Page 6 of For Fear

Morgan's fingers twitched, itching for a drink as she trailed Mueller down the hallway. The weight in her chest had morphed into a knot of anxiety, twisting tighter with each step. She could feel Derik's presence at her back, solid and reassuring, but it did little to quell the storm brewing inside her.

Mueller's office loomed ahead, a fortress of secrets and half-truths. As they approached, Morgan's mind raced, replaying Thomas's final moments on a loop. The sound of the gunshot, the splash of his body hitting the water - it all felt surreal, like a bad dream she couldn't shake.

"You two look like hell," Mueller remarked as he ushered them inside, closing the door with a soft click.

Morgan snorted. "Yeah, well, watching a man get shot tends to do that to you."

She sank into one of the chairs across from Mueller's desk, her body suddenly feeling every one of her forty years. Derik took the seat beside her, his knee brushing against hers in a subtle show of support.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and fixed Mueller with a hard stare. "So what's the play here, boss? We just pretend everything's peachy while Cordell's out there picking us off one by one?"

Mueller's expression remained impassive, but Morgan caught a flicker of something in his eyes - concern, maybe? Or was it guilt? Before she could decide, it was gone, replaced by his usual stoic demeanor.

"For now, yes," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "We can't tip our hand. Not yet.”

Morgan felt a surge of frustration, hot and familiar. She opened her mouth to argue, but Derik's hand on her arm stopped her. She glanced at him, saw the silent plea in his eyes, and swallowed her words with a grimace.

"Fine," she bit out. "So what do you want us to do? Twiddle our thumbs and hope Cordell doesn't decide to take another shot?"

Mueller's lips thinned. "I want you to do your jobs. There's a new case I'm assigning you. It'll keep you busy and, moreimportantly, it'll keep you in the field.” He slapped two files on his desk.

Morgan's fingers traced the edge of the file, her nails—chipped and uneven from nervous biting—catching on the paper. She flipped it open, eyes scanning the first page as Mueller's words hung in the air.

"A double homicide," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Fancy that."

Derik leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt through her, a reminder of their newfound closeness that felt both comforting and dangerous.

"Looks like a nasty one," he commented, his voice low.

Morgan snorted. "When are they ever not nasty?"

She could feel Mueller's eyes on them, calculating, assessing. It made her skin crawl. She looked up, meeting his gaze with a challenge in her own.

"So, what's the deal? Why us for this one?"

Mueller's mustache twitched, the only sign of emotion on his otherwise impassive face. "You're the best we've got, Cross. Despite... recent events."

The unspoken hung between them—Thomas's death, the conspiracy, the danger. Morgan's jaw clenched.

"Right," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because nothing says 'best agents' like a couple of walking targets."

Derik's hand found her knee under the desk, a gentle squeeze. A warning, maybe, or just support. Morgan wasn't sure which.

Mueller leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. "This case needs your particular... skills. Your ability to think outside the box. To see connections others might miss."

Morgan laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You mean my ability to smell bullshit a mile away? Yeah, I've got that in spades."

Morgan turned her attention to the files, absorbing the inked words like a punch to the gut.

"Sanchez, Lila—26," Mueller began, his mustache twitching with each syllable. "Stabbed. Left to bleed out in an alleyway downtown. The rain was kind enough to wash away any convenient evidence."

"Mother Nature’s alibi," Morgan muttered under her breath, flipping through crime scene photos with detached precision. The images were a blur of dimly lit concrete and dark stains diluted by water, the aftermath of violence now sanitized by weather.

"Isn't she always?" Derik quipped, but his joke landed in the room like a lead balloon.

Mueller continued, undeterred. "But our perp left us a bread crumb, and it's a weird one." He nodded toward the file, where a photograph of a soaked piece of paper held center stage. On it, sketched with a careful hand, was a simple violin.

"Musical tastes or just dramatic flair?" Derik mused, leaning closer to the photo.

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