Page 17 of Forsaken

Morgan studied the footage, her mind racing. First, Victor Hale's too-perfect greenhouse, now this mysterious woman's convenient appearance at the gallery. Someone was arranging evidence like flowers in a dead woman's hair, creating patterns meant to mislead. But Morgan knew something about false evidence, about carefully constructed lies. She'd spent ten years paying for someone else's perfect frame-up.

"Pull up the footage from the past week," she instructed Amy. "Let's see this woman who's been watching."

As Amy worked, Morgan's attention was drawn to a series of photographs on the wall—exhibition openings, gallery events, moments of celebration frozen in time. Hannah appeared in several, her professional smile bright under gallery lighting. In one photo, she stood prouder than the rest, next to a sculpture that seemed to defy gravity—delicate metal work that transformed industrial materials into something organic, something alive.

The image struck a chord in Morgan's mind. Their killer did the same thing—transformed natural elements into unnatural arrangements, forced spring to bloom in autumn, bent reality to his will. But there was something else about the photo that nagged at her, something just beyond her grasp. A detail that seemed significant but refused to come into focus.

The wind rattled the gallery's windows, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and approaching winter. Somewhere in the darkness, Hannah Smith waited to become their killer's next masterpiece.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At HQ, facial recognition got a quick match on the ID of the woman seen lurking near the gallery.

Diana Grove.

The harsh glow of Morgan's computer screen cast shadows across her face as she studied Diana Grove's profile. The FBI database photo showed a woman with striking features—raven-black hair, pale skin, and green eyes that seemed to pierce through the camera. Exactly as the gallery receptionist had described.

"Professional background's a perfect fit," Derik said from his desk, his voice tight with the energy of a promising lead. His tie hung loose around his neck, and empty coffee cups littered his workspace. "PhD in Botanical Sciences, research focus on ethnobotany and traditional plant medicine. Published multiple papers on ritual use of plants in harvest ceremonies."

Morgan leaned closer to her screen, scanning Diana's publication history. The titles jumped out at her: "Sacred Flora: Agricultural Rituals and Seasonal Transitions," "Blooming Death: Plant Symbolism in Ancient Harvest Rites," "The Language of Flowers in Traditional Sacrifice." Each one echoed their killer's methodology with unsettling precision.

"It's too perfect," Morgan muttered. Like Victor Hale's greenhouse, everything about Diana Grove aligned too neatly with their profile. She'd learned the hard way how evidence could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told. Her own frame-up had been just as meticulously crafted.

The office was quiet at this hour, most agents having left for the night. Outside, Dallas's skyline glittered against the darkness like a constellation of artificial stars. Somewhere out there, Hannah Smith was running out of time.

“I didn’t expect the killer could be a woman,” Morgan said, “but I guess we can’t rule it out.”

Derik nodded, his eyes still fixed on his own screen. "We've been assuming a male perpetrator, but Diana Grove fits the profile in every other way. The knowledge, the access, the symbolism—it's all there."

“Where does she live?” Morgan asked.

“One second…” Derik’s eyebrow twitched as he focused on his screen, typing away. "Got a current address, west side of Dallas," Derik said, breaking into her thoughts. He rolled his chair closer, the movement familiar and grounding. "And her workplace. She runs the experimental greenhouse complex at the Botanical Research Center."

“Get me her number,” Morgan said. “It’s late—she might just be at home.”

Morgan's fingers hovered over her phone, her mind racing. She knew the risks of tipping off a potential suspect, but the urgency of Hannah's disappearance outweighed protocol. With a deep breath, she dialed the number Derik showed her.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Morgan's heart pounded in her chest. On the fourth ring, a male voice answered.

"Grove residence."

"This is Special Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI," Morgan said, letting authority fill her voice. "I need to speak with Diana Grove."

A pause, then: "She's not here. Working late at the greenhouse. Some kind of special project she's been obsessing over."

Morgan's eyes met Derik's across their desks. Special project. Like Laura Benson's flower-crowned corpse in the river? Like Emily Whitmore's harvest-ritual death in the cornfield? Like whatever performance piece awaited Hannah Smith?

"Thank you," Morgan said, already reaching for her jacket. "That's all we needed."

***

The drive to the Botanical Research Center passed in tense silence, broken only by the soft sounds of Dallas traffic and the occasional crackle of their police radio. Morgan watched the city scroll past, its architecture transforming from downtown steel and glass to the lower, sprawling buildings of the research district. Even at this late hour, lights still burned in several of the greenhouse wings.

The Center's complex loomed before them, its glass panels glowing softly from security lighting and the occasional work lamp. The facility was massive—multiple connected buildings stretching out like a crystalline labyrinth. A sign near the entrance listed specialized areas: Desert Biome, Tropical Collection, Rare Species Research.

"Remember," Morgan said quietly, "she's either completely innocent or very dangerous. No middle ground with this kind of ritual staging."

Derik nodded. "Either way, we need her downtown for questioning."

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