Page 10 of For Fear

Morgan pulled out a photograph from her jacket pocket and handed it to Mrs. Sanchez. “Do you recognize this man?” she asked. It was a photo of Simon Holt—a nice-looking, ordinary man with glasses and a shy smile.

Mrs. Sanchez frowned. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“His name was Simon Holt,” Morgan said. “A week ago, he was killed under similar circumstances as Lila. I wanted to know if they knew each other.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Sanchez said. "Simon Holt," she repeated, rolling the name over her tongue as if expecting it to shed light on some hidden corner of her memory. She lookedup, meeting Morgan's piercing gaze. "I'm sorry, but Lila never mentioned him."

Morgan sighed inwardly, her disappointment a harsh contrast against the flickering hope that had briefly come alive. It was a dead-end, just like the ones they'd been hitting throughout this case. But dead-ends didn't deter Morgan Cross--they only steeled her resolve.

"Alright," she said, standing up from the couch and extending her hand towards Mrs. Sanchez. Her grip enveloped the older woman's hand firmly, bracingly. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sanchez."

"You'll find out who did this to her?" The question was more a plea than an inquiry, a desperate cry for justice from a mother who had lost too much.

"We'll do everything we can," Morgan promised, her voice steady with conviction.

Mrs. Sanchez nodded slowly, tears pooling in her eyes again, the pain etched into every wrinkle on her face echoing into the silence that hung heavy in the room.

***

The front door of the Sanchez house clicked shut behind them, and Morgan stepped into the cool morning air, inhaling the scent of wet grass and distant city life. Each breath felt heavy, with the weight of Mrs. Sanchez's sorrow still lingering in her chest. The image of young Lila—a girl lost to drugs and a violent end—clung to Morgan's mind like a stubborn stain.

"Hey," Derik said, breaking her reverie as he caught up beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Morgan replied, though it was more for his sake than hers. Her thoughts were a swirling storm. The drawing of the violin—it hadn’t just been some random doodle left on a whim;it was a piece of Lila’s identity. A haunting reminder of what she could have been. "Let’s get moving," she urged, nodding toward the car parked patiently at the curb. Each step felt like trudging through quicksand, but they had work to do. The case was too fresh, too raw, and Morgan burned to understand why someone would choose to leave such an emblem behind.

"Simon Holt next?" Derik asked, his voice steady, but Morgan could sense the edge of urgency beneath it. He knew that even as they shifted their focus, the shadows of last night’s chaos still loomed.

"Yeah," Morgan said, her tone clipped. "We need to talk to his family. Find out if there's any connection between him and Lila beyond the obvious."

"Obvious" meant addiction, pain, a life unraveling in public view. But Morgan suspected there was more to the story—the intersection where lives collided often held secrets, and she intended to find them.

They reached the car, the metallic click of the locks echoing in the quiet neighborhood. Morgan slid into the driver’s seat, her fingers tightening around the wheel. She could feel the pulse of determination thrumming under her skin.

"What do you make about the violin?" Derik asked, settling into the passenger seat, eyes fixed on her with that familiar blend of concern and curiosity. “Think the killer could be someone who knew Lila as a child?”

"Could be," Morgan mused, starting the engine with a low rumble that vibrated through her body. "It’s not just art; it’s a legacy. Maybe someone wanted to remind Lila of who she used to be. Or maybe it was personal—a way to mock her fall."

"Or both," Derik nodded, casting a glance back at the Sanchez house as they pulled away, its facade now fading behind them. "I guess the question is, how did that person even know about her past? She hadn’t been a prodigy for some time.”

"Exactly," Morgan agreed, shifting gears, the city unfolding before them. The streets were slick from last night’s rain, reflecting the muted sunlight breaking through the clouds. But the beauty of the morning felt hollow against the backdrop of murder and loss. As they drove, Morgan’s thoughts drifted back to the other night—to Thomas Grady, dead, to the knowledge that Cordell and his men could be watching her every move. But she pushed it aside.

Whoever this killer was, he picked the wrong time to mess around in Dallas. Morgan gripped the steering wheel tighter. She was not in a generous mood.

CHAPTER FIVE

The engine of the car sputtered to a stop, and Morgan stepped out onto the cracked pavement of the quiet street. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp leaves and the distant sound of children’s laughter—a stark contrast to the grim business at hand. She adjusted her leather jacket, feeling the comforting weight of its familiar bulk before glancing at Derik, who lingered beside the passenger door, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He looked tired, shadows under his green eyes hinting at sleepless nights filled with thoughts of their latest case.

"Ready?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow as they approached Simon Holt’s house.

"Let’s get this over with," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the knot forming in her stomach. The house was charming, almost deceptively so, with its neat white picket fence and flower boxes that flanked the windows—like the kind of place where dreams should flourish, not unravel.

They knocked on the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness. A moment stretched into eternity before it swung open, revealing a young woman standing there, her thin glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. Morgan noticed the way Melanie's hands trembled slightly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her bun seeming to hold back more than just hair. It held fear, uncertainty, and grief.

"Ms. Summers?" Derik introduced himself, his tone smooth yet careful.

"Yes," Melanie replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions about Simon." Morgan kept her expression neutral, but inside, she felt thefamiliar stirrings of sympathy for the woman before her. This wasn’t just another interview; it was a glimpse into a shattered life.

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