Page 11 of Forbidden

The walls of the parlor served as a gallery for the macabre; skulls grinned from frames, abstract designs twisted into unsettling shapes, and symbols with dark connotations seemed to crawl across the canvases with an eerie life of their own. Morgan's nose twitched at the clinical scent of antiseptic mingling with the earthy tang of ink. A low background track, some kind of ambient music, did little to alleviate the sense of desolation.

Stepping further in, the sound of the door shutting reverberated through the quiet interior. It felt almost too quiet, as if the room itself was a predator laying in wait. Morgan's gaze, sharp and discerning, swept over the space, taking in every detail—the way the light barely infiltrated the gloom, how the chairs sat empty, and the stations were immaculately tidy, unused.

Her instincts, honed by years of navigating the treacherous labyrinth of criminal minds, sensed something amiss. She knew how easily outward tranquility could mask inner turmoil—or danger. The place seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the stir their presence would cause.

Derik anchored himself at her side, mirroring her watchfulness. His emerald gaze swept the surroundings in a calculated manner, his stance poised yet relaxed. Morgan observed the subtle creases framing his eyes, silent witnesses to countless restless nights spent wrestling professional challenges and private torments.

Morgan's gaze followed the figure of Drew Swanson as he emerged from the dimly lit back room. He moved with an easy grace that seemed at odds with the ink that swirled over his skin, a living tapestry of dark themes and intricate patterns. His piercings caught the subdued light, glinting briefly as he approached. Despite the metal and the tattoos that might have been designed to intimidate, there was an openness to him, an affability that belied his appearance.

"Hey there," Drew greeted them, his voice warm. "What can I do for you folks?" There was a genuine note of curiosity in his tone, as though FBI agents walking into his shop was just another interesting turn to his day.

Morgan noticed the briefest shadow cross Derik's face—a reaction to Drew's ease. She knew that look; it was the one Derik wore when he sensed something amiss. She shared the sentiment. In their line of work, niceties often preceded lies, and trust was a luxury they could ill afford.

"Mr. Swanson?" Morgan said, her voice even. She flipped open her badge, holding it up for him to see, Derik doing the same. "We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Drew's smile didn't falter, but Morgan caught it—the fleeting flicker in his eyes, the split-second freeze before he nodded.

"Of course, Agents. Please, have a seat," he gestured towards the couches arranged in a cozy corner of the shop.

"Thank you, but we'll stand," Morgan replied, her attention subtly shifting to an item on the table nearby, her instincts honed from years of sifting through crime scenes telling her not to get too comfortable.

There was an artbook binder open on the table. Morgan's fingers grazed the leather binding before she turned the pages, the scent of antiseptic mingling with the musk of old paper. The art book sprawled open on the dusty table, its edges worn from use or perhaps from being leafed through by countless curious clients. Sketches spilled across the spread, some so exquisitely rendered they seemed to pulse with life; others twisted into forms that skirted the edge of nightmares.

There, stark against the ivory backdrop, was the symbol that haunted their case. Its lines were clean, deliberate, the same curves and angles that had been hastily spray-painted at the scenes where Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez met their ends. Morgan's heart thrummed a heavy beat as she traced the design with her eyes, committing every detail to memory. This wasn't the work of an amateur—it was a careful study, replicated with chilling precision.

Lifting her gaze to Drew, she found him watching her, an easy smile playing on his lips. But beneath it, was there a flicker of something else? A shadow of concern, perhaps, that lurked behind the casual facade? He couldn't have known they would find this, Morgan mused, not unless...

"Interesting piece," she remarked, voice steady but laced with the gravity of the symbol's implications. It was time to peel back the layers, to see just how deep Drew Swanson's involvement went. Morgan leaned in towards Drew, the symbol on the page a dark omen. "Is this an original?"

Drew's gaze flitted to the artwork, his brow creasing as if sifting through years of discarded memories. He gave a half-hearted shrug, the metal in his eyebrow catching the dim light. "No, I saw it somewhere. Think it was under a bridge—or someplace like that," he said with practiced ease. His voice held a note of indifference as though discussing the weather, not a symbol linked to brutal deaths. "Cool design, so I sketched it out from memory for my book."

Morgan drew her phone from her pocket with deliberate slowness, thumbing through photos until she found what she needed. The screen came to life, illuminating the grim graffiti captured at the crime scene. "Look familiar?" Morgan asked, holding the device towards Drew.

The man leaned forward, his eyes expanding with apparent astonishment as he took in the image. A short gasp escaped him. "Damn, that's... that's almost exactly like the one I saw," he exclaimed, a trace of excitement lacing his words. "No clue who did the original, honest. Just saw it and thought I'd put my own spin on it."

She observed him, the reaction seemingly authentic. But Morgan knew better than to accept appearances at face value, especially when dealing with an artist capable of such duplicity in their work. His surprise could be genuine, or it could be another layer of deception—a mask worn by someone accustomed to hiding in plain sight.

"Interesting coincidence," she said, her tone even, locking eyes with him. Every fiber of her being remained alert, watching for the telltale signs of a facade cracking. But Drew's demeanor suggested nothing but bewilderment, a creator confronted with his creation in the most unexpected of contexts. "That symbol you thought cool enough to ink into your portfolio," she started, her voice steady and unwavering, "is linked to the deaths of two women in this city." The words hung like a weight in the air, dense with implication.

Drew's demeanor shifted perceptibly. His gaze flickered between Morgan and Derik, seeking some kind of reassurance or reprieve that neither agent was inclined to give.

"Deaths?" he echoed, voice edged with an anxiety that hadn't been there moments before. The once confident lines of his posture sagged, as if the gravity of her statement had physically impacted him. It was clear Drew understood the magnitude of the situation; the notion that his art could be entangled with murder seemed to shake him to the core.

"Two women are dead, and someone used your design to mark the scenes," Morgan pressed, unyielding. Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any crack in his composure that might hint at deception.

"No, no," Drew stammered, hands raising defensively, "I just draw things, I don't—"

"Where were you last night, Drew?" Morgan cut in sharply, her question a blade poised at the young man's alibi. She needed to know if the artist before them was just a hapless creative or something far more sinister.

"Out," he blurted, almost too quickly. "With friends, at a bar. We played darts, video games... stayed out late." His sentences tumbled out in a rush, each word infused with a plea for belief. "They'll tell you, I crashed at Mike's afterward—didn't go anywhere else."

She noted the strain in his voice, the faint tremor of his hands. Whether it was fear of being falsely accused or the panic of a cornered guilty conscience, Morgan couldn't be sure. But beneath the surface of Drew's hurried explanation lay a current of desperation, a man clinging to the hope that his innocence was as clear to others as it seemed to himself.

"Names," she demanded succinctly. "We'll need to speak with them." There was no room for argument in her tone, only the expectation of compliance.

Morgan watched Drew, her gaze sharp and assessing. Despite the cool interior of Atticus Tattoo, sweat pearled at his temples, his earlier ease evaporating under the heat of interrogation. His story had flowed without the stilted rhythm typical of a lie—his surprise too genuine, his fear too raw. She leaned forward slightly, her voice steady. "We'll need to verify your alibi. Names and how we can reach them."

"Sure, sure," Drew said, nodding, his eagerness to comply almost palpable in the heavy air of the parlor. He reached for a business card, flipped it over, and scrawled several names and numbers in shaky handwriting. Each digit seemed to tremble with the weight of implication.

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