Page 23 of For Fear

"Here it is," Dr. Reid said, holding out a slip of paper.

Morgan snatched it, her eyes scanning the information. "Thank you, Dr. Reid. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

As they stepped out into the crisp morning air, Morgan let out a long breath. "What are you thinking?" Derik asked, his voice low.

She turned to him, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of determination and something darker. "I'm thinking we've got our guy, or at least someone who knows a hell of a lot more than he should."

Derik raised an eyebrow. "You really think a motivational speaker could be our killer?"

"Why not?" Morgan countered, her voice edged with bitterness. "You and I both know how good people can be at hiding their true selves." She didn't need to elaborate; they both knew she was referring to her own past, the betrayal that had landed her in prison.

As they walked to their car, Morgan's mind raced. "Think about it," she continued. "A former addict, once brilliant, now 'redeemed.' What if it's all a façade? What if, deep down, he resents those who couldn't climb out of the hole he did?"

Derik nodded slowly, considering. "It's possible. But we need more than just a hunch."

"I know," Morgan agreed, sliding into the driver's seat. "We need to dig into every aspect of Victor Harmon's life. His speaking engagements, his financials, his social media. Hell, I want to know what brand of toilet paper he uses."

As she started the car, Morgan felt a familiar fire igniting in her gut. It was the same feeling she'd had when she'd started piecing together the conspiracy that had framed her. "We're close, Derik. I can feel it."

Derik reached over, squeezing her hand. "We'll get him, Morgan. Whatever it takes."

She nodded, her jaw set. As they pulled away from Dr. Reid's office, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were on the precipice of something big. Whether Victor Harmon was their killer or not, she was determined to uncover the truth, no matter where it led.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The auditorium buzzed with anticipation as Morgan and Derik slipped into their seats, the crowd chattering excitedly around them. On stage, the podium stood solitary under a harsh spotlight, waiting.

Morgan scanned the room, her dark eyes taking in the sea of faces. So many people, all here to hear the once great Victor Harmon speak. She wondered how many of them knew the real story behind the man.

Beside her, Derik leaned in close. "Quite the turnout," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Morgan nodded, distracted. Her mind was still churning over the case, the bodies piling up, each one marked with those strange notes. Violin music for Lila, the prodigy who fell from grace. Mathematical equations for Simon, consumed by his gambling vice. Computer code for Evan, the tech mogul battling the bottle. A morbid calling card from a killer obsessed with brilliance turned to ash.

And now, Victor Harmon. The literary genius, the celebrated author, reduced to a gaunt shell of a man by his own demons. Was he their killer, punishing those who couldn't conquer their addictions like he claimed to have done? Or just another link in the chain, leading them further down the rabbit hole?

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd as Victor Harmon took the stage. Morgan leaned forward, studying him intently.

He was a wreck of a man, wasted away to skin and bone. His suit hung off his skeletal frame, his skin sallow and papery thin. His once bright eyes were sunken and haunted, darting nervously over the audience.

He gripped the podium with trembling hands, the shake in them visible even from Morgan's seat. Battle scars from his war with addiction, she thought grimly.

"I want to talk to you today about the price of genius," Harmon began, his voice a raspy whisper in the microphone. "About the toll it takes on the mind, the body, the soul."

As he spoke, his words painted a brutal picture. The dizzying heights of his early success, the awards, the accolades, the money pouring in. The pressure building, the expectations mounting.

And then the fall. The late nights turned to lost weekends. The drinks needed to steady his hands became the drugs needed to quiet his mind. His gift turned against him, the words drying up, the deadlines slipping away.

"Addiction stripped me bare," Harmon said, his voice cracking. "It took my talent, my dignity, my relationships. It damn near took my life. And look what it left me with."

He held up his quivering hands, splaying the ruined fingers.

"Nerve damage. I can barely hold a pen now, let alone write my own name. All those pretty words, lost to me forever. Because I thought I could beat the bottle, beat the pills. I thought I was stronger than the monster inside me. But it won in the end. It always does."

Morgan watched him, her heart twisting in her chest despite herself. This was not the portrait of a man capable of cold-blooded murder. This was a broken shell, a cautionary tale in the flesh.

And yet, the puzzle pieces still didn't fit. If not him, then who? Who was leaving these taunting clues, these markers of destroyed potential?

As if sensing her thoughts, Derik's hand found hers in the dark, squeezing gently. She squeezed back, drawing strength from his touch.

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