Page 7 of For Fear

"Could be a calling card. Could be nonsense," Morgan said, her brows knitting together. She hated puzzles with missing pieces. They reminded her too much of her own life—a jigsaw with half the edges gone.

"Here's where it gets interesting," Mueller said, his voice dropping a notch. "Last week, we found Simon Holt. Same MO—stabbed, bled out. His hands clutching another artistic masterpiece."

"Let me guess, a violin?" Derik asked, cutting through the dramatic pause.

"Not this time. Equations. Math equations," Mueller corrected, sliding a photocopy across the desk. It was littered with numbers and symbols, the language of logic amidst the chaos of murder.

"Math and music," Morgan said, a hint of a smirk on her lips despite the gravity in her chest. "Our killer's got eclectic taste."

"Or there's a message in the madness," Derik added.

"Exactly," Mueller confirmed. "Link's clear as day—both victims are practically waving these papers in our faces. The parchment itself appears to be from the same notebook.”

Morgan's fingers curled around the edges of the files, the violin sketch a stark contrast against the sterile background of Mueller's desk. She felt the itch of curiosity beneath her skin, an old friend whispering in her ear after a night that nearly saw her at the bottom of the pier with Thomas Grady.

"Methodical bastard," Derik murmured, his gaze locked on the files as if they might sprout legs and bolt. He had that look he always did when the gears in his head started turning—sharp, like the edge of a knife that hadn't dulled from too many nights drowning sorrows in whiskey.

Mueller stood still as stone, eyes hawk-like on them. "I want you two fully on this," he said, voice carrying the weight of command and concern. "If you can handle it."

Morgan’s lips twitched. She'd been thrown into fires hotter than this—the burn now was just another day at the office.

"Always eager for a hunt, boss," she retorted, her voice cracking like a whip in the room. "Don't worry about us."

Morgan looked back down at the files, but not before catching Mueller's ever-so-slight nod of approval. She faced Derik, but his gaze was locked on the photograph of the violin.

Mueller gave a curt nod, his mustache bristling like a warning flag. "Good. Because this feels different. Calculated. This killer is playing a game."

"Yeah, well, he won’t get away with it," Morgan replied, tossing the file back onto the desk. The sound echoed in the silence, a definitive challenge laid bare.

Mueller acknowledged their resolve with a stiff nod, his features hardening into something that could have been cut from stone. "You're dismissed. Keep me updated."

Morgan and Derik rose from their seats simultaneously, the worn-out leather of the office chairs creaking under the sudden absence of weight. As they reached the door, Mueller called out again, his voice surprisingly soft.

"Cross... Greene, be careful."

The words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of their dangerous line of work. Morgan turned back to face her superior, her eyes meeting his with an unspoken understanding. She gave him a curt nod before stepping out into the dimly lit hallway.

Once they were out of earshot, Derik let out a long sigh, running his fingers through his slicked-back hair in a rare display of unease. "This is it then? Diving headfirst into another case while we've got Cordell's shadow looming over us?”

"We’ve always been good at juggling, haven't we?" Morgan replied nonchalantly, yet her brown eyes portrayed a hint of trepidation.

Derik chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, I suppose we have.”

But there was more here than just a new case. Mueller had thrown down a gauntlet, sure, but it was also a lifeline—a chance for Morgan to prove that she wasn't broken by past betrayals or shadowy conspiracies. Her heart thrummed with a fierce beat, the kind that could only come from staring down darkness and refusing to blink.

She locked eyes with Derik, whose green eyes bore into her with a blend of admiration and concern. "We’ll solve this," she said with a certainty that surprised them both.

“I know we will," Derik replied, his faith in her unwavering as ever. But something else flickered there—worried lines creasedhis forehead, adding years to his handsome face. The fear that they were stepping into another hornet’s nest was unmistakable.

CHAPTER FOUR

The damp air clung to Morgan's skin as she parked the car, the soft patter of leftover rain creating a rhythm against the windshield. She killed the engine and let the silence settle around them for a second, her fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel. Morning light slipped through the clouds like a reluctant guest, illuminating the alley where Lila Sanchez had met her end. It was almost serene now—a stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded just hours before. The neon sign from the convenience store at the corner flickered weakly, casting intermittent shadows across the wet pavement, a silent witness to the night's events.

"Ready?" Derik asked, his voice low but steady, as if he were trying to convince them both that this was just another day at the office. He'd been her partner for three years now, long enough to read the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched when cases got under her skin. This one already had its hooks in deep.

"Let's get this over with," Morgan replied, already swinging the door open. The chill in the air wrapped around her like a shroud, but she welcomed it. It kept her sharp. The familiar weight of her badge pressed against her hip, a constant reminder of the responsibility she carried. Her coffee sat forgotten in the cup holder, gone cold hours ago during their predawn briefing.

They stepped out onto the glistening pavement, the remnants of the storm reflecting the muted light. Morgan squinted ahead, focusing on the tarped-off area, her heart tightening as she caught sight of the forensic team working diligently. Their white suits stood out against the grimy backdrop of the alley, like ghosts moving through the morning mist. She felt the familiar stirrings of anger and sadness—twoold friends who never seemed to leave her alone. Fifteen years on the force hadn't made it any easier; if anything, each case cut a little deeper.

---