Page 25 of For Fear

Morgan cursed under her breath, adrenaline surging through her veins. She glanced back at Derik, seeing the determination etched on his face.

They had to catch him. They had to end this, once and for all.

With a nod, they took off after Harmon, plunging into the darkness that awaited them beyond the door.

The cool autumn air hit Morgan's face as she sprinted down the dimly lit alley behind the auditorium. Her footsteps echoed off the brick walls, mingling with the sound of Derik's heavy breathing beside her. Ahead, she could see Harmon's silhouette, his thin frame stumbling and weaving as he tried to escape.

"Stop!" she shouted again, her voice raw and commanding. "There's nowhere to run, Harmon!"

But he didn't listen. He kept running, his movements growing more erratic with each passing second. Morgan pushed herself harder, closing the gap between them. She could see the desperation in his body language, the way his arms flailed and his legs seemed to buckle under his own weight.

And then, it happened. Harmon's foot caught on an uneven patch of pavement, and he pitched forward, his body slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Morgan skidded to a stop, her hand instinctively reaching for her weapon.

But there was no need. Harmon lay there, his chest heaving, his face pressed against the cold concrete. Morgan approached cautiously, Derik right behind her.

"Victor Harmon," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. "You're under arrest."

She reached down, grasping his arm to pull him up. He was shaking violently, his skin clammy and pale. As she hauled him to his feet, she couldn't help but notice how light he was, how his body seemed to be nothing more than skin and bones.

They half-dragged, half-carried him back to the dressing room, depositing him in a chair. He slumped forward, his head in his hands, his entire frame trembling.

Morgan stood over him, her arms crossed. "Start talking, Harmon. Why did you run?"

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and haunted. "I thought... I thought you were here to arrest me. Or to drug test me."

Morgan's brow furrowed. "Drug test you? What are you talking about?"

Harmon let out a shaky breath. "I haven't been entirely honest," he whispered. "About my sobriety. I've been... I've been microdosing. To help me cope with the pressure of being on stage."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up. This wasn't what she had expected. "You've been using drugs? While preaching about recovery?"

He nodded miserably. "It's the only way I can do it. The only way I can face those crowds, night after night, and tell my story. I know it's wrong, but I... I can't stop."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik. This complicated things. If Harmon was still using, still in the throes of addiction, could he really be their killer? She studied his shaking hands, the way he could barely keep himself upright in the chair.

No, she realized. He couldn't be. The murders required a steadiness, a precision that Harmon simply didn't possess. He was a broken man, a shadow of his former self.

Those were questions Morgan intended to answer, no matter what it took. She leaned in closer, her voice low and intense.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. The tremors in Harmon's hands, the way he could barely hold the bottle - it was clear that years of substance abuse had taken their toll. His hands were severely damaged, the nerves and muscles weakened by the constant assault of drugs.

"I... I'm sorry," Harmon mumbled, setting the bottle back down. "I know I'm a fraud. I preach about recovery, but I'm still using it. I just... I can't face the crowds without it."

Morgan leaned back in her chair, studying him. Harmon's confession made one thing abundantly clear: while he was guilty of concealing his drug use, he was not their killer. The precision and force required to commit the murders they wereinvestigating would be impossible for someone in his condition. He could barely hold a pen, let alone wield a knife with the skill and strength necessary.

She glanced at Derik, who met her gaze with a slight nod. He'd come to the same conclusion. Harmon, as tragic as his story was, was not physically capable of being the person they were looking for.

"Mr. Harmon," Morgan said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We're not here about your drug use. We're investigating a series of murders. And while I understand your situation, I need to know why you ran when we tried to question you."

Harmon's eyes widened. "Murders? I... I don't know anything about any murders. I swear. I ran because I thought... I thought you were here to arrest me for the drugs."

Morgan leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "Are you sure about that? Because if you're holding back information..."

"No!" Harmon's voice cracked. "No, I promise. I have nothing to do with any murders. Please, you have to believe me."

Morgan held his gaze for a long moment, then sat back. Her instincts told her he was telling the truth. Harmon was many things - an addict, a liar, a man desperate to protect his image. But he wasn't a killer.

She stood, Derik following suit. "Alright, Mr. Harmon. We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."

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