Page 2 of Forsaken

"Ah, yes. The name he chose when he ran." Cordell moved closer, his expensive shoes leaving impressions in the wet grass. Water beaded on his tailored black coat, a stark contrast to Morgan's weathered leather jacket. "Your father's biggest mistake was letting you join the FBI. He should have known I would find out eventually. That I would recognize those eyes—Mary's eyes."

A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down Morgan's spine. "What does that mean?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "What was Mary Price to you?"

The rain intensified, drumming against Cordell's umbrella. His expression darkened, decades of carefully contained rage showing through the cracks in his composed facade. "Your father stole my only chance at happiness when he killed her. Accident or not, he took her from me. Then he ran, changed his name, started a new life." His lips curved in a cruel smile. "While I spent forty years building the power to destroy everything he loved."

Morgan's mind raced, trying to piece it together. The irony wasn't lost on her—a year ago, she would have celebrated Thomas Grady's death. He'd infiltrated her life, gained her trust, then betrayed her—even kidnapped her dog, Skunk, as leverage. But then everything had changed. Thomas had revealed the truth about his mother, Mary Price, and the FBI's cover-up of her death. He'd become an unlikely ally in Morgan's quest for justice, and possibly—though she'd never know for certain now—her half-brother.

If Cordell had loved Mary Price... The implications made her head spin. Had her father stolen another man's lover? Had Thomas been Cordell's son? Another secret buried in the grave at her feet. The fresh dirt was still dark against the grass, the flowers from the funeral beginning to wilt in the constant rain.

"I've watched you for years, Agent Cross," Cordell continued, his voice taking on an almost wistful tone. "Watched you follow in your father's footsteps, join the Bureau, become the rising star of the BAU. Just like him—so bright, so promising. So easy to destroy."

Rage flared in Morgan's chest, hot enough to burn away the rain's chill. Her hands curled into fists, the scars on her knuckles white with tension. Prison had taught her to channel angerinto something useful, something controlled. But standing here, facing the man who had orchestrated her downfall, that control felt paper-thin.

"You framed me. Stole ten years of my life. Had Thomas killed. All because of some decades-old vendetta against my father?" The words came out steady, despite the storm of emotions beneath them. Through the rain, she could see other mourners in the distance, black umbrellas dotting the cemetery like ink drops on paper. How many of them were Cordell's men, she wondered. How many guns were trained on her right now?

"I'm going to give you one chance, Agent Cross." Cordell's voice was almost gentle now, the tone a father might use with a wayward child. "Resign from the FBI. Disappear. Live out whatever life you can build for yourself, far from here. Or I will take that choice from you, just like your father took my choice forty years ago."

Morgan lifted her chin, rain streaming down her face. She thought of all the nights she'd spent in her cell, planning what she'd say if she ever faced the person who framed her. Now, here he was, and none of those carefully rehearsed speeches seemed adequate.

"I'm going to expose you," she said, each word clear and sharp as broken glass. "I'm going to tear down everything you've built. And when I'm done, everyone will know exactly what kind of monster you are."

Cordell laughed again, turning away. "Just like your father—so righteous, so certain." He began walking through the cemetery, his umbrella bobbing between the headstones. "Remember my offer, Agent Cross. It won't remain open long."

Morgan watched him disappear into the rain, her hands trembling with rage and spent adrenaline. She had no doubt Cordell would try to kill her—he'd already destroyed her life once, framed her for murder, stolen ten years she could neverget back. But walking away from the FBI, from her chance to destroy him, wasn't an option.

She looked down at Thomas's grave one last time, at the puddles forming in the etched letters of his name. Had he known? Had he suspected that Cordell's obsession with his mother was at the root of everything? She thought of their last conversation on the pier, the urgency in his voice as he'd tried to tell her something about Cordell. Now, she'd never know what it was.

The rain continued to fall as Morgan turned away, leaving footprints in the mud. She thought of her partner, Derik, waiting in the car at the cemetery entrance, trying to give her space while still watching her back. Their relationship was complicated enough without adding Cordell's threats to the mix. But she knew Derik would stand with her, despite everything—despite the way she'd shut him out of her investigation, despite the darkness that prison had left inside her.

