Page 24 of Forbidden

As he pulled away, the ghost of a smile played on Derik's face. Those green eyes, so often weary from the weight of his own past, now shone with a hint of solace. But even as the moment lightened the shadows in the room, Morgan could see the worry etched into the lines of his face.

"Stay safe," Derik murmured, the words barely louder than a whisper, but they landed with the force of a command. "That's all I want, Morgan."

His concern was a tangible thing, wrapping around her like the cool night air seeping through the cracks of her front door. She knew it stemmed from the place they were headed, professionally hazardous was an understatement—it was a maelstrom of danger that seemed to grow with every new lead, every dead end, and every night spent chasing ghosts.

"And Thomas?" Derik continued, his tone cautious yet laced with an undeniable edge. "Are you sure trusting him is wise?"

Morgan let out a slow breath, feeling the tension knotting in her shoulders. Thomas Grady—the man who had once been a threat, who had taken Skunk and used him as a pawn in his twisted game. Yet now, here they were, uneasy allies linked by the common goal of unraveling the web of corruption that had ensnared them both.

Morgan's hand curled into a fist, the tension in her knuckles an echo of the turmoil churning within. She released a soft groan, conceding to Derik's concerns with a reluctant nod. "You're right," she admitted, her voice a quiet admission amidst the stillness of her living room. "Working with Thomas—it goes against every instinct I have."

Derik's presence, a solid and reassuring force, anchored her as she continued, the disgust palpable in her tone. "His involvement makes my skin crawl. But he’s our ticket to the puppeteers—the cabal manipulating from the shadows." Her eyes, dark embers of resolve, fixed on Derik as she uttered the next name, "Richard Cordell."

At the mention, a shadow crossed Derik's face, his frown deepening like fault lines predicting an earthquake. Richard Cordell was a name they both knew—a high-ranking, long-retired FBI official whose reputation was once untarnished. A legend who seemed to have vanished, leaving only whispers and respect in his wake. Until now.

"Thomas has connections we can't ignore. As distasteful as it is, he's the thread we need to follow," Morgan's voice was firm, a testament to the bitter pill they had to swallow. "And Cordell... he wants me gone, Derik." Her words hung heavy between them, a weight of history and vendetta. "It all loops back to something old, something buried."

Morgan paused, gathering the fragments of a story that had shaped not just her life but also the lives of those entangled by fate's cruel design. "Years ago, there was a shootout—an accident. My father killed Mary Price. Thomas's mother."

The air seemed to thicken, charged with the revelation that tied their past to their present. Morgan's gaze never wavered from Derik's, her expression etched with seriousness. "Cordell's grudge against me stems from that day. The details are murky, layers upon layers that I can't quite peel back. Thomas claims he knows more, offers pieces of truth wrapped in his agenda." She exhaled slowly, a breath she'd been holding for years. "Fragmented, yes, but it's all we have."

Derik's gaze held worry, a silent storm that she knew all too well. "Morgan," he started, his voice laced with caution, "Thomas cannot be trusted. You know this. Whatever truth he claims to hold could just as easily be poisoned by his own interests."

She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "I know," Morgan admitted, her voice steady despite the anxiety gnawing at her insides. "Trusting Thomas is like dancing on the edge of a knife. But he's the only one with any connection to those who framed me—to Cordell." Her eyes, usually so full of resolve, flickered with the uncertainty of her choices.

"Thomas is your only lead because he wants it that way, Morgan. He's manipulating the situation," Derik insisted.

"Isn't that what we do?" Morgan countered, her tone soft but firm. "We use the resources we have, however flawed, to get to the truth." She paused, considering her next words. "I need to walk this line, Derik. It's the only way I'll ever get close to clearing my name and stopping them for good."

Derik nodded, conceding the point, though the lines that creased his forehead spoke volumes of his unease. They both understood the stakes, the precarious nature of the web they were untangling.

Morgan shifted her focus, the case looming over them like an unsolved puzzle demanding attention. "We've got a killer out there. Someone leading women off their paths, using symbols of darkness to mark their demise," she said, the agent in her taking command. "Elizabeth and Rachel were led to their deaths, and if we don't move fast, there will be more victims."

"Those women had families, dreams... futures," Derik murmured, his thoughts aligning with hers. "We can't let whoever did this continue on unchecked."

"Exactly." The word was sharp, a blade cutting through the haze of complexity that shrouded their investigation. "The symbolism, the patterns—there has to be a connection we're missing." Morgan's mind raced, replaying the evidence, the interviews, searching for the thread that would unravel the killer's identity.

"Every second we spend questioning our leads is another moment the killer remains free," she continued, her gaze fixed on the distance as if she could see the answers hovering on the horizon.

"We'll find him, Morgan," Derik assured her, his voice a bastion of support amidst the uncertainty. "We'll bring him to justice."

Morgan's brain buzzed with the day’s revelations, each new detail etching itself into her memory. The symbols, the victims, and the ever-looming figure of Richard Cordell danced on the edge of her consciousness, refusing to be silenced. She could feel exhaustion clawing at her, pulling her down into a void where sleep promised oblivion, if only for a few hours.

"Hey," Derik's voice broke through the fog of her thoughts. "We're no good to anyone if we can't think straight. We need rest, Morgan."

She looked up at him, his eyes reflecting the same fatigue that was likely mirrored in her own. His concern was tangible, an anchor in the storm that raged inside her. She hesitated, considering another hour, another lead, anything that might bring them closer to the killer.

Morgan took a deep breath, letting go of the relentless drive for vengeance that fueled her days—and too many of her nights. Reluctantly, she conceded to the logic in his words. Standing slowly, she placed her glass on the dark wood of the coffee table, the liquid barely disturbed from her contemplation.

Skunk, ever-present, shifted to look up at her, his tail thumping against the cushion. She reached down, her hand smoothing over his short fur, the solid reality of his presence a balm to her frayed nerves.

"Good boy," she murmured, more to herself than to the dog. It was a reminder that there was still goodness, loyalty, love—somewhere beyond the scope of their grim work.

Derik rose with her, towering and reassuring. Their eyes met, a silent conversation passing between them, worn agents who understood the price of the hunt. They were far from done, questions unanswered, justice unserved, yet they both recognized the necessity of retreat, if only to fight another day.

They moved toward the bedroom, the sanctuary against the demands of the world outside. Morgan felt a slight easing in her shoulders, a release of tension she hadn’t realized she'd been holding. Beside her, Derik matched her pace, his presence a steady pulse in the quiet of the house.

As the doorway approached, a sense of shared resolve settled around them. The case would wait, the darkness would hold off for a few more hours, and they would be ready when the sun rose again.

---