Page 20 of Forbidden

"Sit," Rog said tersely, gesturing broadly to the seating arrangement. He then sank heavily into the largest couch, its cushions sighing under his weight. His eyes lingered on Morgan and Derik, reflecting a wariness born of a life lived on the fringe, always watching for the wolf at the door.

Davy remained by the entrance, his posture stiff, the whites of his eyes stark against the room's dimness. He seemed a bystander in his own territory, caught between the familiarity of Rog's authority and the intrusion of these federal agents.

Morgan chose a spot on a loveseat, the springs creaking as she settled in. She crossed one leg over the other, her pose casual but alert. Her tattoos were visible beneath the sleeves of her jacket. She needed Rog's trust, or at least his cooperation, and she knew vulnerability often served better than force.

She made no move to pull out her badge again; the point had been made. Instead, she mirrored Rog's direct stare, offering him the respect of equals—if not in law, then in survival. Derik took a seat next to her, his body language taut, a coiled spring of readiness despite Morgan's silent command for calm.

"Thanks," she began, her voice maintaining its even timbre, "for the talk." It wasn't gratitude she felt, but diplomacy demanded its own kind of performance.

Rog shifted in his seat, the leather of the couch protesting under his weight. "I suppose I owe you an apology for the gun," he began, his voice a gravelly drawl. He didn't stand to offer his hand, nor did the lines of tension around his eyes soften. "But let's not dance around the fact that this is Texas. I'm within my rights to protect my home."

Morgan noted the distinction—home, not business. The tattoos covering her arms seemed to tingle with the charge in the air, a silent echo of her own readiness to defend. She leaned back, fingers tapping a silent rhythm on her knee.

"Your home?" Derik interjected, his tone sharper than Morgan would have liked. "That doesn't give you the right to pull a weapon on federal agents."

"Derik," Morgan cut in before Rog could rise to the bait. Her gaze was steady, unblinking as she held Rog's attention. "We're not here to argue about your gun." She watched him, waited for the subtle drop in his shoulders, the release of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Why so defensive, Rog? You expecting trouble?"

The man's tattoos twisted with his frown, the horns on his forehead casting deep shadows across his eyes. "Trouble finds its way here often enough," he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Had my share of punks trying to play stick-up. They think the ink and metal make us easy targets."

"Badges don't change that," Morgan said, her voice even, but her mind was ticking, cataloging every detail—the way his eyes flickered to the door, the subtle clench of Davy's jaw. Fear or guilt, it crawled beneath the surface.

"Never had much use for trust." Rog’s words were a low rumble, almost lost beneath the thrumming bass from below. He settled back, arms crossed, a fortress of flesh and bone.

"Trust isn't what we're asking for," Morgan replied, her own stance mirroring his relaxed posture despite the coiled readiness that hummed through her. "Just answers."

Rog regarded her for a long moment, the silence stretching tight between them. Then he nodded once, curt and final. "Fair enough. But understand this—I've got nothing to hide."

Morgan angled her body toward Rog, the club's pulsating bass vibrating through the floorboards beneath their feet. "Elizabeth Harmon," she began, her voice steady. "How did she end up in your world?"

"Elizabeth…" Rog's face softened for a moment, revealing a trace of something akin to fondness. "She was curious, hungry for the knowledge we had to offer." He leaned back against the wall, arms still folded across his chest. "Didn't look the part, but that girl had an edge to her—sharp as a knife."

"An edge?" Morgan probed, her gaze unwavering.

"Indeed," Rog said with a nod. "She could see through the facade most people wear. Started creating emblems for us, symbols that meant something more than just ink on skin."

Morgan reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp photo, pushing it toward Rog. The symbol from the crime scenes stared back at them, ominous and cryptic. "Like this one?"

He studied the image, his brow furrowing. "No," he replied, shaking his head, a lock of hair falling over his tattooed forehead. "Never crossed my path before. Elizabeth had talent, but that's not her work."

"Are you certain?" Morgan pressed, watching him closely.

"Positive." Rog met her gaze squarely, his response carrying the weight of sincerity. "I'd remember something like that. Sure, it might bear some relation to imagery here, but it’s not exact."

Morgan nodded slowly, sliding the photograph back into her pocket. Her instincts screamed to dig deeper, but she kept her expression neutral, unreadable. She produced another photo, this time of Rachel Marquez, and held it out to him. "And her? Rachel Marquez. Any chance you've seen her around?"

Rog glanced at the picture, then back at Morgan, his face impassive. "Doesn't ring a bell."

A hint of irritation flickered behind Morgan's eyes, quickly masked. "You're sure about that?"

"Look, Agent Cross," Rog said, his tone edging toward impatience. "People come through those doors every night. But her?" He pointed to the photo. "Wouldn't forget a face like that. Never seen her."

Morgan absorbed his words, her mind racing yet outwardly calm. Doubt lingered, but she tucked it away for later scrutiny. Rog might be telling the truth, or he might be a convincing liar. Only time would reveal which.

Morgan's gaze sharpened as Derik leaned forward, his voice cool but edged with skepticism. "Alibis for the night of the murders," he said, eyes locked on Rog's heavily inked face. "Can you provide them? Where were you last night?”

The sound that escaped from Rog was more scoff than laugh, a dry rasp that echoed faintly in the dimly lit back room. "At the club. All night," he stated, with an air of nonchalance. "Plenty of witnesses." He nodded toward Davy, who hovered by the door like a shadow clinging to the wall. "Davy here, always on the door. Didn't step away for a second."

"Convenient," muttered Derik, casting a glance at Morgan. She could see the doubt written all over his expression, the way he held himself ready for any sign of deception.

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