, the slightest tremor of his hands. "Your daughter," she began, voice even, a scalpel slicing through the tension, "did she have a favorite toy? A teddy bear or stuffed animal she was particularly attached to?"

Nash's gaunt face reddened, veins bulging like cords on his neck. "Of course she did!" he spat, his voice laced with incredulity and anger. "She had plenty of toys. What sick game are you playing? What does that have to do with women being murdered?"

"Details matter, Mr. Nash," Morgan replied, unflinching. She watched as the question clawed at his composure, revealing raw edges beneath.

"Are you implying I took some damn toy and— No!" Nash's denial boomed over the water, an echo of desperation. "You're out of your mind!"

Morgan observed him closely, each reaction a note in the growing symphony of his guilt. His defensiveness, the way rage clouded his judgment—it all told a story. And she intended to read every page.

"Is my daughter hurt?" Nash's tone shifted from fury to fear, a rapid pivot that caught Morgan's attention. "Is that why you're here?"

"No, Mr. Nash," Derik interjected, his voice steady. "Your daughter is not the one who's hurt."

"Then why are you here?" Nash demanded, his hands clenched into fists. Confusion danced across his features—a mask slipping off to reveal the panic-stricken man underneath.

"Because there's a pattern," Morgan said, her eyes never leaving his. "And you fit it."

"Pattern?" Nash's voice cracked. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is insane!"

Derik stepped forward, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "Mr. Nash," Derik said. "I understand this is confusing, but let's just talk this through, okay?"

Nash's chest heaved, and his eyes, sharp as shards of ice, darted from Derik to Morgan. It was clear that words were ricocheting off him, unable to penetrate the shield of panic and anger he had thrown up. Morgan's muscles tensed, readying for what was to come. She knew the look of a man cornered by his own guilt—she'd seen it too many times before.

"You have no right!" Nash spat out, his voice cracking under the strain. He took an aggressive step toward Derik, his posture rigid with defiance.

"Take it easy, Theodore," Derik continued, the kindness in his tone stark against the harsh backdrop of suspicion. "We're not accusing you of anything. We just need some information."

But Nash wasn't listening. With a grunt of frustration, he lunged, shoving Derik hard in the chest. Derik stumbled backward, catching himself before he could fall. Morgan's heart raced, her training kicking in. This was the moment—the line crossed.

"Assaulting a federal agent, Nash?" Morgan's voice sliced through the tension. "Bad move."

In one swift motion, she reached for her handcuffs, the metal glinting in the sunlight. Derik regained his footing, his kind eyes now steel traps, the previous warmth extinguished.

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