Page 15 of For Fear

A smirk crept onto his lips. Evan didn’t even know. Potential was fragile, easily trampled or thrown away. And with each bottle, Evan had chosen his fate.

Old photos flashed by—Evan in a crisp suit, surrounded by people who once believed in him. Now, they were gone, leaving behind only echoes. He leaned back, satisfied. No redemption arc here, just a crash landing.

"Bankrupt, abandoned," he murmured. "You had your shot, buddy." Another prodigy turned punchline. Lila with her violin, Simon with his equations—they were all part of the same sick joke. But he wasn’t laughing; he was doing something about it.

He pulled up maps and addresses, piecing together Evan’s current existence. The search was exhilarating, every keystroke a step toward justice. His mind raced with possibilities.

"Time to clean house," he whispered, the thrill of purpose coursing through him. The balance needed restoration, and hewas the man to do it. Lila, Simon, now Evan—each a reminder of what happens when talent rots.

He glanced at the clock. Midnight crept closer, the night still young. Rising from the desk, he felt adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was time to act.

From the drawer, he lifted the circuit board sketch again, its lines sharp and intricate. Evan Rhodes's past laid bare on a single sheet, a tribute to brilliance now buried beneath failure.

"Once a genius," he muttered, tracing the design. The hands that crafted this beauty now trembled for whiskey instead of wires. Delicious irony—a prodigy reduced to a cautionary tale.

He folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Taking a final glance at the screen, he absorbed the remnants of Evan’s life—flashes of old glory mingled with the grim reality of his downfall.

"Time to restore order," he said softly, turning away from the desk. The air felt charged, electric, as if the atmosphere itself recognized the gravity of his decision.

Outside, shadows clung to the corners of the street, the moon casting a silver sheen over the pavement. He relished the cool breeze against his skin, invigorating. Tonight wasn’t just another mission; it was a cleansing.

"Let’s see how far you’ve fallen, Evan," he whispered, a predator scenting prey. His boots crunched softly on the gravel as he made his way down the path, darkness enveloping him like a cloak. Every step brought him closer to balance, closer to justice.

Evan had squandered his chance, just like the others. Now, he would pay the price.

His pulse quickened as he glanced at the map on his phone—the blinking dot marking Evan’s address. A rundown house, forgotten by time and success. Perfect. He savored the idea ofstanding before it, confronting the remnants of a man who used to light up stages. A final curtain call.

"Almost showtime," he murmured, anticipation curling around him like smoke. Another wasted life, another fallen prodigy, and he would be the one to erase it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As the late-afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the FBI headquarters, Morgan leaned back in her chair, the creak of worn leather barely audible over the low buzz of fluorescent lights. The day had dragged on like a bad hangover—leads that fizzled into nothing, dead ends masquerading as hope. She rubbed her temples, already feeling the familiar throb of frustration creeping in.

"Reid’s alibi checks out,” Derik said, glancing up from his laptop, his green eyes flickering with both relief and resignation. “Hotel footage shows him at the conference all night. We’re back to square one.”

“Great,” Morgan muttered, pushing away the stack of files that had begun to feel like weights tied around her neck. She let her gaze drift to the projector screen where the first frame of Lila Sanchez’s past flickered to life—a young girl, bright-eyed and beaming, clutching a violin like it was her lifeline.

The room fell silent, the only sound the soft whir of the projector. Morgan felt an unexpected pang in her chest as she watched Lila perform, the notes flowing effortlessly from her instrument, each note a whisper of unfulfilled promise. How did someone so full of life end up discarded in an alleyway, a victim of her own demons? It wasn’t just tragic; it was infuriating.

"Look at her,” Morgan said, her voice barely above a whisper, but laced with intensity. “She was a genius. A prodigy. And now look what happened.”

"Yeah," Derik replied, his tone flat, but she could see the flicker of anger behind his calm facade. "We need to figure out how someone like her went off the rails."

Morgan nodded, still entranced by the footage. Lila’s small hands danced over the strings, and for a moment, it was easyto forget the darkness that loomed over her story. But Morgan couldn’t afford to get lost in nostalgia. She had to focus. The clock was ticking, and every minute spent wallowing in what-ifs pulled them deeper into the abyss of unanswered questions.

"Let’s dig deeper into these victims’ lives before they spiraled. What drove them to this?” She leaned forward, energized by the thought. “We can’t just follow breadcrumbs. We need to get to the root of it."

The team had assembled some materials for Morgan and Derik to use, and Morgan picked up one of the magazines Simon Holt had been featured in before his downfall. Morgan leaned against the wall of the briefing room, the coolness of the concrete a welcome contrast to the heat rising within her. She flipped through the articles chronicling Simon Holt’s early career, her brow furrowing with each headline that screamed genius. “Look at this,” she said, tossing one of the glossy pages toward Derik. “They make it sound like he was the next Einstein.”

Derik caught the page mid-air, his green eyes scanning over the words. “A real tech prodigy, huh? Seems like everyone wanted a piece of him before he fell off the map.” He tossed the article onto the pile of others they’d accumulated, each one detailing Simon's groundbreaking work in data encryption and the accolades he'd received.

"Groundbreaking," Morgan muttered under her breath, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder as she pushed forward.

The projector hummed softly in the background, its light illuminating the remnants of Lila’s past brilliance on the screen. She couldn’t shake the image of the young violinist, poised and elegant, from her mind. Instead, she focused on the stark contrast between their once-promising futures and the tragic ends that awaited them both.

"Maybe it was too much pressure," Morgan said, her voice low as she flipped to a profile laden with praise for Simon."Everyone expects you to be perfect, and then you crack under it. Just like Lila." The words slipped out before she could stop them, but the truth hung heavy in the air—she knew the feeling of expectation all too well.

"Or maybe someone pushed him," Derik suggested. His voice was cautious, almost tired. It was an idea that had been brewing beneath the surface of their investigation, one that poked at Morgan's nerves. But she brushed it aside, not wanting to entertain the thought.

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