Page 30 of Forbidden

"Accidental fall into a pit," Derik echoed, scanning the report. His voice held a hint of doubt, a questioning lilt that mirrored Morgan's own skepticism.

"Doesn't sit right, does it?" Morgan said, her gaze still fixed on the screen. The image of Jace Crane seemed to taunt her, a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into their case.

Derik nodded, his eyes sharp with analytical focus. "Especially given our current string of 'accidents'. We should go see what the Cranes have to say.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Morgan steered the unmarked sedan past the corroded sign that announced their arrival at Shady Oaks Trailer Park. Derik sat quietly beside her, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding outside the window. The afternoon sun bore down unforgivingly on the east end of Dallas, casting stark shadows and offering no reprieve from the reality of the place.

A wave of discomfort settled heavily in Morgan's stomach as they drove deeper into the trailer park. She had seen places like this before—pockets of despair within the sprawling city where hope seemed foolish. Derik shifted uneasily, his hand brushing against the badge secured to his belt, a small comfort against the unease that filled the car.

The asphalt beneath them was riddled with cracks, weeds poking through in stubborn defiance. Trailers stood in various states of decay, their once-bright colors faded to dusty hues. Broken toys and discarded furniture littered the small yards, telling stories of better times or simply of giving up.

Derik cleared his throat. "Not exactly the Ritz," he commented dryly, but Morgan could hear the underlying concern in his voice. They were partners, after all, each attuned to the other's moods despite their personal entanglements.

"Keep your eyes open," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the gnawing tension. She navigated the sedan around a deep pothole, the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires filling the silence between them.

They passed by figures that seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trailers themselves. Men and women with faces etched by hardship watched the car with suspicion. Eyes squinted against the sunlight and narrowed further at the sight of strangers. Morgan met their stares unflinchingly, her own eyes dark pools of resolve. She was here for answers, not approval.

A group of kids paused their game of makeshift baseball, a battered can serving as the ball. Their curiosity warred with the instinctive caution that life in the trailer park had taught them. Morgan gave them a faint nod as she passed, though she knew it would do little to ease their wariness.

"Feels like we're intruding," Derik murmured, scanning the surroundings. He looked tired, the weight of their case—and perhaps his past betrayals—casting shadows under his eyes.

"Maybe we are," Morgan conceded. But there was work to be done, and neither of them could afford the luxury of hesitation. Not when lives were at stake, not when justice hung in the balance.

She finally slowed the sedan to a stop, parking it next to a rusted-out pickup that had likely seen its last highway miles years ago. This was their destination—the home of the Cranes. A chill ran up her spine, the kind that came from stepping into the unknown, from confronting grief head-on.

"Ready?" she asked, glancing at Derik.

"Let's do it," he said, and together, they stepped out of the safety of the car, ready to face whatever lay behind the door of trailer number 34.

Trailer number 34 loomed ahead, its very structure an embodiment of neglect. The paint on its aluminum siding curled away in strips like birch bark, and the roof sagged as if weighed down by more than years of weather. Morgan noted a lawn chair on the porch, its fabric faded and frayed from too many seasons in the sun. Beside it, a doormat lay threadbare, the word "Welcome" barely discernible. A few potted plants struggled for life amidst the desolation, their leaves yellowed and drooping. It was clear that despite the decay, this place was someone's home.

Morgan killed the engine and sat for a moment, her gaze fixed on the trailer's door. She felt Derik's eyes on her, sharing a silent communication honed by years of partnership. They both knew what lay ahead: they were about to step into the raw, exposed nerve of human suffering. This was not just another lead; it was a confrontation with the intimate pain of a family broken by loss.

Morgan felt the gravel crunch under her boots. Each sound seemed amplified in the stillness of the trailer park, the quiet only broken by the distant bark of a dog or the creak of a swing set swaying in a lazy breeze. She moved toward the trailer, her tattoos hidden beneath the sleeves of her jacket, a stark contrast to the vulnerability she was about to face.

Derik followed close behind, his presence a steady force at her back. He pulled the collar of his coat tighter against the chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. Morgan mounted the first wooden step, listening to the groan of weathered timber under her weight. With each creak, the tension between them tightened, a tangible thing that seemed to echo in the hollow spaces around them.

The porch felt precarious underfoot, a testament to the hard life that had unfolded within the walls of trailer number 34. Morgan paused before the door, her hand resting on the knob, feeling the coarse grain of the wood beneath her fingers. This was the threshold over which countless sorrows must have passed, and now they, too, would enter.

Morgan rapped sharply on the weathered door of trailer number 34. The sound seemed to linger in the air, heavy with the burden of what was to come. After a moment that stretched out too long, the hinges groaned, and the door swung open just enough to reveal a figure that could only belong to Mrs. Crane.

The woman before them was a map of hard-lived years, her features etched with the kind of weariness that comes from a life spent battling demons that refuse to be vanquished. Morgan took in the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes rimmed with red, the jittery shuffle of someone who's always on edge. Mrs. Crane's thin frame was dwarfed by the doorway, her hands fidgeting as if she couldn't quite decide whether to flee or stay. Yet, amid the signs of decay, curiosity sparked within those bloodshot eyes at the sight of two strangers on her dilapidated porch.

"Mrs. Crane?" Morgan asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. She knew the importance of being both firm and compassionate in moments like this.

Derik stepped forward, his eyes solemn as he flipped open his badge for the older woman to see. "We're with the FBI. We need to talk to you about your son, Jace."

At the mention of her son's name, something shifted behind the weariness in Mrs. Crane's gaze. It was as though the words had reached through the fog of her existence and touched a raw, tender place within her soul. She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat, and for an instant, a veil of sorrow softened the harsh lines of her face.

"Jace?" she whispered, barely audible over the distant sounds of the trailer park. Her voice was like a ghost's—haunting and brittle.

"May we come in?" Morgan asked, her tone gentle but insistent.

Mrs. Crane glanced back into the shadowed recesses of the trailer, a silent battle waging in her eyes. Then, with a small nod, she stepped aside. The movement was reluctant, almost protective, as if she were opening up her world of pain to these outsiders, knowing they might carry away pieces of it when they left.

Morgan stepped into the dimly lit trailer, her senses instantly assaulted by the stench of stale cigarette smoke that clung to every surface. The air was heavy with the mustiness of mildew, and she resisted the urge to cough as she scanned the cramped space. Old, mismatched furniture filled the room, their faded fabrics and worn edges telling stories of countless years of use and neglect. Wallpaper, once vibrant but now discolored and peeling, hung limply from the walls, while the scuffed linoleum floors were littered with dirt and debris.

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