Page 24 of For Fear

They would figure this out. They had to. Before the body count climbed any higher. Before more lights were snuffed out by this shadow of a killer.

For now, all they could do was watch. And wait. And pray that Victor Harmon's tragic tale was the end of it, and not just the beginning.

The applause was thunderous as Victor Harmon concluded his speech, his frail frame nearly swaying from the force of it. Morgan and Derik remained seated, their eyes locked on Harmon as the crowd began to disperse around them.

Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Harmon's story, while tragic, didn't align with the brutal nature of the murders. His hands, so visibly damaged, seemed incapable of wielding a knife with the precision the killer had shown.

But she had to be sure. She had to look him in the eye to see if there was anything lurking beneath the surface of his shattered exterior.

As the last of the audience trickled out, Morgan and Derik made their way backstage. The narrow corridors were dimly lit, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and desperation.

They found Harmon in a small dressing room, slumped in a chair before a vanity mirror. He was dabbing at his forehead with a towel, his hands shaking with the effort.

When he saw them, his eyes widened, his body going rigid in the chair. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice thin and reedy.

Morgan stepped forward, her badge already in hand. "Mr. Harmon, I'm Agent Cross and this is Agent Greene. We're with the FBI. We were hoping to ask you a few questions."

Harmon's face drained of color, his hands clenching around the towel. "The FBI? I don't understand. What is this about?"

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, noting the sudden shift in Harmon's demeanor. The man was nervous, that muchwas clear. But was it the nervousness of a guilty man or simply the shock of being confronted by federal agents?

She kept her tone even, her eyes never leaving Harmon's face. "We're investigating a series of murders in the area. Your name came up in the course of our inquiry. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on the situation."

Harmon's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes darting between them. "Murders? I don't know anything about any murders. I'm just a recovering addict, trying to help others. I don't understand why you would think I would be involved in something like that."

Morgan leaned in closer, her gaze sharpening. "We never said you were involved, Mr. Harmon. We simply want to ask you a few questions."

Harmon's hands were shaking harder now, the towel fluttering to the floor. "I...I need some water. Please, just give me a moment."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Without waiting for a response, he stumbled past them, heading for the door.

Morgan's instincts screamed at her, every nerve in her body suddenly on high alert. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She turned to Derik, seeing her own suspicions mirrored in his eyes. Without a word, they moved to follow Harmon, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

The chase was on, and Morgan could only pray that it wouldn't end in more blood. More death. More shattered lives left in the wake of a killer's twisted game.

Morgan's heart pounded as she followed Harmon down the hallway, her footsteps light and quiet against the worn carpet. Derik was right behind her, his presence a reassuring constant in the midst of the chaos.

She approached Harmon's dressing room door, noting the sliver of light peeking out from the crack. It was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry.

Cautiously, Morgan peered inside, her breath catching in her throat at the sight that greeted her.

Harmon wasn't getting water, as he had claimed. Instead, he was frantically grabbing his coat, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and his eyes held a wild, desperate look that sent a chill down Morgan's spine.

He was heading towards the back exit, his intentions clear. He was trying to flee.

Morgan's mind raced, piecing together the clues. Harmon's sudden change in demeanor, the panic in his eyes, the way his hands shook even more than before. It all pointed to one thing - guilt.

But guilt for what? Was he truly the killer they had been searching for? Or was there something else, something deeper and darker lurking beneath the surface?

She couldn't take that chance. She couldn't let him escape, not when they were so close to the truth.

Morgan burst through the door, her voice ringing out in the small space. "Victor Harmon! FBI! Stop right there!"

Harmon froze his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, he seemed to waver, torn between fight and flight.

Then, with a speed that belied his frail appearance, he yanked the door open and bolted, disappearing into the daylight.

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