Page 4 of For Fear

"Yeah, that John Christopher. The same one who shot Mary Price. The same one who supposedly died in the line of duty while you were busy climbing the ladder." She leaned back,crossing her arms defiantly. "So tell me, Assistant Director, what did you really know about him? About what happened back then?"

She could see the gears turning in his mind, the remnants of their earlier conversation evaporating into the ether as he grappled with the implications of her words. This was the moment—a reckoning of sorts. Would he crack under pressure or stand firm in his denial?

"Listen, Morgan," he began cautiously, but she cut him off, her voice rising in intensity.

"Don't 'listen' me, Mueller. I want the truth. You can act all innocent, but I'm not buying it. Something’s rotten in this whole goddamn operation, and I need to know where you fit into the equation."

His brow furrowed, and she could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. Whatever facade he held onto was slipping, revealing the cracks of uncertainty underneath. But she needed more than just doubt; she needed answers. And she wasn’t going to let him sidestep her questions. Not now. Not when everything they were fighting for stood on the edge of a knife.

"Did you even care?" she pressed, her voice low but laced with fire. "Did you care what happened to my father after he pulled that trigger? Or did you just bury your head in the sand and pretend it never happened?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy with implication. Morgan's heart raced as she watched him wrestle with the weight of the past, the ghosts of decisions made and lives shattered. She knew he was holding back, and she wouldn't let him hide behind his credentials any longer. Mueller’s eyebrows knitted together, but she saw the flicker of recognition flash in his eyes. Good. She needed him to connect the dots. She leaned forward, letting the anger and urgency seep into her words.

“Your precious FBI turned her into collateral damage in a botched operation. My father shot her, and you all just swept it under the rug.”

She watched as the color drained from his face, his bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. “You don’t understand,” he stammered, perhaps searching for some semblance of control. But there was no control left, not after what had happened at the pier. “That was years ago. It was a tragic mistake.”

“Tragic? Is that what you call it when an innocent woman dies?” Morgan snapped, her heart racing. “No, this isn’t about tragedy. This is about a cover-up, about Cordell using my father’s screw-up as an excuse to destroy lives. He ruined my dad, and now he’s out for me too. But I want to know why.”

“Morgan, I was told John Christopher was dead.” Mueller’s expression shifted then, settling into a hardened mask of thoughtfulness as if he was finally piecing together a puzzle he’d been avoiding.

“Right,” Morgan drawled, her skepticism clear in her voice. “So you just accepted it? No questions asked?”

Mueller shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I… I was not in the position to question it at that time.”

Morgan let out a bark of bitter laughter. She leaned back on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Mueller a look that could curdle milk. “Oh, how convenient.”

Next to her, Derik shifted uneasily. She felt his sharp gaze on her, but she didn’t meet it. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on Mueller, watching him squirm under the weight of her accusations.

Mueller took a deep breath, steeling himself. “What do you want from me, Morgan?”

“Answers,” she said simply.

“Listen,” Mueller started again, “I had no idea about your father’s real identity until you told me just now. JohnChristopher was a ghost. We all believed he’d died in action years ago.”

“And you never wondered?” Morgan pressed. “Never questioned why Cordell was so keen on brushing his death under the rug?”

Something crossed Mueller’s face then—dark and unreadable—and something cold coiled in Morgan’s gut.

“I did my job,” Mueller said finally, his voice as hard as granite. “How was I supposed to know he changed his identity and went off the grid? I don’t know about any of this—you’re severely overestimating my importance here, Cross.”

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" Morgan shot back. "None of you seemingly 'important' guys really know what's going on right under your damn noses."

Mueller was silent for a moment, his eyes downcast as he grappled with her words. When he finally looked up at her, there was a certain resignation in his gaze.

“Look, Morgan… I’m sorry about your father.” He hesitated, and she saw something flicker in his eyes — was it genuine regret? “I knew John. He—”

“Save your sympathies,” she interrupted brusquely, the bitterness creeping into her tone. “I don’t want them.”

Mueller sighed heavily. “Alright,” he conceded quietly, running a hand over his weary features.

They sat in silence; a tension that could be cut with a knife hung between them. Morgan’s mind was racing, her heart pounding against her ribcagelike a wild animal caught in a trap.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mueller?" She said finally, her voice ringing out in the harsh silence.

He swallowed hard, looking at her with an intensity she hadn't seen before. "I honestly wish there was more I could tell you," he murmured, looking almost regretful. She couldpractically see the gears turning in his head. “As for Cordell... I remember him. A powerful man. But why go after you?”

"Because he's got a vendetta, and I’m the last loose end he needs to tie up," Morgan replied, her voice steady but edged with urgency. “Thomas Grady was feeding me information. He knew something—something that could take Cordell down. And now he’s dead.”

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