Page 16 of Forbidden

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Morgan steered the unmarked FBI sedan to a stop in front of the Harmon residence. The quiet suburban street was lined with homes that bore witness to generations of families growing and changing, but none seemed as forlorn as the modest, older house before them. The recent rain had left the air thick, the scent of wet earth filling their nostrils as they disembarked from the vehicle. A dull gray sky loomed overhead, the overcast canvas reflecting the grim nature of their investigation.

The mysterious deaths, marked by the strange symbol, had cast a long shadow over their work. Each new discovery seemed to deepen the darkness surrounding the case, and the somber light bathing the neighborhood felt like an extension of that ever-present gloom.

Morgan's boots crunched softly on the gravel drive as she approached the house. She pulled her jacket closer against the chill, noting the well-tended garden, where blooms of vibrant flowers stood against the sorrow hidden within the walls of the Harmon home. They were remnants of a happier time, now out of place amidst the tragedy that enveloped the dwelling.

Taking a deep breath, Morgan prepared herself mentally for the task ahead. They were here to speak with Mary Harmon, who had lost her daughter Elizabeth—the first victim in what was quickly turning into a horrifying series of events. The house itself appeared trapped in time, its exterior unchanged through the decades; it whispered tales of a family’s history, of laughter and tears echoing through the years.

She glanced at Derik, who was trailing behind her, his face etched with the same resolve that tightened her own features. His eyes met hers briefly, a silent communication passing between them before he looked away, scanning the neighborhood. There was little to see—just the quiet humdrum of suburbia, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger that Morgan and Derik were chasing.

As they stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking beneath their weight, Morgan steeled herself for the conversation with Mary Harmon. Interactions with the grieving were never easy, especially when probing for answers meant reopening fresh wounds. But this was the job, the path to justice for those whose voices had been forever silenced.

She raised her hand and knocked on the door, the sound sharp in the quiet evening. The agents waited, the seconds stretching out, filled only with the distant murmur of a television or the bark of a dog from somewhere down the street. The neighborhood lay still around them, the silence almost oppressive. When the door creaked open, it revealed Mary Harmon, a woman seemingly aged more by heartache than time. Her eyes, weary and ringed with dark shadows, met Morgan's for a fleeting moment. The slump of Mary’s shoulders spoke volumes of the loss she bore, yet in the midst of her anguish, there flickered a weak spark of courtesy.

"Mrs. Harmon," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. "I'm Agent Cross, and this is Agent Greene. We're with the FBI." She watched as recognition, followed by a slight easing of Mary's guarded expression.

“Hello, is this about my daughter? Please, come in.”

Stepping inside, the agents were enveloped by the warmth of a residence steeped in personal history. The living room, though inviting with its plush couch and shelves laden with heirlooms, echoed with an emptiness no family photo could dispel. These walls, once vibrant with life’s milestones, now stood muted, testaments of joy overshadowed by tragedy.

Mary closed the door behind them with a soft click, and Morgan felt the air grow denser, the weight of untold stories pressing in around them. She took a shallow breath, acutely aware of the delicate balance between seeking justice and preserving humanity. This was someone's sanctuary, a place where a mother's worst nightmare had come true.

As Mary gestured towards the sitting area, Morgan noted the subtle shift in the older woman's demeanor. There was a resilience there, a strength that belied her fragile appearance. If there were answers to be found within these walls, Morgan knew they would need to tread carefully. The scent of lemon wax and old books lingered in the air, a contrast to the chilling case that led them here. Her gaze drifted across the room, catching sight of numerous framed photographs lining the mantle and walls. Each snapshot was a frozen moment in Elizabeth's life: her youthful exuberance at a birthday party, the proud stance at graduation, the broad smiles during family holidays. These captured moments were now edged with sorrow, each one a silent echo of a future stolen.

She felt Derik's presence beside her, his own attention caught by the poignant gallery of Elizabeth's existence. The silence hung heavy around them, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of an antique clock—an unwelcome reminder that time marched on, indifferent to the grief within these walls.

Mary moved ahead, her steps hesitant as if the act of leading them into the heart of her home was an invasion she could barely tolerate. They arrived in the living room, where the ambiance shifted palpably. Comfortable sofas and armchairs beckoned, yet an aura of stillness prevailed. It was as though life itself had been paused, the vibrancy of the household now dimmed to a mere whisper of its past warmth.

"Please, have a seat," Mary offered, gesturing toward the sofa with a hand that fluttered like a trapped bird. Morgan noted the minute tremors that raced along Mary's fingers, betraying her inner turmoil. She took a seat slowly, deliberately, while Derik settled beside her, both agents forming a united front in the search for truth.

Mary stood a moment longer than necessary before sinking into an armchair opposite them. Her posture remained stiff, the lines of her face drawn tight with the effort of maintaining composure.

"Mrs. Harmon," Morgan began, her voice a soft yet firm anchor in the quiet room. "I want to start by offering our deepest condolences for your loss. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you." Her words were sincere, spoken not just as an agent but as someone who knew the cold embrace of injustice all too well.

Mary nodded, a fragile smile wavering on her lips as she absorbed Morgan's empathy. "Thank you," she murmured, the simple gratitude laced with an ocean of unsaid pain. “It is hard, losing Elizabeth like this, but… we must keep moving on, right?”

“Right.” Morgan met Mary's gaze, holding it steady. "Mrs. Harmon," she started, her tone even and deliberate, "was there anything unusual about Elizabeth's behavior before she passed? Any changes at all?"

Mary's eyes seemed to look through them, lost in the recent past. "No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "She was... herself. Happy, even. It was so sudden." Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap, a rhythmic dance of anxiety and sorrow.

Morgan nodded, filing away Mary's responses. The lack of warning signs made the case more perplexing. No red flags, no cries for help—just a life extinguished without preamble.

Derik shifted next to Morgan, his attention fixed on Mary. He leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a different timbre of concern. "Elizabeth was a talented graphic designer, wasn't she?" he asked, his eyes earnest. "Why was she still living at home?"

Mary's gaze lowered, fixating on her intertwined fingers. "After she and Nate broke up, she took it hard," she said, the strain clear in her voice. "They'd been together for a long time, and she... she didn't recover easily. Coming back here seemed to comfort her."

"Did she talk about moving out again?" Morgan interjected, watching for any flicker of insight in Mary's expression.

"There were mentions, yes," Mary admitted, a note of regret in her tone. "But she never acted on them. I think... I think she needed this place, her childhood home, to heal. And I needed her just as much."

Morgan noted the subtle shift in Mary's voice, a tremor that betrayed something more than grief. "You mentioned Nate," Morgan said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What happened after he left?"

"Moved away," Mary corrected, her words laden with a resigned sorrow. "Elizabeth was heartbroken, truly lost without him. For months, she barely left her room. But then..." A pause hung in the air, filled with the weight of unspoken change.

"Then?" Morgan prompted, leaning in.

"Something shifted," Mary continued, her gaze flickering to a corner of the room as if trying to visualize the past. "In the last six months or so, Elizabeth... she found new purpose. I couldn't grasp it—didn't agree with it, really. But she seemed determined, alive in ways she hadn't been since before Nate."

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