Page 28 of Forbidden

Morgan studied the girl. This dance of evasion wasn't new to her. Trish was a closed book, but Morgan's years behind bars had taught her how to spot the subtle cracks in a person's armor. It was just a matter of applying the right pressure.

With a sense of resignation, Morgan reached into her folder and pulled out a photograph. It was a glossy print of the symbol—the same one that had been haunting her investigation, turning up like a grim signature at each crime scene, a cruel mockery of justice.

She slid the photo across the table, the movement smooth and deliberate. "What about this? Ever seen it before?" Her voice held steady, revealing nothing of the weary frustration that had built up inside her.

Trish glanced down at the image nonchalantly, but her casual facade wavered ever so slightly. She hesitated, her eyes lingering longer than they had on anything else since the interview began. It wasn't the blatant acknowledgment Morgan had been desperate to see, yet it was a deviation from Trish's otherwise consistent display of disinterest.

"Should I have?" Trish asked, a hint of caution creeping into her voice.

"Maybe not," Morgan conceded with a shrug, feigning indifference. "But if you do, it could help clear your name. Make things easier for you." She watched Trish carefully, looking for any sign that her bait had been taken.

The silence stretched between them, but Morgan waited. The interrogation room, with its humming lights and barred windows, often acted as a crucible for truth. Given time, most people cracked under the weight of their secrets. And as the quiet settled heavily in the air, she sensed Trish's resolve beginning to wane.

"Looks familiar, doesn't it?" Morgan probed, voice devoid of triumph. It was crucial not to spook the girl now.

"Kinda," Trish muttered, the word barely more than a breath. Her fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to touch the paper. "Reminds me of Jace's stuff."

"Jace?" Morgan seized on the name, a lifeline amidst a sea of dead ends. The walls of the interrogation room seemed to press closer, eager listeners to the unfolding secret.

"Jace Crane," Trish said, suddenly finding the scratched surface of the table fascinating. "He was part of the scene, you know? Always around, always... drawing." Her voice faded, like a radio signal losing strength.

Morgan's mind latched onto the morsel of information. Jace Crane—a name previously unspoken in this investigation, yet one that carried weight in Trish's world. He could be the key they had been searching for, the bridge between the victims and the symbol that mocked the gravity of their deaths.

"Tell me about Jace," Morgan prompted, her tone soft but insistent. She needed more, anything to flesh out the specter of a lead before her.

Trish's eyes remained downcast, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. The bravado that had cloaked her was gone, replaced by a hint of vulnerability. "He was just this guy, okay? Liked to party with us. And he drew... stuff like that," she nodded at the photo, her words tinged with an unease that reached beyond the confines of the interrogation room. “Exactly like that, actually.”

Morgan noted every shift in Trish's demeanor, every nuance that betrayed a connection to the case. This wasn't just another disaffected youth caught up in the raid; this was someone who knew something.

"You knew him well?"

Trish uncrossed her arms, leaning forward with elbows on the table. The defensive slouch was gone, replaced by an earnestness that drew Morgan's full attention. "Yeah, we hung out a lot," she admitted, biting her lip. "Jace was... different. He liked to sketch, always scribbling in his notebook."

"And you saw these drawings?" Morgan asked, nodding subtly at the symbol still lying between them.

"Sure," Trish replied, her fingers tracing the edge of the photograph without touching it. "He drew that thing everywhere—on napkins, flyers. It was like he was obsessed or something."

"Obsessed how?" Morgan pressed, her gaze never wavering from Trish's face.

"Like, he wouldn't talk about anything else when he got going. Said it was powerful, that it meant something big." Trish shrugged, her eyes taking on a distant glint. "I thought it was just Jace being Jace, you know?"

Morgan nodded, though her mind raced ahead. Powerful. Something big. This wasn't the idle doodling of a club-goer; this was deliberate, meaningful. And if Jace Crane had plastered this symbol across his world, he'd left breadcrumbs leading directly to the core of their investigation.

"Are you sure it's the same symbol?" Morgan needed confirmation, something tangible to grasp onto.

Trish's nod was emphatic, her earlier indifference completely gone. "No doubt about it. That's Jace's thing." She pointed at the photo, her finger hovering just above the surface. "He talked about it enough."

"Tell me more about his obsession," Morgan coaxed gently, aware that pushing too hard could spook Trish into silence.

"It was like he found religion or something," Trish said, her voice hushed. "He wouldn't shut up about its power, how it connected to something ancient. I didn't get it, but it was important to him."

"Did he ever mention where he learned about it? Any groups or people he might've been involved with because of it?"

Trish shook her head. "Nah, Jace was always kinda secretive about that stuff. Like it was his personal treasure or whatever."

Morgan shifted in her chair, the sterile light of the interrogation room casting long shadows on the table. Her eyes locked onto Trish's face, searching for any flicker of deceit or evasion. The air was thick with tension, and she could see the girl was on the edge of something significant. “And where could I find Jace now?” Morgan asked.

"Oh, didn’t I make it clear?” Trish said, checking her nails. “Jace Crane is dead.”

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