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"Thank you," Morgan said, taking the card from him. As she tucked it into her jacket pocket, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of her badge—a reminder of the justice she was sworn to uphold, the truth she was determined to uncover. She felt Derik shift beside her, his presence a steadying force in the charged atmosphere.

"Think back," Derik pressed, leaning into Drew's space, his tone sharpening with urgency. "Where did you first see the symbol?"

Drew's face creased with concentration, his eyes distant as he delved into the recesses of a past life. "It was years ago," he started, voice halting as if dragging the memory into light required immense effort. "Used to hang with a different crowd then... places kids shouldn't be." He paused, as if the mists of time were hard to navigate, before his expression cleared slightly. "An overpass, east end of town, not far from where I grew up." He squinted, searching his mind for further details, but shook his head. "That's all I got. Sorry."

Morgan's nod was a silent promise of diligence. "We'll check everything out, Drew," she said, the words clipped and professional. She stood up from where they'd sat across from him, her movements brisk, signaling the end of their impromptu interview. The air in Atticus Tattoo shifted subtly, as if the room itself could exhale, relaxing now that the interrogation was winding down. But Drew’s eyes still flickered with unease, tracking Morgan and Derik as they moved towards the door.

"Thanks for cooperating with us," Derik added, his voice lacking its earlier edge. He followed Morgan's lead, his tall frame straightening as he prepared to leave the dimly lit confines of the shop. Drew merely nodded, his fingers drumming an uncertain rhythm on the armrest of his tattoo chair. His gaze held a mix of emotions—fear, wonder, perhaps even a bit of dread—as he tried to reconcile the ordinary life of an artist with the sinister web in which he’d become entangled.

With a final glance at Drew, Morgan stepped out of Atticus Tattoo, Derik at her side. They were greeted by the blinding light of a Texas sun that seemed to mock the darkness they’d just left behind. Without speaking, they looked at each other, their shared history allowing for silent communication. It was a look that conveyed understanding and mutual resolve. Drew might be innocent, yet his art had somehow woven into the tapestry of death that draped over the city.

They walked side by side to their unmarked FBI car parked a few meters away, the heat of the afternoon making the air above the asphalt ripple like water. Despite the warmth, a chill traced Morgan's spine as she considered the overpass mentioned by Drew.

“What do you think of him?” Morgan asked. “Think he’s guilty?”

“Not really,” Derik confessed. “He seemed earnest enough, but we’ll have to confirm the alibi.”

“Right. Let’s send these numbers to HQ to follow up on, then go check out that overpass. I want to know if that part of his story is true.”

"Sounds like a plan," said Derik, opening the door of the black sedan. They both slid inside, the leather seats hot to the touch from where the sun had been beating down.

Morgan took a moment to glance back at Atticus Tattoo through the tinted windows. Drew was outlined against the eerie neon glow of the shop sign, immersed in his world of ink and art, oblivious to the threat that his past association with the killer's symbol posed. Or was he? She shook her head, pushing away her doubts.

They would find out soon enough.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Morgan maneuvered the sedan through the thickening traffic, her hands steady on the wheel despite the turmoil churning within. Derik sat beside her, his gaze lost in the gathering clouds that painted the afternoon sky a foreboding shade of gray. The city's usual sounds were muffled by the impending storm, as if the world held its breath in anticipation.

"Looks like it could break any minute now," Derik muttered, breaking the silence between them. He didn't need to specify whether he referred to the storm or their case; both hung over them with equal weight.

As they approached the underpass on the far east end of town, Morgan's grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was where Drew Swanson claimed to have seen the symbol that had become the macabre signature of their killer. Her mind raced with possibilities, with the hope that this lead would bring them closer to the answers she desperately sought—not just for this case, but for the redemption of her own sullied past.

The car rolled to a stop at the mouth of the underpass. Ahead, the concrete expanse loomed like a cavernous maw, ready to swallow them whole. Morgan cut the engine, and for a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant rumble of thunder.

Derik turned to her, searching her face. "You okay?"

She met his gaze, recognizing the concern that lay beneath his professional veneer. "We've got a job to do," she said simply, her voice edged with steel.

They exited the vehicle, the humidity enveloping them like a second skin. With each step towards the underpass, the tension between them grew taut, a silent acknowledgment that they were delving into dangerous territory once again. It wasn't just the threat of physical danger—it was the gnawing uncertainty, the fear that even with all their efforts, they might still be no closer to catching a killer.

Morgan scanned the walls, searching for the symbol amidst the layers of tags and scribbles, a symbol that now bore the weight of death. Her gaze was methodic, practiced; she had learned long ago how to look beyond the surface, to find patterns in the chaos. But the underpass was reluctant to yield its secrets, each step forward revealing nothing but more questions.

Morgan's keen eyes detected the minute shift in her environment, an instinctive grasp for a weapon that no longer existed. Her reinstatement into the FBI hadn't managed to shake off the old reflexes that clung like phantoms. The soft echo of movement came from a cluster of drifters, their faces etched by life's harsh lessons, mirroring the crumbling city around them. As Morgan and Derik's gaze intercepted theirs, a wordless pact sparked briefly before these silhouettes withdrew into the secluded gloom beneath the bridge.

"Probably more spooked by our badges than we are by their appearance," Derik whispered, his voice barely disturbing the silence as though wary of rousing ghosts they had just brushed past.

"We're not here to scare off every Tom, Dick and Harry," Morgan retorted succinctly, her resolve undeterred by this ephemeral interruption. In this forsaken corner of town, power was only as useful as the trouble it drew—she had no desire to wield it against those merely fighting to survive.

They moved forward, each step intentional. Morgan's sharp gaze dissected the graffiti-covered concrete. Gang symbols, crude love notes, cryptic musings—none provided her needed answer. Derik also studied the visual mess, his weary eyes scanning, seeking sense in the chaos.

The drizzle began as a whisper against the concrete, droplets peppering the ground with an almost apologetic touch. Time dragged on, each minute stretching like taffy, and Morgan's jaw clenched in sync with the ticking seconds. Her eyes narrowed, sifting through the disorderly mosaic of urban art that clamored for attention on the walls. Derik moved beside her, a silent shadow against the grey pallor of the afternoon.

"Anything?" he asked, his voice barely carrying over the now steady patter of rain.

"Nothing," Morgan replied, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She knew frustration all too well—its sharp edges had been constant companions during her years behind bars—and now it gnawed at her insides, a bitter reminder of time wasted and stakes rising.

As they prepared to leave the underpass, resignation like a heavy cloak upon their shoulders, Morgan caught a glimpse of something incongruous—a dark shape peeking from beneath a cluster of weeds. Instinct took over, honed by years of searching for truths others wished to keep buried.

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