Page 6 of Forbidden

Determination set in her jaw, she reached her closet and slid open the door. Her clothes hung meticulously organized, a small semblance of order in the chaos that often surrounded her. She chose practical attire, a pair of dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that allowed freedom of movement and blended into the night should the need arise. As she dressed, her mind raced through possible leads, through the web of deceit spun so intricately around her life.

Her phone rang, jarring against the silence. Morgan glanced at the screen—Assistant Director Mueller. She took a deep breath and answered, her voice steady, betraying none of the emotional tempest within. "Cross."

"Cross, we have a situation," Mueller's gruff voice came through, tinged with the urgency that marked most of their interactions. "I need you on it immediately."

"Understood." She clipped her response, tucking strands of brown hair behind her ear.

"Details will follow when you arrive. Don’t delay."

"Be there ASAP." She ended the call without waiting for an acknowledgment and stared at the phone for a moment. Duty called, as it always did, demanding she shelved personal turmoil for the sake of the job. Yet, beneath her composed exterior, Derik's words from the night before echoed, stirring a tumultuous sea of emotions she struggled to suppress.

CHAPTER FOUR

Morgan pushed open the heavy door to Mueller's office, her footsteps muted against the thick carpet. The events of the previous night clung to her like a second skin, the tension coiled within her chest. Amid the scattered papers and files atop Mueller’s desk sat Derik, his presence striking an immediate chord.

Their gazes locked, a silent storm brewing in that brief exchange. A thousand words hovered unspoken between them, a gulf of emotions left raw and unresolved. But as FBI agents, they had mastered the art of burying personal turmoil beneath a veneer of professionalism. With a practiced ease, Morgan smoothed her expression into one of detached focus and moved forward.

She took the chair beside Derik, steeling herself against the proximity. The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with unaddressed grievances. Yet there was a case at hand, a purpose that demanded attention beyond their entangled lives.

Mueller, the embodiment of authority with his mustache and graying hair, acknowledged her with a nod. His desk, a landscape of chaos, betrayed no sign of his awareness of the tension that crackled silently between his two agents. Or perhaps, in his position, he'd learned the art of selective blindness when convenient.

"Thank you both for being prompt," Mueller said, his voice cutting through the strained silence. He spared no time for pleasantries, diving straight into the heart of the matter. Eyes fixed on Morgan and then Derik, he spoke with the gravity reserved for situations that bore the weight of potential tragedy.

"Let's get down to it," Mueller began, his tone leaving no room for the personal distractions that clouded the minds of those before him. The urgency in his voice served as a reminder of the stakes at play. They were not just agents; they were guardians against the shadows that preyed upon the innocent.

Morgan felt the shift in the room, the subtle realignment of priorities as she and Derik set aside the remnants of their private conflict. They were united once more by the call of duty. It was the foundation upon which their partnership, however fraught, was built. In the business of life and death, there was no space for anything less.

Mueller leaned forward, his eyes scanning the reports before him. "Yesterday evening," he began, his voice steady and deliberate, "Elizabeth Harmon was found dead at a construction site on the outskirts of town." Morgan's gaze sharpened as Mueller continued. "She fell into an open pit—around 10 pm according to the coroner."

"Wasn't the site secured?" Derik interjected.

"Should have been," Mueller replied, pressing a fingertip onto the grainy photograph of a fenced-off area littered with warning signs. "The crew claims they followed all protocols. But somehow, Elizabeth didn’t heed, or she didn't see those warnings."

Morgan studied the photo, noting the weathered barriers, the stark orange against the night. She could almost feel the chill of the Dallas autumn air, the kind that whispered warnings of its own. Her jaw tightened—a reflex when details didn't line up—and she imagined Elizabeth’s final moments, confusion and fear etched into the darkness.

"Accident?" she asked, though her instincts prickled with doubt.

"We thought so," Mueller answered, his mustache twitching slightly—a telltale sign he was about to deliver unsettling news. "Until this morning."

Morgan waited, a coil tightening in her gut.

"Rachel Marquez," Mueller said, sliding another photo across the desk, "found near a different site. Early jogger. Same m.o.—an unexpected detour, leading her straight into a pit dug by construction workers."

"Coincidence?" Derik pondered aloud, but Morgan's thoughts were already racing ahead. Patterns emerged where chaos reigned, and her mind worked relentlessly to piece together the disparate threads of occurrences most would dismiss as unrelated.

"Two young women," she murmured, tracing the outline of the second construction zone with a finger. "Both ending up dead under unusual circumstances, near places that should've been safe."

"Exactly," Mueller confirmed, his voice carrying an edge of frustration. "That's why we need to tread carefully. One accident is misfortune; two starts to look like something else entirely."

Derik's skepticism hung in the air like a stubborn fog, his voice tinged with an edge that didn't quite fit the professional facade he was struggling to maintain. "Accidents happen," he said, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. "People take wrong turns all the time." Morgan watched him closely, noting how he avoided her gaze, the lines on his face drawn tight. His reaction felt like a deflection, a subconscious armor against their unresolved personal turmoil.

"Perhaps," Morgan replied, her tone even, but her thoughts betrayed her. She couldn't shake the feeling that Derik's doubt was more than mere professional dissent—it was a shield raised against vulnerability, a way for him to regain some semblance of control after their emotionally charged dispute. She could see the turmoil beneath his tired eyes, a storm that mirrored her own internal conflict.

Mueller, however, seemed uninterested in entertaining theories that leaned towards happenstance. The assistant director's mustache bristled as he leaned forward, hands clasped firmly on the desk cluttered with case files and scattered reports. He had the look of a man who had stumbled upon something that unsettled even his seasoned composure.

"Your point would stand," Mueller began, his voice steady, "if it weren't for this." From a manila envelope, he produced a series of photographs, each one displaying a black symbol, stark against the concrete background. They was a sigil, a pentagram encased with a circle, its presence at both scenes an ominous herald that accidents were not the culprit here.

"Found near where each woman died," Mueller continued, his eyes locked on Morgan's. "Deliberate placement, not random graffiti. It suggests intent."

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