Page 27 of Forbidden

"Didn't stand a chance," Derik replied, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and regret.

Morgan stepped closer to the symbol, her eyes narrowed as she took in its crude lines. Derik hovered at her shoulder, watching her with a quiet intensity that spoke to his understanding of the gravity of their situation.

"Derik," Morgan began, her voice low and contemplative, "I think our killer is not picking his victims personally. It's like he's setting up a stage for a macabre play and waiting to see who stumbles onto it."

Derik nodded, the morning light casting shadows on his face that seemed to emphasize the tired lines around his eyes. "You mean he's leaving it up to chance? That's... chilling."

"Exactly." She circled the symbol, taking it in from every angle. "It's not about who they are; it's about where they are. Wrong place, wrong time. And this" —she gestured to the black mark— "is his grand finale."

"Randomness of fate..." Derik murmured, almost to himself.

"Right," Morgan confirmed with a grimace. "And fate can be cruel."

They stood in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts about the implications of such randomness. The idea that anyone could be next was a heavy burden to bear.

The symbol before them seemed to mock their efforts, a stark reminder that they were dealing with a mind that reveled in chaos and death. Morgan turned away from the tree, her gaze sweeping over the tranquil path once more. Any one of these unsuspecting joggers or cyclists could have been a victim.

"Let's keep moving," she said, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.

As they walked, Morgan shared another theory that had been forming in her mind. "I'm starting to think he doesn't paint the symbol until after he believes his victim is dead. It's like his signature, but meant only for the deceased."

"Post-mortem?" Derik asked, his brow furrowing. "That would mean..."

"Exactly," Morgan interjected. "He's likely done this before. Experimented with different spots, perfecting his method."

"Finch surviving threw a wrench in his plans," Derik added, glancing back at the symbol. “But maybe he doesn’t know.”

"Which means there could be other traps out there," Morgan finished, her voice steady despite the shiver that ran down her spine. The thought of the city being littered with hidden dangers, each waiting for an unsuspecting soul to trigger its deadly mechanism, was enough to make her blood run cold. “It also means that anyone we arrested last night can’t be the killer.”

The stark realization hung heavy in the air between her and Derik—the killer could not be one of Rog's men. Every single person from the raid was accounted for, their alibis cross-checked and locked down tight behind bars. This narrowed the field of suspects but complicated the case even further.

"Could have been someone who slipped through during the commotion," Derik suggested, his voice low as he scanned the area, looking for anything that might have been missed.

"Or someone completely off our radar," Morgan replied curtly, her mind spinning with possibilities. She knew the killer was clever, cunning enough to operate undetected, to set traps that ensnared innocent lives in a cruel twist of fate. "Either way," she continued, her tone turning steely, "we need more information. Let’s go have a word with some of them.""

Derik nodded in agreement, his eyes meeting hers with a shared intensity. They both understood what was at stake—more lives could be on the line if they didn't act fast.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morgan leaned forward, her gaze unwavering as she observed the young woman, Trish, in the dimly lit interrogation room. The only light came from narrow slats in the blinds, casting thin shadows across the table that separated them. The rest of the room was washed in a monotonous gray, the walls bare and uninviting.

Trish's appearance was a contrast to the environment, her youth marred by the hard edges of cynicism etched into the lines of her face. Her arms were crossed, a barrier of defiance against whatever Morgan might throw her way. Chipped black nail polish adorned her fingers, tapping an irregular rhythm on her arm—a sign of impatience or nerves, perhaps both.

Morgan shifted in her chair, her muscles tense but her expression controlled. It was midday, yet the room felt like a place forgotten by time, where the sun was just another stranger passing by outside. She cleared her throat, ready to begin again despite the morning's disappointments. Notes shuffled under her hands, the sound crisp in the silence.

"Let's start with what you saw," Morgan said, her voice betraying none of the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. She knew the routine well, the dance of questioning that more often led to dead ends than revelations. But years of betrayal and hardship had taught her patience, even if every fiber of her being screamed for justice.

She watched Trish closely, looking for any tell-tale sign of recognition, any slip that could lead to a break in the case. Yet, as much as she wanted to find the person who framed her, to unravel the web of corruption within the FBI, this was about more than revenge. This was about stopping a killer—a killer marked by a sinister symbol that seemed to mock Morgan with its mystery.

The young woman before her offered only a bored stare in return, her body language screaming disinterest. But Morgan knew better than to accept appearances at face value. Everyone had something to hide; it was just a matter of finding the leverage to bring it out into the open. She thought of John Christopher, her father, whose secrets had only come to light after his death. He too had been enigmatic, his life a puzzle Morgan was still piecing together.

Morgan leaned back in her chair, observing Trish with the practiced patience of an agent who had interrogated countless suspects. The young woman's gaze wandered around the room, never settling on anything for long, least of all on Morgan.

"Look, lady, it's a club. People go to chill, dance, you know..." Trish's voice trailed off, uninterested in providing details.

"Anyone in particular stand out in the past several months?" Morgan pressed, trying to keep the irritation from seeping into her tone. Each elusive or indifferent response made her task feel more like clawing at a concrete wall with her bare hands.

"Same old crowd. Nothing special," Trish replied, her words dripping with apathy.

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