Page 9 of For Fear

They climbed back into the car, the scent of wet pavement lingering in the air. Morgan cranked the engine, the growl of the vehicle cutting through the silence. As they pulled out of the alley, she felt the weight of Lila's life pressing down on her shoulders. The violin drawing burned in her mind like an accusation. Someone had orchestrated this, someone with a message to send, and she wasn't about to let them slip through the cracks. The city streets stretched out before them, a maze of possibilities and dead ends, but somewhere in this urban labyrinth, a killer was waiting to be found.

***

The engine hummed steadily as Morgan navigated the streets, her focus split between the road ahead and the chaos churning in her mind. The gray clouds hung low like a shroud over Dallas, threatening rain again, but for now, a mutedlight broke through, casting everything in an eerie glow. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, feeling the tension in her shoulders creep up.

"Nice neighborhood," Derik said, breaking the silence. He leaned back in his seat, eyeing the manicured lawns and pristine houses that seemed to mock the grim reality they were dealing with. "Not what I expected."

"Yeah, well, addiction doesn’t always discriminate against where one grew up," Morgan muttered, glancing at a quaint brick house with white shutters. It looked inviting, a picture of normalcy, but beneath it all lay the remnants of a girl who had lost herself. How could someone grow up here and end up dead in a filthy alley? It was a riddle Morgan couldn't shake off.

They pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching against gravel, and she killed the engine. The weight of Lila's life pressed heavily on her chest. Morgan stepped out, the damp air wrapping around her like a cold blanket. She turned toward the door just as Mrs. Sanchez appeared, her face a canvas of grief painted with years of worry. Before they could knock, the woman opened the door, her pale skin stark against the darkness inside.

"Are you the FBI agents?" Mrs. Sanchez asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, ma'am. Special Agents Morgan Cross and Derik Greene. We're here to talk about Lila," Morgan said, suppressing the urge to reach out and comfort the woman. Instead, she stepped inside, the warmth of the home enveloping her, contrasting sharply with the chill creeping into her bones.

"Please," Mrs. Sanchez gestured them in, leading them to a living room thick with unspoken sorrow. Morgan took in the photographs lining the walls—Lila smiling, carefree, the embodiment of innocence. But one particular image caught her breath: a young Lila, violin cradled under her chin, eyes sparkling with passion. The sight stirred something deep withinMorgan, a flicker of recognition. The drawing left behind at the crime scene—the violin—had been more than just a symbol; it had been a part of Lila’s identity.

The air was thick with the weight of unspoken words as Morgan settled into the plush couch of the living room, her muscles tense beneath the surface. The room felt like a time capsule—where laughter and light had once thrived, only shadows remained. She glanced at Derik, who sat opposite Mrs. Sanchez, his green eyes solemn yet alert, scanning for any telltale sign that might lead them deeper into Lila's story.

"Mrs. Sanchez," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the heaviness pressing down on her chest. "What did the violin mean to Lila?"

Fresh tears brimmed in Mrs. Sanchez’s eyes, glistening like raindrops on a windowpane. “Lila… she was a prodigy,” she said, her voice trembling but filled with pride. “By five, she was playing pieces that left adults speechless.”

Morgan leaned forward, intrigued. A child genius—a rarity like a comet streaking across the night sky. “Did you think she’d pursue music professionally?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sanchez replied, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “We thought she'd become famous—maybe even play at Carnegie Hall.”

A smile flickered across Morgan’s lips for an instant before reality pulled it away. It was a tragic twist of fate, one she recognized too well. “But something changed?”

"High school," Mrs. Sanchez said sharply, anger threading through her grief. “That’s when everything fell apart. She started to rebel against us, against everything we wanted for her.”

"Rebellion often comes with a price," Morgan murmured, recalling her own struggles with authority and expectation. She could almost taste the bitterness of rebellion—the sweetrelease of breaking free, followed by the bitter aftertaste of consequences.

"She struggled," Mrs. Sanchez continued, the pain in her voice cutting through the air. “Mental illness runs in my ex-husband’s family. By the time she was a teenager, it was too late. Depression, anxiety... it consumed her. And then came the drugs.”

Morgan felt a knot tighten in her stomach. They were skirting the edge of a familiar abyss, one she had seen consume too many lives. “And she became addicted to heroin?” she asked, her tone gentle yet probing.

"Yes." Mrs. Sanchez shook her head, the soft clink of her jewelry echoing in the silence. “We tried everything—rehab, therapy. Nothing worked. She lost herself. Sometimes she was clean, but it never lasted. Eventually, she ended up homeless.”

“Homeless.” The word hung in the air like a ghost, a reminder of the darkness lurking beneath the surface of seemingly perfect lives. Morgan’s mind raced. “Did she have any close friends? Anyone who might’ve been with her during those times?”

"Nobody stayed for long," Mrs. Sanchez admitted, her voice cracking. “They all drifted away, unable to handle it. I don’t blame them, really. It's hard to watch someone you love self-destruct.”

"I understand," Morgan replied, the edges of her own memories fraying under the weight of empathy. “But someone must have known her well enough to care.”

"Maybe," Mrs. Sanchez whispered, her gaze dropping to her lap, where her hands twisted anxiously. “But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her…”

But Morgan knew better. She knew that darkness loved to prey on vulnerability, and Lila had been as vulnerable as they come.

"We need to find who's responsible," Morgan said, her voice low, softening the blow. "Can you think of anyone who might've held a grudge against Lila? A dealer, an ex-boyfriend?"

Mrs. Sanchez shook her head, her face a ghostly pallor against the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Lila... she wasn't involved with anyone for long." Her gaze shifted towards the photographs lining the wall—the relics of a happier time. “If there was, she never mentioned him.”

"What about the people she got the drugs from?" Derik asked, leaning forward in his chair. His green eyes were sharp, hard, like jade under a microscope. “Did she ever mention names?”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Sanchez replied. “I was shut out of Lila’s life.”

For a moment, the room fell silent save for the quiet ticking of an ornate clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Then Mrs. Sanchez sniffled and wiped her nose with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. Morgan wasn’t sure if the addiction angle would pan out, anyway, considering Lila wasn’t the only victim—Simon Holt had been murdered too. They needed to know more about him, draw connections between him and Lila.

---