Page 32 of Forbidden

"Can you give us any idea why?" Morgan's inquiry was gentle but persistent, seeking the cracks in the façade.

But the Cranes remained tight-lipped, guardians of a painful secret. Their refusal spoke volumes, even as they said nothing of substance. Morgan's instincts flared—there was a story here, one that could blow open the doors to understanding the tragedies entwining their lives.

Yet she held back, recognizing the boundary before her. There were lines one did not cross without invitation, and the Cranes' guarded expressions were clear deterrents. For now, Elliott was a shadow in the background of Jace's life, and the darkness he carried was one they weren't ready to illuminate.

Morgan watched the Cranes closely, feeling the weight of unspoken truths hanging between them. She eased back in her chair, giving them space, but every instinct told her there was more to this story. "Where can we find Elliott?" she asked, her voice measured, betraying none of the urgency she felt.

Mrs. Crane's fingers twitched, a nervous dance on the tabletop. "Elliott?" She exhaled a shaky breath, eyes darting away. "We ain't heard from him since... since the funeral."

"Jace's funeral," Mr. Crane clarified, his voice rough like gravel. He took a slow pull from his beer, the can crinkling slightly under his grip. "Something happened that day. Elliott, he was never right in the head, always messed up. But he loved Jace, God knows he did."

"Was there a fight?" Derik interjected, his tone careful not to push too hard.

"More like a breakdown," Mrs. Crane muttered, a shadow crossing her worn face. "After that, he just... vanished. Cut us out like we were nothing."

Morgan absorbed their words, noting the mix of resentment and sorrow that laced them. A rift at a funeral could mean many things, but it was clear that the event was a turning point for Elliott—and potentially for their investigation.

"Thank you," Morgan said quietly, though she knew they had uncovered only the tip of an iceberg.

She and Derik exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Elliott Crane was no longer just a name; he was a vital piece of the puzzle, his absence from the family as loud as any statement could be. There was more here, hidden beneath layers of family drama and grief. Whatever had driven Elliott away was tied to the mystery they were unraveling, and it was imperative they found him.

"Did Elliott have any place he frequented? Any friends who might know where he is?" Derik pressed gently.

The Cranes shook their heads, a united front of ignorance—or perhaps refusal—to divulge anything more.

"Alright," Morgan conceded..

Morgan stood, the chair groaning in protest as she shifted her weight. The dimly lit interior of the trailer had done nothing to illuminate their investigation, and the silence that followed their questions about Elliott hung heavy in the stale air. She glanced at Derik, who was already gathering his notepad and pen, his brows furrowed in thought.

"Mrs. Crane, Mr. Crane," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface. "We appreciate you speaking with us today."

The Cranes offered brief nods, their faces etched with lines of hardship and a trace of relief at the agents' impending departure. It was clear they were eager to retreat back into the cocoon of their suffering, away from the prying eyes of the FBI.

"Thank you for your time," Morgan repeated, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was well-versed in the dance of decorum, even when every fiber of her being screamed to push harder, to demand answers. But she understood that sometimes, pressure yielded nothing but resistance.

As she stepped out of the trailer, Morgan felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly in the open air. The trailer park was still, the only sound the distant hum of traffic beyond its confines. She and Derik walked side by side to their car, their silence a shared contemplation of the task ahead.

"Where do we go from here?" Derik's voice broke through her thoughts, low and serious.

Morgan unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat, the leather creaking under her. She took a moment before answering, starting the engine and letting the AC chase away the oppressive heat of Texas autumn.

"We find Elliott," she said, her resolve firm. "He's the missing link. If he cared for Jace as much as they claim, then he might be our best shot at understanding the motive behind these symbols."

"Assuming he's willing to talk," Derik added, buckling his seatbelt.

"Assuming," Morgan echoed. She pulled the car onto the road, leaving behind the desolate landscape of the trailer park. Her mind was already racing with possibilities, with the threads of this tangled web they were desperate to unravel.

CHAPTER TWENTY

He sat alone, the room's darkness clinging to him like a second skin. The computer's glow bathed his face in ghostly light, revealing the map that held his future and past in its web of streets and symbols. His eyes, red from hours of staring at the screen, moved with feverish intensity. He wasn't just looking; he was hunting. Each click, each scroll, brought him closer to another site, another chance for redemption.

His fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant yet urgent. He knew what he sought—a location where the veil was thin, where his offerings would be felt most acutely by those unseen forces he so fervently believed in. His hands shook not from the cold but from the weight of his dark purpose. With every keystroke, he etched deeper into the world's fabric, believing his actions were not of madness, but of necessity.

The air felt close, thick with desperation. The room, a small and cluttered space, served as both sanctuary and prison. It held the stench of sweat—the evidence of his frenzied search for meaning in a life that had long since spiraled out of his control. Windows veiled in drapes hid the daylight, shielding him from a world that wouldn't understand, couldn't comprehend the magnitude of his mission.

He existed in a soundscape of solitude, punctuated only by the staccato tap of keys and the soft clicks of the mouse. Each noise was a reminder of the isolation he endured, the stillness a contrast to the turmoil that roiled within him. But there was clarity in the silence, an affirmation that the path he walked was his alone to tread.

Hours slipped away, unnoticed and uncounted, as he delved further into the digital realm. He sought not just any construction site but one that resonated with the energy of his twisted quest. He needed a place untouched, forgotten—where the screams of the earth could still be heard, where the blood spilled would call out to the darkness he so desired to appease.

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