Page 8 of Forbidden

As they neared the construction site, Morgan's mind snapped back to the task ahead. Rachel Marquez's death wasn't a simple accident—it was a message scrawled in blood and hidden symbols. They were dealing with a killer who spoke in riddles, who draped their acts in the guise of the occult. It was up to her and Derik to decipher the language of death that had been left for them to uncover.

Her resolve solidified, Morgan parked the car, then stepped out of the unmarked FBI sedan, her boots crunching on gravel and debris. The morning sun had barely crested the horizon, but its light was already struggling to penetrate the thick fog that clung to the skeletal framework of the new apartment complex. She scanned the area, taking note of the half-finished structures and the torn-up roads that cut through the site like open veins.

Derik followed, shutting the door with a soft thud that was swallowed by the expanse of the construction zone. The hum of machinery and distant shouts of workers clashed with the silence that seemed to press in from all sides. Morgan felt it, that eerie sensation that lingered where tragedy had struck.

"Agent Cross, Agent Greene," a local officer called, his uniform stark against the dirt and chaos around him.

"Officer," Morgan acknowledged.

The officer led them past the yellow tape that marked the boundaries of the crime scene. Morgan's gaze never wavered from the task ahead. Crime scenes were puzzles, and each piece brought her one step closer to understanding the twisted mind of their perpetrator. The sinking feeling in her gut told her this was more than an accident; it was staged with meticulous care.

"Where did they find her?" Morgan asked, keeping her questions direct, her tone even.

"Right ahead, ma'am," the officer pointed toward a section cordoned off at a distance. "Rachel Marquez fell into the pit during her nighttime jog, it seems."

Morgan nodded, storing away each detail. The ground beneath her feet crumbled slightly at the edge of the excavation—a reminder of how fragile the line between life and death could be in this place. She watched as Derik surveyed the scene, his face a mask of concentration, mirroring her own determination. They might have their personal issues, but when it came to work, they were in sync, two parts of a well-oiled machine.

As Morgan approached the perimeter of the pit, she eyed the markers and police tape, noting their positions. Someone had tampered with this scene before Rachel's arrival, someone who wanted to ensure her fate. The thought sent a cold surge through Morgan's veins. She knew the value of human life, having seen too much of it wasted, too much spilled in the pursuit of someone else's twisted agenda. And she would not rest until she found the person responsible for this.

Morgan stood at the edge of the pit, a deep void that marred the earth like an open secret. She leaned forward, her eyes tracing over the jagged perimeter where the ground had given way. Below, the dark outlines of dried blood contrasted sharply against the dirt—a stark testament to Rachel Marquez's final moments. The air was heavy with the scent of disturbed soil and something more acrid, perhaps the tang of fear that still lingered.

"Agent Cross?" The officer's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Go on," she prompted without looking up, her voice steady and clear.

"Construction crew had this area cordoned off." He gestured towards the pylons scattered haphazardly around them. "But someone moved them overnight."

"Deliberately?" Morgan's gaze finally shifted from the abyss to meet his.

"Seems so." He shuffled uncomfortably, aware of the implication.

She nodded once, sharply. In her mind, the pieces began to shift, clicking into place with the precision of a well-oiled mechanism. Someone wanted Rachel here, wanted her not just dead, but consumed by the bowels of the city.

"Any witnesses?" she asked, glancing back at the pit, as if it might cough up answers.

"None so far. Construction workers say they left everything secure last night."

"Secure," Morgan echoed, tasting the irony. Secure as the lies that had once caged her in stone and steel. But those days were behind her; now, she was the one who pursued truth, relentless as a hound on the scent.

Morgan scanned the area until she spotted a man in a hardhat, his face grim—likely someone she wanted to talk to. She approached the construction worker. He was a solidly built man in his early forties, with hands that spoke of hard labor and lines etched into his face from years of squinting against the glare of the sun. His eyes were heavy with concern, or perhaps it was guilt, as they shifted from Morgan to the abyss that had claimed Rachel Marquez.

"Morning," she greeted him, her tone businesslike. "I need to ask you about last night."

"Morning, Agent." The man wiped his palms on his jeans before extending one for a handshake. "Name's Brian. I was the last to leave yesterday."

"Brian," she nodded, skipping the handshake. "Tell me about the pylons and warning signs. Were they in place when you left?"

"Absolutely," he replied without hesitation. "We triple-checked everything. Safety's our top priority here, especially with all the holes we've been digging."

"Yet someone moved them between then and when Ms. Marquez went for her jog this morning," Morgan stated flatly, observing his reaction.

Brian's gaze dropped to the ground, his jaw tightening. "Can't believe anyone would do such a thing. It's sick."

"Anyone in particular you think might have done this?" Morgan pressed, searching his face for any sign of deception.

He shook his head slowly. "No, ma'am. We're like family here. Can't imagine any one of us..." His voice trailed off, leaving the accusation hanging in the air like the dust around them.

"Thank you, Brian," Morgan said, shifting gears. "Now, I need your help with something else."

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