Page 9 of Forbidden

"Anything to catch the bastard," Brian offered, eager to assist.

"Good. I want you to work with the forensics team," she instructed, pointing toward the group setting up near the pit. "They'll comb through the area. Look for any signs, pylons, anything that might have been moved last night. They’ll check them for fingerprints, disturbances in the dirt, anything out of place. Your job is to point out which ones you think have been moved or tampered with.”

"Got it," Brian responded, a new purpose firming his stance.

"Every detail could lead us to whoever is responsible," Morgan added, her dark eyes intense with the weight of experience. "We won't let them get away with this."

"Neither will I," he assured her, before heading towards the forensics team with a determined stride.

As Brian walked away, Morgan's gaze shifted from the retreating figure of the construction worker to the concrete wall that loomed nearby. The morning sun cast a harsh light on the black spray-painted symbol that marred its surface. It was a circular sigil, uneven and hastily drawn, with lines that jagged in some places and bled in others. Splatters of paint fanned out around it, proof of a rushed job. Morgan's jaw clenched as she stepped closer, her eyes tracing the contours of the symbol that had now become an ominous signature.

The symbol marked the second crime scene where it had been found, a mocking echo of the first. Despite its amateurish appearance, the symbol's presence sent a shiver down her spine. She had seen too much in her years as an agent to dismiss even the crudest clue. Each stroke of paint felt like an affront, a deliberate act of violence laid bare for all to see.

Derik approached, his eyes immediately drawn to the symbol. He stood silently next to Morgan, his own scrutiny mirroring hers. There was a momentary lull in the tension that had stretched between them since last night’s confrontation. Right now, they were two agents trying to unravel a mystery that was becoming increasingly disturbing. As they stood there, the weight of their personal conflicts receded, overshadowed by the urgency of the case.

Morgan's thoughts raced as she studied the symbol. It bore a resemblance to occult imagery—possibly Satanic—but nothing about it was definitive. It was the sloppiness that gnawed at her, the clear indication that whoever had left this mark hadn't bothered with precision. That lack of care could point to someone unskilled or unfamiliar with the symbol's true meaning. Or it could be a sign of haste, a need to leave a message before fleeing the scene. Either possibility hinted at a trait of the perpetrator that could prove crucial.

The ungainly nature of the sigil contrasted sharply with the calculated movement of the warning signs. Whoever had done this had taken a risk, altering the construction site to turn it into a death trap. The incongruity of the messy symbol and the meticulous setup of the accident didn't escape Morgan. It suggested a duality within the suspect—a blend of impulsiveness and control—that made them unpredictable and dangerous.

Morgan's fingers traced the outline of the sigil, her touch light as if to avoid contaminating any invisible evidence that might cling to the rough surface. Derik stood beside her, squinting in concentration under the morning sun.

"Could be a signature," he suggested quietly, his words barely rising above the hum of machinery.

"Or a distraction," Morgan countered, her brow furrowed. The symbol was a riddle wrapped in spray paint—a deliberate mark left at multiple crime scenes but executed with what appeared to be reckless haste. "If it's a message, it's one we're meant to see." She turned to him, their eyes meeting in silent agreement. They needed to decode the meaning behind this crude circle, determine its place in the killer's twisted narrative. “Either way, we need to find out what this symbol means. Let’s get back to the lab.”

CHAPTER SIX

Morgan stood at the edge of a large desk, her gaze fixed on the laptop screen. The symbol glared back at her—a crude scrawl that spoke of dark intentions. Around her, the lab was alive with the hum of computers and the soft murmur of agents discussing leads and logistics. But Morgan's focus was singular: the enigmatic icon found near two victims, Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez. It was a signature, a taunt—a clue left deliberately.

She shifted slightly, feeling Derik's presence nearby. His proximity was both a comfort and a reminder of the complex layers of their relationship—professional, personal, each aspect woven tightly with the other.