She thought of Assistant Director Mueller, who'd known her father back when he was John Christopher, who might have answers she desperately needed. The photograph of him with her father still burned in her memory, a snapshot of a past she'd never known existed. How deep did the lies go? How many more betrayals were waiting to be uncovered?

And she thought of Skunk, who'd stand guard while she paced her apartment tonight, trying to put the pieces together. The pit bull had been her one constant through everything, a reminder of the life she'd had before the frame-up, before everything fell apart. Even after Thomas had taken him, used him as leverage, Skunk had come back to her. Some loyalties, at least, couldn't be broken.

She had survived being framed, survived losing everything. She would survive this, too. And this time, she wasn't just fighting for justice—she was fighting for revenge. The tattoosthat marked her skin weren't just decoration; they were a record of her transformation, of the woman she'd become behind bars. Each one told a story of survival, of adaptation, of learning to be something harder than she'd ever imagined possible.

Behind her, Thomas's headstone stood silent in the rain, another marker in the trail of bodies Richard Cordell had left in his wake. But if he thought she would be the next, he had seriously underestimated what ten years in prison had made of her. Morgan wasn't the same young agent he'd framed a decade ago.

She was something much more dangerous now: a woman with nothing left to lose.

The Dallas skyline loomed in the distance, its edges softened by the autumn rain. Somewhere in that maze of steel and glass, Cordell's empire waited to be dismantled. And Morgan Cross intended to tear it down, one brick at a time, no matter what it cost her. She'd already paid in years of her life—what was a little more blood to balance the scales?

CHAPTER TWO

Morgan's living room felt too small for the weight of their conversation. Rain drummed against the windows, the same rain that had soaked through her clothes at the cemetery, though she hadn't bothered to change. Water dripped from her leather jacket onto the hardwood floor, forming dark pools that matched her mood. The sound of each drop hitting the floor seemed to echo in the tense silence, keeping time like a metronome counting down to an explosion.

The room still bore traces of her prison years—sparse furnishings, everything positioned for clear sightlines to the exits, nothing that couldn't be left behind at a moment's notice. Old habits died hard, especially ones forged through necessity and trauma. The only personal touches were the dog bed in the corner and a few framed photos on the wall, carefully chosen snapshots of her life before everything fell apart.

Derik paced near the kitchen doorway, his usual composed demeanor fractured by worry. Even his normally perfect hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it. His shoulder holster was off, draped over a kitchen chair, but his hand kept straying to where it should be, an unconscious tell that betrayed his unease. "You're not listening to me, Morgan. Cordell didn't show up at that funeral to threaten you—he showed up to warn you. This is bigger than we thought."

"Of course, it's bigger than we thought." Morgan's voice was sharp enough to make Skunk lift his head from his bed in the corner, ears perking forward. The pit bull's scarred face watched them both with intelligent eyes, reading the room's energy. "That's exactly why we can't walk away now. Everything we've uncovered, everything Thomas died trying to tell us—it all leads back to Cordell."

"He had Thomas killed." Derik stopped pacing, bracing his hands against the back of her couch. The leather creaked under his grip. "What makes you think he won't do the same to you? We're talking about a man who orchestrated your frame-up from the shadows for a decade. Now he's stepping into the light? That's not confidence, Morgan. That's escalation."

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Morgan knew that look in Derik's eyes—the same look he'd had when he'd confessed to being blackmailed, when he'd told her about his son being threatened. The memory of that conversation still stung: Derik breaking down, explaining how they'd used his boy against him, forced him to betray her. She couldn't blame him for his fear, but she couldn't accept it either.

Lightning flickered outside, briefly illuminating the room in stark relief. In that flash, Morgan caught her reflection in the window. Her brown hair was tied back in ponytail, her eyes dark and faded.

"You want to know what I think?" She crossed to the kitchen counter where case files were spread out, fragments of the puzzle she'd been piecing together for months. Coffee stains marked various theories, sticky notes in her precise handwriting connected seemingly unrelated events. "I think Cordell's scared. He wouldn't have exposed himself like that if he wasn't worried about how close we're getting."

---