Page 28 of For Fear

Morgan scrolled through Trevino's file, her eyes scanning the information rapidly. "Looks like he's got a pretty extensive rap sheet. Assault, robbery, drug charges." She paused, her brow furrowing. "Says here his most serious offense was stabbing someone in a bar fight ten years ago. Got him a nice long stint in prison."

Derik let out a low whistle. "Sounds like a real piece of work."

Morgan nodded, but something about Trevino's profile didn't sit right with her. He seemed too brash, too impulsive to be the meticulous killer they were after. The murders had been carefully planned, each victim chosen for their symbolic value. Trevino, on the other hand, seemed more like a common thug.

"I don't think he's our guy," she said slowly, voicing her doubts aloud. "He doesn't fit the profile. Our killer is obsessed with punishing fallen prodigies, with making a statement. Trevino's crimes seem more... opportunistic."

Derik considered this, his green eyes thoughtful. "Maybe he's not the mastermind, but he could still be involved somehow. If the killer bought or sold something at his shop, Trevino might have information that could lead us to them."

Morgan's pulse quickened at the possibility. "You're right. Even if he's not directly responsible, he could be the key to breaking this case open." She stood up, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. "We need to talk to him, see what he knows."

As they headed for the door, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were on the verge of something big. The pawn shop was their first real lead, a tangible connection to the killer. If they could just get Trevino to talk, to give them something to go on...

But even as the thrill of the hunt sang in her veins, Morgan felt a flicker of unease. Her mind drifted to Cordell, to the corruption that festered at the heart of the FBI. She had no idea how deep it ran, how far Cordell and his cronies would go to protect their secrets.

She glanced over at Derik, at the determined set of his jaw. He had betrayed her once, had been blackmailed into helping frame her all those years ago. But he was here now, fighting by her side. She had to believe that counted for something.

As they stepped out into the crisp autumn air, Morgan squared her shoulders, ready to face whatever lay ahead. Come hell or high water, she would see this case through to the end. For the victims, for their families.

For the truth.

***

The Black Rose Pawn Shop loomed before them, a faded blight on the otherwise bustling street. Its weathered brick facade bore the scars of decades of neglect, with patches of moss creeping up the corners like green fingers clawing at the walls. The neon "OPEN" sign buzzed and flickered in an erratic rhythm, casting an eerie red glow across the cracked pavement.Each flash illuminated the grime-streaked windows, behind which shadowy shapes hinted at the treasures—or secrets—within.

Morgan's boots crunched against the gravel as she strode towards the entrance, Derik falling into step beside her. The weight of her service weapon pressed reassuringly against her hip, a constant reminder of the dangers they might face. She'd been in law enforcement long enough to know that even the most routine questioning could turn deadly in an instant.

She paused at the door, her hand hovering over the tarnished brass handle. "Ready?" she asked, her voice low. The word carried more meaning than its single syllable suggested—a question loaded with years of partnership and shared peril.

Derik nodded, his green eyes sharp and focused beneath furrowed brows. "Always." His hand unconsciously brushed against his holster, a gesture Morgan had seen countless times before. It wasn't nervousness—it was preparation.

They exchanged a loaded glance, a silent understanding passing between them. No matter what awaited them inside, they would face it together. United. It had been that way since their first case together, and it would remain that way until the end. Partners. Friends. Sometimes, the only people they could truly trust.

Morgan pushed open the door, the jingling bell overhead sounding unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The sound echoed through the shop like a warning, bouncing off cluttered shelves and dusty display cases. The interior was a labyrinthine maze of merchandise: tarnished jewelry locked behind smudged glass, outdated electronics stacked precariously on metal shelves, and vintage guitars hanging from the ceiling like suspended sentinels. A haphazard collection of forgotten treasures and discarded junk, each item telling its own story of loss or desperation.

The air was thick with the musty scent of leather and stale cigarette smoke, mingled with the metallic tang of old coins and the sweet decay of aging paper. Dust motes danced in the wan light that filtered through the dirty windows, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere that belied the shop's seedier nature.

Behind the counter stood Marcus Trevino, the man from the mugshot, though the photograph hadn't captured the nervous energy that seemed to radiate from his entire being. He was on the phone, his voice a low murmur, but as soon as he caught sight of Morgan and Derik, his words trailed off mid-sentence. His eyes widened, darting towards the back exit like a cornered animal searching for escape. His posture stiffened with barely contained panic, shoulders rising defensively as his free hand gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened.

Morgan stepped forward, her badge glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights that cast harsh shadows across her determined features. "Marcus Trevino? FBI. We have some questions for you." Her tone was professional but carried an edge of authority that demanded attention.

Trevino slowly lowered the phone, his hand trembling slightly as he set it on the counter. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the shop's cool interior. "I... I don't want any trouble," he stammered, his gaze flicking nervously between Morgan and Derik like a tennis ball in play.

"Then you'll answer our questions," Derik said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He moved to Morgan's left, subtly positioning himself to cut off any potential escape route. "We're investigating a series of murders. Your shop came up in our investigation." The word 'murders' seemed to hang in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid.

Trevino's face paled, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow under the harsh lighting. His complexion took on an almost greenish tinge, matching the sickly hue of the aging fluorescenttubes overhead. "Murders? I don't know anything about any murders." His voice cracked on the last word, betraying his attempt at casual denial.

Morgan leaned forward, bracing her hands on the counter. The glass surface was cool beneath her palms, smudged with countless fingerprints from countless transactions. "See, I think you do, Marcus. I think you know a lot more than you're letting on." Her dark eyes locked onto his, searching for the truth beneath the fear.

She held his gaze, unflinching, watching as he squirmed under the intensity of her stare. She could practically see the gears turning in his head, the desperate calculations of a man caught in a trap of his own making. His fingers drummed an irregular rhythm on the counter, a telegraphed signal of his mounting anxiety.

"I swear, I don't know anything," Trevino insisted, his voice rising in pitch like a kettle approaching its boil. Sweat now dripped freely down his face, darkening the collar of his worn polo shirt. "I just run this shop, that's all. I mind my own business." The words tumbled out too quickly, too rehearsed.

Morgan's eyes narrowed, her instincts screaming that he was lying. Every micro-expression, every nervous tic, every bead of sweat told a story of guilt and fear. But before she could press him further, Trevino made his move.

In a flash of desperate energy, he vaulted over the counter with surprising agility for a man his size, shoving past Morgan and Derik with the strength of pure adrenaline. The impact sent a stack of papers flying, receipts fluttering through the air like startled birds as he bolted for the back door. Morgan cursed under her breath, her reflexes kicking into high gear as she sprinted after him, Derik hot on her heels. Their footsteps thundered against the worn floorboards, sending vibrations through the cluttered aisles.

The chase was on.

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