Page 4 of For Silence

Without hesitation, Morgan parked her car. The engine's hum faded into the night's chorus of distant sirens and murmured commands. She approached the barrier of uniformed officers, the air thick with the scent of asphalt and unease.

Morgan's eyes met the man in charge—a stocky figure whose posture commanded the scene. She strode forward, her boots steady on the pavement.

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," she announced, voice firm, badge held out to catch the flashing lights.

"Officer Smith," he replied curtly, scanning her credentials. "This is a local matter."

"Understood," Morgan nodded. "Just passing through. Noticed the commotion."

Smith's stance softened slightly. He glanced back at the grim display—a lifeless form sprawled on the sidewalk, the cruel arc of a rope around her neck.

"Victim's name's still unknown. No ID on her." Officer Smith's tone carried the weight of routine sorrow. "Doesn't look like suicide. Strangulation marks suggest murder."

"Murder..." The word hung between them, a thread of shared understanding in the grim tapestry of their professions.

"Any leads?" Morgan asked, her gaze flicking back to the body. The scene bore a familiar chill, echoing her past. It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and lingered long after you left.

Smith shook his head. "Nothing so far. Seems she was dumped here, or possibly killed right here. Nobody saw anything."

Morgan nodded, a strange unease prickling the back of her neck. Striding past Smith, she approached the victim's body as an officer lifted a photography lamp. The harsh light revealed the woman's face under the twisted play of shadows.

“Agent Cross,” Smith interrupted, “I can tell you’re eager to help, but we can handle it from here. Please, I can’t have anyone tampering with our crime scene.”

"I'm not here to tamper, Officer Smith," Morgan replied, keeping her gaze steady on the body. "Just paying my respects."

Smith followed her gaze, his eyes lingering on the victim. He gave a slight nod, understanding but hesitant. He didn't completely trust her, and she couldn't blame him. After all, they were products of the same system—a system that had left her framed for murder.

"Alright," he finally said. "Be respectful."

Morgan's boots crunched against gravel as she walked towards the corpse, an ominous figure in the harsh lighting. As she moved into the floodlights' glow, the typically invisible tattoos inked across her arms emerged—a testament to her hardened past. Her heart ached at the sight before her—an echo of a life cut short, just like Mary Price.

Kneeling beside the body, she examined the woman's face. Her eyes were still open—wide with fear and shock. Who had she been? Why use a noose as a murder weapon in the middle of a public street? So many questions swam through Morgan’s mind, but she knew this wasn’t her place. She stood up and faced Officer Smith.

“I’m sure you can take it from here,” she said. “Thank you, Officer Smith.”

“If we need the Bureau's resources, you'll be the first to know."

She could hear the unspoken dismissal in his voice, the subtle hint to back off. Morgan recognized when doors were being closed in her face. This was one such time. Despite the itch in her mind, she knew pushing further would only tighten Smith's resolve to keep her at bay.

"Alright," she conceded, masking her frustration. The night air felt cooler as she turned, her boots clicking on the pavement. Each step away from the scene hollowed her out a little more.

Back inside her car, Morgan's hands hovered over the ignition. She should drive home, file away the image of the lifeless woman, and wait for daylight to chase away the shadows. Yet the thought left her feeling stranded, like a ship adrift without a compass. With a sigh, she started the engine, the hum of machinery offering no comfort.

The roads were nearly deserted as she drove, the city's heartbeat muted by the lateness of the hour. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long and distorted shadows like dark omens. The further she drove, the more her surroundings blurred into a monochrome landscape, indistinct yet oppressively real.

There was a connection here; she could feel it in her bones. But without proof, without jurisdiction, she was powerless to act. For now.

***

Morgan's eyes fluttered open to the warmth of her bedroom, a stark contrast to the chill of secrets and death that had engulfed her just hours ago. The savory scent of frying bacon lured her from beneath the blankets, coaxing her into the reality of a new day. As she sat up, the mattress beside her was cold, empty, Skunk’s usual spot by her feet vacant.

Dragging herself out of bed, she padded softly down the hallway, following her nose. In the kitchen, Derik stood at the stove, spatula in hand, deftly flipping bacon slices with an easy grace. Skunk sat dutifully nearby, his warm brown eyes tracking each movement, hopeful for a morsel to drop.

"Morning," Derik said without turning, his voice carrying the melody of routine domesticity.

"Hey," Morgan replied, her tone flat, betraying none of the turmoil that stirred within her. She pulled a chair from the table, the scrape of wood against tile breaking the morning's silence.

It could be any ordinary day, but the shadows of last night lingered, clinging to her like cobwebs. Derik continued cooking, unaware of her midnight excursion, and she decided to keep it that way—at least for now. While he focused on breakfast, Morgan opened her laptop, logging in with swift, practiced keystrokes.

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