Page 17 of For Fear

"Thank you, Clarice," Morgan said, her tone softening. "I appreciate your honesty. I know it’s painful to revisit this."

"Just remember," Clarice said, her gaze penetrating. "Behind every story of success is a person. A person who may be battling demons you can’t see."

Morgan nodded. She knew what Clarice meant all too well.

The fluorescent lights flickered to life as Morgan pushed through the door of the briefing room, the familiar scent of stale coffee and worn-out paperwork greeting her like an old friend. Night had fallen outside, casting deep shadows that danced along the walls, but the weight of the day hung heavily on her shoulders. She spotted Derik at the table, his face illuminated by the glow of a laptop screen, the lines etched around his eyes betraying the fatigue lurking beneath his professional facade.

"Hey," she said, her voice taut, tinged with the remnants of a long day. She dropped into the chair across from him, the wood creaking under her weight. "Talk to me."

"Simon’s mentor didn’t have much to add," Derik replied, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He let out a frustrated breath, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Just more about Simon’s demons. Said he was brilliant until he wasn’t.”

"Same story, different victim." Morgan leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, the cold surface grounding her. "They were both prodigies, but it feels like they were fighting their own shadows. You know?"

"Yeah, I get it." Derik's green eyes narrowed, reflecting the flickering light. "Their addictions... It’s like they were set up to fail."

"Exactly." Morgan rubbed her temples, feeling the tension pulse beneath her skin. "All this pressure—it's no wonder theycracked. But it doesn’t lead us anywhere, does it? No suspects, no vendettas. Just two talented people who couldn’t handle their own potential. Clarice didn’t mention any rivals or enemies. Just… expectations weighing down on them like a ton of bricks.”

Morgan rubbed the back of her neck, the tension coiling like a spring. The fluorescent lights in the briefing room buzzed with an insistent hum, echoing the frustration that had settled like lead in her stomach. She leaned over the table, scanning the jumble of files and photographs scattered before her—images of Lila and Simon, shining bright in their youth, juxtaposed against the shadows of their tragic ends.

"We need an angle, Derik, something to go on," she stated. Her voice echoed in the hollow silence of the room. "I refuse to believe that these tragedies were just... inevitable."

"I know, Morgan." His gaze softened as he looked at her, a mix of admiration and sorrow drenching his words. "We'll figure it out, we always do."

She sighed and looked away, her dark eyes scanning the room as if answers would magically appear on the sterile white walls. But all that met her gaze was the cold reality of their situation: the unending paperwork, the hours of surveillance footage yet to be watched, and a case that felt like it was slowly slipping from their grasp.

"Let's get some rest," Derik suggested after a moment. There was a note of desperation in his voice that seemed almost out of place in a man like him — a man usually so composed. “You and I have both had a rough twenty-four hours, and we’re hitting a wall. We’re no good to the victims if we can’t think straight.”

Morgan nodded, knowing he was right. The exhaustion had already started seeping into her bones, a silent concession to the arduous day they'd had. But she couldn't shake off the frown that had crept onto her face, the dull ache in her chest telling herthis case was far from over. "Alright," she conceded reluctantly, peeling herself away from the table.

Derik moved towards her and rested a comforting hand on her arm. His touch stirred a warmth within her, a flicker of consolation amid the enveloping darkness of their latest case. "We'll get there, Morgan," he said quietly, his gaze steady on her face.

His words hung in the air for a few heartbeats, mingling with the lingering scent of stale coffee and weariness. Morgan managed a weary smile, appreciating Derik's unwavering faith — in their partnership, in their ability to hunt down justice no matter how elusive it might seem.

"I know we will," she replied with more conviction than she felt. She squeezed his hand and then stepped away, moving towards the exit. As Morgan pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold night, she vowed to find justice for Lila and Simon — to put an end to their haunting melodies that echoed in all those left behind.

CHAPTER NINE

Evan Rhodes was a crumpled figure against the backdrop of his dismal apartment. The glow from the computer screen cast long shadows over the stubble on his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark in the flickering light. He sat there, an unshaven mess clad in a plaid shirt that had seen better days and jeans with frayed cuffs, remnants of his former style.

The room itself was a testament to decline, walls naked except for the occasional patch where paint chipped away like old scabs. Furniture that once boasted clean lines and designer tags now sagged, a hodgepodge collection of second-hand despair. Whiskey bottles, their contents ebbing as steadily as his fortune had, kept vigil on the coffee table amid the detritus of his current existence.

His gaze was fixed on an article frozen on the monitor, the cursor blinking idly beside the headline that branded him a has-been. "Tech Visionary Evan Rhodes Set to Revolutionize Data Encryption" – the words might as well have been from another lifetime. Back when the world buzzed with his potential, they'd said he had the Midas touch. His startup was the darling of Silicon Valley, investors lining up to throw money at anything Evan touched.

But fate, fickle mistress, had other plans. A gamble here, a risk too far there, and his empire toppled like a house of cards in a hurricane. Lawsuits followed, each one a nail in the coffin of his career. His vision for the future, once so clear, is now smudged by the grime of regret. His reputation, which had soared in boardrooms and tech conferences, lay shattered in pieces no amount of whiskey could drown out.

The man who once commanded stages and captured imaginations with mere words was reduced to this—a ghosthaunting the wreckage of his own life. Evan's shoulders slumped even further, if that were possible, the weight of 'what if' heavy on his frame. With a sarcasm that cut more deeply than any external commentary, he mused silently about how far the mighty had fallen. There were no cheers here, no applause, just the echo of a life that used to be now filled with the static of what never would be again.

Evan exhaled a ragged breath, scrubbing hands over his face as if he could wipe away the stink of failure that seemed to cling to him. The bristles of day-old stubble rasped under his palms, a stark reminder of how far he'd let himself go. His brain, once a precision instrument, now felt like a blunt tool, the edges dulled by one too many nights nursing the bottle.

He surveyed the chaos of his apartment with a detached sort of apathy. Clothes lay scattered, forming a patchwork of fabric on the floor—a mosaic of negligence. Takeout boxes perched precariously on the kitchen counter, their contents long forgotten and festering. And the garbage, god, the garbage. It spilled from the bin like a grotesque cornucopia, reeking of decay and days past due.

"Jesus, Rhodes," he muttered to himself, acknowledging the mess was a reflection of his own internal disarray. "Get it together."

With effort that seemed herculean, Evan hauled himself to his feet. His joints protested, stiff from inertia, creaking louder than the floorboards beneath his tread. He snatched the overstuffed trash bag, tying it shut while trying not to gag at the potent cocktail of odors that assaulted his senses. The simple action was a small victory, but even this felt hollow—another futile attempt at regaining control in a life that had spiraled into disarray.

He shuffled towards the door, each step an echo of his faltering ambitions. The trash bag swung heavily at his side, apendulum marking the end of another wasted day. In the bleak corridor of his mind, where success used to sit on a gilded throne, there was only emptiness now, punctuated by the dull ache of what-could-have-been.

Pushing open the door, he stepped out of the claustrophobic embrace of his apartment. The hallway was dim, the flickering lights casting shadows that danced mockingly around him. He trudged down the stairs, the bag bumping against his leg with every step, a metronome to his reluctant retreat.

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