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Morgan processed this revelation, her analytical mind piecing together the behavioral patterns. Elizabeth's newfound direction could be a key piece in understanding her untimely demise. "What kind of purpose?" she asked, her tone steady yet probing.

Mary sighed, a sound heavy with conflict and maternal concern. "She started seeing a new crowd," she said, a frown creasing her brow. "They were different from her old friends. Not the type you'd expect a graphic designer to mingle with."

"Describe them to me," Morgan insisted, sensing the importance of every detail.

"Odd," Mary muttered. "They had piercings in places you don't usually see. Tattoos that looked more like warnings than art. And they carried an unsettling energy around them." She shuddered slightly, recalling the unease that accompanied their visits. "They'd come at all hours, knocking on our door, leaving me feeling... disturbed."

"And did Elizabeth ever talk about these people? About what drew her to them?" Morgan asked, her mind racing with possibilities; cults, radical groups, dangerous liaisons—all potential avenues leading to the cryptic symbol and Elizabeth's death.

"Only bits and pieces," Mary admitted, her fingers nervously tracing the armrest. "She said they understood her, made her feel part of something bigger. But whenever I asked for details, she shut down. Said I wouldn't understand." Her voice trailed off, tinged with regret for not pushing harder.

"Did you confront her about this group?" Derik interjected, his expression mirroring Morgan's concern.

"I wanted to," Mary confessed, her shoulders sagging. "But every instinct told me not to push her away. She was already so fragile, and I feared losing the little connection we still had." Her eyes met Morgan's, pleading for understanding.

Morgan nodded, the pieces beginning to form a clearer picture in her mind. Elizabeth's vulnerability post-breakup, her attraction to a group that offered belonging—a dangerous combination ripe for exploitation. She logged every word, knowing they were inching closer to unraveling the mystery that cloaked Elizabeth Harmon's death.

Morgan's hand was steady as she retrieved the photograph from her leather bag. The image, a stark black symbol against a white background, seemed to pulse with an ominous energy even in print. She passed it across to Mary, who sat rigid in the armchair, her eyes shadowed with sorrow.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Morgan asked, her voice low and even.

Mary flinched as if the paper had stung her. Her fingers trembled visibly as she took the photograph, and her breath hitched in her chest. "I-I've seen something like this before," she stammered, eyes widening with recognition and fear. "Elizabeth... she drew things like this. Not exact, but…" Her voice wavered, a whisper of horror creeping into the edges. "In her notebook.”

A cold surge shot through Morgan's veins. This was it—the link they were grasping for in the dark maze of their investigation. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Mary's haunted face. "Can we see her room?" she pressed, the question laced with urgency.

Mary nodded, wordlessly rising from her chair. Her movements were mechanical as if each step required a conscious effort. Morgan followed closely behind, Derik at her side, both agents sensing the gravity of what lay ahead. They ascended the stairs, the carpet muffling their footsteps.

The hallway stretched before them, lined with doors that held secrets of a life interrupted. At the end of the corridor, Mary paused, her hand resting on the doorknob to Elizabeth's bedroom. She turned, her eyes pleading silently for gentleness in what they might find within.

Morgan crossed into Elizabeth's untouched room, a time capsule waiting for its owner. It was neat and orderly, every item carefully placed but lacking the soul of its inhabitant. Her eyes scanned the pristine bed with its smooth covers and plumped yet unused pillows. The furnishings were plain and practical, devoid of any unnecessary extravagance—just essentials for living and now, a crime scene to dissect. The room held an oppressive weight that surpassed mere grief. It felt as if the walls themselves were silent guardians over unuttered dark secrets. There was a tangible unease lingering in the room, suggesting it wasn't entirely tranquil. As Morgan neared the desk tucked away in one corner, this tension seemed to intensify, becoming almost electric. A few disarrayed sketchbooks stood out against the otherwise meticulous space, their existence nonchalant yet strikingly noticeable.

Morgan reached out, her fingers grazing the cover of one sketchbook before flipping it open. The pages revealed themselves one by one, each turn unveiling images that clawed at the edges of sanity. Satanic symbols leaped from the paper, grotesque figures danced in macabre celebration, and dark designs spiraled into madness. The similarities to the symbols found at the crime scenes were undeniable, each stroke of the pen a mirror to the chaos etched on concrete and dirt where Elizabeth and Rachel had died.

“Jesus,” Derik muttered, looking over Morgan’s shoulder at the sketches.

The drawings were rendered with an intricacy that spoke of a mind captivated, if not consumed, by the subject matter. It wasn’t the work of an amateur doodler passing time; this was the visual diary of someone delving deep into realms best left unexplored. Each symbol, each figure was a breadcrumb on the trail leading into the abyss Elizabeth had stumbled upon—or perhaps been led down.

“Do you mind if I take some photos of these?” Morgan asked Mary, taking out her phone. Mary simply nodded.

Morgan's fingers moved swiftly, the camera in her hand capturing the eerie sketches page by page. The shutter clicks were quick and methodical, like the ticking of a clock counting down the precious time they had to solve this case. With each snapshot, she felt closer to the dark heart of the mystery that had claimed Elizabeth Harmon's life. Her mind was focused, analyzing every symbol, every line that twisted across the paper. She worked with a practiced efficiency, knowing that these images were vital pieces of a sinister puzzle.

"Mary," Morgan began, turning her attention from the sketchbooks to the grief-stricken woman before her, "did Elizabeth ever talk about the people she was with? Do you know how we could contact them?"

Mary shook her head, a weary motion filled with the resignation of a mother who had been left in the dark by her own child. "She didn't say much about them. Kept things to herself after... after Nate left." There was a hint of pain as she mentioned the name, a reminder of a wound that hadn't healed. "They weren't the sort of friends she'd bring home for dinner, not like her childhood ones."

"Anything at all that might help us find where she met with these individuals?" Morgan pressed on, her voice firm yet laced with empathy. The agent knew well the wall of silence that often stood between parents and their grown children's secrets.

"Only that it was some kind of church," Mary replied after a moment's hesitation, her brow furrowing as she grappled with the memory. "But I doubt it was a traditional place of worship. My Liz would go there, and come back reeking of alcohol.”

"Could you show us where?" Derik interjected, his tone gentle but insistent. They both recognized the potential lead when they heard one.

Mary nodded slowly. “I followed her there once, because I was worried. It’s an old building… I’ll show you.” Mary took out her phone, opening up a map. Morgan held her breath. Maybe this place would finally bring them the answers they needed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Morgan squinted at the sky, the clouds a slate-gray ceiling over Dallas. Rain pelted down, adding a sheen to the dark leather of her jacket as she and Derik approached the crumbling edifice. The neighborhood, decrepit and mostly abandoned, whispered of danger with every flickering neon light that cut through the downpour.

The building loomed ahead, unmarked and nearly indistinguishable from the urban decay surrounding it. Morgan's instincts kicked in, a silent alarm ringing clear and insistent in her mind. She turned to Derik, their eyes meeting briefly in recognition. No words were needed; they both knew this place reeked.

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