Page 14 of For Fear

"Two patients – both dead within a week of each other," Morgan observed, keeping her voice steady despite the tension humming through her body. "Both prodigies who lost their way. That doesn't strike you as significant?"

"Tragic, certainly," Reid conceded, a defensive note creeping into his tone. "But not unprecedented. The statistics regarding addiction and mortality—"

"I don't need statistics," Morgan cut in, her patience fraying. "I need to know what connects these deaths beyond just addiction. Did they know each other? Did they mention any threats? Anyone who might have had a grudge?"

Reid's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "They both expressed regret about their choices, but... patient confidentiality limits what I can share."

"Come on, Doc," Derik spoke up from his position by the door, his tone deceptively light despite the steel beneath it. "We understand confidentiality. But we're dealing with two murdershere. Surely there's something you can tell us that might help prevent a third?"

Reid's fingers drummed once against his armrest – the first real crack in his composure. "What exactly are you suggesting, Agent Greene?"

"We're suggesting," Morgan leaned forward, "that someone is hunting down your former patients. Someone who knew enough about them to leave very specific messages. Lila's violin. Simon's equations. These aren't random kills – they're statements."

The silence that followed felt charged, heavy with unspoken implications. Reid's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied them both, his professional mask slipping just enough to reveal something harder underneath.

"Where were you last night?" Morgan asked suddenly. "When Lila was killed?"

"I was attending a conference in Arlington," he replied smoothly, without hesitation. "Stayed at the Hilton. You can verify that easily enough."

"Oh, we will," Morgan assured him. "And we'll be looking into any other former patients who might be at risk. Unless you'd like to save us some time?"

Reid's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I've told you everything I can within the bounds of medical ethics, Agent Cross. If there's nothing else?"

Morgan stood slowly, aware of Derik shifting his stance behind her. "One last thing," she said, pulling out her card and placing it precisely in the center of his desk. "When you remember something else – and you will – call me. Day or night."

Outside, the afternoon sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the parking lot. Morgan paused, letting thetension of the interview seep from her shoulders as Derik fell into step beside her.

"He's hiding something," Derik said quietly.

Morgan nodded, pulling out her phone. "More than something. I want his alibi checked, and I want to know every patient he's treated who might fit our profile." She cast one last look at the gleaming building behind them. "Someone's collecting broken geniuses like trophies, and Reid had a front-row seat to their fall. The question is: was he just watching, or is he directing the show?"

The autumn wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of decay. Somewhere in the city, Morgan knew, another prodigy might be marking their final hours – unless they could piece together the truth hidden behind Reid's careful walls of professionalism and privilege.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The room was a tomb of shadows, curtains drawn tight against the world. Only the flickering blue glow of the laptop screen broke the oppressive darkness. He sat hunched over the desk, fingers tapping with purpose, scanning the digital graveyard of Evan Rhodes’ past. Photos flicked by—a sharp-suited genius, once the darling of tech conferences, all confidence and charisma. A different man now.

That was years ago. Now, the screen displayed the wreckage—Evan slouched over a bar, whiskey glass cradled like a lifeline. His face unshaven, eyes dulled by regret. Disgust rose in his throat. “Pathetic,” he muttered, the word bitter on his tongue.

Another wasted genius, another life devoured by addiction. Potential squandered like trash on the street. They’d had their chances, and they blew it.

"Look at you, Evan," he said aloud to the empty room. "You were supposed to be something." He leaned closer, scrutinizing the most recent photo—Evan’s mouth permanently downturned. Was there even a flicker of awareness left, or had he sunk too deep into the bottle?

Bitter words and late-night confessions littered Evan’s digital trail. Desperation dripped from every post. He felt nothing but disdain. Each click was a reminder of wasted brilliance.

"Another one bites the dust," he sighed, an edge of satisfaction creeping in. This was the pattern he’d come to expect—a grim ballet of promise folding into failure. It fueled him, this sense of justice wrapped in cold indifference. He wasn’t just an observer; he was the hand that brought balance.

With a sudden push, he shoved away from the desk. He needed to act. Evan Rhodes had already lost; now it was time to finish the story.

From a drawer, he retrieved a sketch of a circuit board. The lines felt familiar beneath his fingertips, a ghost of what Evan once was. He tucked it into his jacket pocket, feeling its weight settle against his chest. Just as Lila had the violin, and Simon had the equations, this would be Evan’s final reminder—what could have been, if only he hadn’t succumbed.

He stepped toward the door, the stillness of the night looming beyond. Taking a breath, a silent vow formed in his mind. Another fallen prodigy awaited, and he was ready to deliver the reckoning.

The glow of the laptop lit his face as he scrolled further through Evan’s online presence. Each post was another step into the grave of wasted potential. He relished the hunt.

"Ah, here we go," he muttered, spotting a two-year-old post—Evan’s rambling confession, drenched in bitterness.

“I used to be great. What happened? Where did it go wrong?”

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