A few feet away, Alice's workspace buzzed with energy, as chaotic as the thoughts racing through Morgan's mind. Screens flashed with lines of code and images, cables snaked across the tabletop, and reference books lay open, dog-eared and annotated. Alice's fingers danced over the keyboard, deft and determined, her youth belying the gravity of her task.

"Found anything?" Morgan's voice cut through the room's ambient noise, direct and devoid of expectation. She knew the weight of what they were asking from Alice—the distillation of countless data points into a single, meaningful pattern.

"Not yet," Alice replied without looking up, her tone betraying no frustration. There was something refreshing about the tech analyst's undimmed enthusiasm, a brightness that leavened the grim work they did. "But I'm getting close."

Morgan watched as Alice paused, pushing her askew glasses up the bridge of her nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with an absent gesture. The movement was habitual, unnoticed by Alice but not by Morgan, who catalogued every detail, every person. She had to. In a world where truths were obscured and justice elusive, observation was everything.

"Keep at it," Morgan encouraged, her words sparing but sincere. She turned away from the young analyst, her own instincts simmering beneath a calm exterior. This symbol was a lead, perhaps the first real one they had, and she would follow it wherever it led—into the past, tangled with her father's hidden life as an FBI agent, or into the darker corners of the present case. Each step was a potential minefield, every discovery a step closer to the truth that had cost her ten years of her life.

Morgan's gaze was fixated on the screen, where the symbol that had been their only clue in the deaths of Elizabeth Harmon and Rachel Marquez glowed ominously against the dark backdrop. Alice’s hands danced across the keyboard with a rhythm that was hypnotic, every keystroke a note in the symphony of their investigation. The room around them was a cocoon of silence, punctuated only by the soft mechanical clicks and the occasional chirp from the computer as it discarded another mismatched result.

She could feel the seconds ticking by, each one heavy with the weight of expectation. This symbol, crude and jarring in its presence at the crime scenes, was a whisper in the dark, beckoning them towards an unseen truth. It was the kind of lead that made her pulse quicken—both a promise and a provocation.

Beside Morgan, Derik stood like a sentinel. His presence was a quiet force, the subtle shift of his stance enough to convey his readiness to follow her into whatever abyss this case would unveil. He didn't need to speak; she felt his resolve aligning with her own.

Yet, there was an undercurrent of things unsaid between them—decisions made, trust broken and mended—that hovered in the air, unacknowledged but palpable. Morgan knew they needed to address the fracture that once threatened to break them apart, but not now. Now, they were united by a common goal, and that had to be enough to bridge any silence.

Her eyes never left the screen, reading and discarding possibilities even before Alice could announce them. Occult groups, extremist factions, lone wolves—all paraded through her mind in a grim procession. Each one brought its own brand of darkness, each a potential endgame for the twisted narrative that had claimed two lives.

Morgan’s focus sharpened, her thoughts honing in on the patterns that might emerge, the connections yet unseen. She was a hunter, tracking her prey through a forest of data and deduction. The symbol was a signpost, and she would follow it to the ends of the earth if necessary—to the very heart of the evil that dared to touch her city.

Alice's fingers stilled, her breath caught in a moment of anticipation. The cursor blinked on the screen as she leaned closer, the glow outlining her intent features. Morgan watched, a tight coil of excitement and trepidation settling in her gut. The minutes had stretched out with an unbearable weight, each second ticking by without promise until this sudden pause. Alice's eyes, usually bright and darting, now fixed on a particular point, a glimmer of triumph igniting within them.

"Got something," Alice said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Morgan moved closer, her gaze locked on the screen where images and symbols cascaded to a halt. There it was, that familiar curve and line, a sinister echo of the mark they'd found at the crime scenes. It wasn't an exact match, but the resemblance was uncanny, and it sent a shiver down Morgan's spine. The symbol was a piece of the puzzle they had been desperately searching for, and here Alice had managed to ensnare it in the digital web of her analysis.

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