Page 21 of Forsaken

But it was her face that made Morgan's breath catch. Hannah's eyes were open, staring at nothing, while more flowers spilled from her parted lips like some twisted parody of speech. Spring blooms poured from her mouth in an impossible cascade, as if she'd tried to swallow an entire season and choked on its sweetness.

Behind her, Morgan heard Derik calling it in, his voice steady despite the horror before them. But she couldn't look away from Hannah's face, from the way the flowers seemed to glow against her cold skin. Their killer wasn't just taking lives anymore—he was transforming them into art, into installations that mocked the very laws of nature.

“We’re too late,” Morgan managed.

Derik was still beside her, sharing in her anguish.

Morgan's jaw clenched as she took in the grotesque tableau before her. The killer had elevated his craft, turning Hannah's death into a perverse work of art that defied the natural order. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air.

"He's evolving," she said, her voice low and taut. "This isn't just about death anymore. It's about transformation."

Derik nodded grimly. "The flowers from her mouth... it's like he's trying to force spring from winter. Life from death."

The wind picked up, sending dead leaves skittering across Hannah's still form. They mixed with the spring flowers in a dance of seasons, a collision of death and artificial life that seemed to perfectly capture their killer's vision. And there, half-hidden among the petals spilling from Hannah's lips, Morgan caught a flash of white that made her blood run cold.

A small card, pristine despite the water and flowers, bore a message in messy handwriting:"Some seasons never end."

The words hit Morgan like a physical blow, resonating with everything she knew about their killer. He wasn't just staging deaths or creating art—he was making a statement about power and control, about bending reality to his will.

“He’s making a mockery of us,” Morgan said, strained with emotion. “He’s killing these women… and for what?”

Morgan's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. Derik stepped closer, his presence a steady anchor in the surreal landscape of death and blooms.

"For control," he said softly. "To prove he can reshape the world according to his vision. To prove he can. To show us he controls life and death."

Morgan nodded, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She forced herself to look away from Hannah's face, to take in the entire scene with the clinical detachment. The flowers weren't random - each bloom had been chosen with care and arranged to create a specific effect. Tulips for rebirth, daffodils for new beginnings, hyacinths for sorrow.

"He's telling a story," she murmured, crouching down to get a better look without disturbing the scene. "Every detail means something."

Above them, the moon emerged from behind clouds, casting everything in silver light that made the scene look even more artificial, more staged. Morgan knew something about staged evidence, about carefully constructed lies. She'd spent ten years behind bars because of just such an arrangement.

Voices approached through the trees—other officers following their trail of flowers. Soon, this quiet tableau would be transformed into another crime scene, with cameras, evidence markers, and numbered flags destroying the killer's careful composition. But for now, it was just Morgan and Derik and the dead woman who had become their killer's latest masterpiece.

Hannah's open eyes reflected the moonlight, turning them into mirrors that held the truth Morgan had been missing. This wasn't just about death, or ritual, or even art. This was about transformation—about forcing nature itself to bend to someone's will. Just as Cordell had bent truth to serve his purposes, just as he'd transformed Morgan's life into a cautionary tale with his careful frame-up.

The wind carried the sound of approaching sirens, of boots moving through dead grass, of a world rushing to witness what they were already too late to prevent. But Morgan barelyheard it. Her attention was fixed on those flowers spilling from Hannah's lips, on the message they carried about power and control and the perversion of natural law.

Their killer wasn't just staging deaths. He was staging revelation.

And somewhere in the darkness, he was watching, waiting to see if they would finally understand what he was trying to show them. Morgan felt his presence like a weight in the air, heavy with the promise of more performances to come.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The morning dew had not yet burned off the grass outside Jessica Clarke's house when he parked his car three blocks away, positioning it carefully between two large oak trees. Their branches cast dappled shadows across his windshield, nature's own camouflage. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves—a reminder that nature was performing its own ritual of death, whether humans acknowledged it or not. But nature's cycles were too slow, too imprecise, too chaotic. His work required a more deliberate hand, a more artistic vision.

Through his binoculars, he watched Jessica move through her kitchen, preparing for another day of mundane existence. Her short black hair caught the early light as she poured coffee into a travel mug, the steam rising like incense in the morning sun. She was completely unaware that she had been chosen for transformation, that her life was about to become art. Even these simple moments—the way she checked her phone, adjusted her chef's coat, gathered her keys—would soon be elevated into something transcendent.

She moved with the confident efficiency of a professional chef, her actions precise and measured. Even from this distance, he could see how she embodied the perfect balance of control and creativity—exactly what his next piece required. Her restaurant reviews praised her ability to transform simple ingredients into extraordinary experiences. Soon, she would become part of an even more impressive transformation.

The vineyard had taken weeks to prepare, each detail meticulously arranged. The grapevines hung heavy with fruit, their leaves beginning to turn crimson in the chill. He had spent countless hours walking the rows, selecting the perfect location for his next installation. The way the vines twisted aroundtheir supports reminded him of embracing lovers, of bonds that transformed restraint into beauty. Soon they would help him create something extraordinary—a fusion of seasons that would make even the FBI's troubled agent take notice.

Agent Cross. He smiled, thinking of how close she had come at the pond, how her eyes had lingered on the flowers spilling from Hannah Smith's lips. She understood transformation better than most. But she still didn't see the full picture, didn't grasp the true meaning of his work. Each tableau was a step toward something greater, a lesson about power and the malleability of natural law.

Jessica appeared again in his view, loading supplies into her car. The knife roll she carried would be an ironic touch—her own tools participating in her transformation. He had studied her routine for weeks, learning the rhythm of her days like a composer memorizing a symphony. Every morning she left at precisely 7:15, stopping at the same coffee shop for a second cup before heading to her restaurant. Tonight she would work late, preparing for tomorrow's wine pairing event. The timing was perfect. The new moon would paint the vineyard in appropriate darkness, and the first frost was forecast to dust the vines by morning.

Everything had to be precise. One mistake, one imperfect detail, and the whole composition would be ruined. Agent Cross and her partner were getting closer, though not in the way they thought. Diana Grove's greenhouse had been a particularly elegant touch—all that carefully arranged evidence leading them down perfectly manicured paths. He enjoyed watching them chase shadows, seeing how they followed his breadcrumbs while missing the true pattern. They were so focused on the individual pieces that they couldn't see the larger masterpiece taking shape.

In his pocket, he carried a single tulip bulb, rolling it between his fingers like worry beads. The florist had assured him thesewould bloom in spring, but he knew better. Under his care, they would flower whenever he desired. Nature's laws were merely suggestions to those with the vision and will to transcend them. Just as he had forced daffodils to bloom for Laura, turned corn silk into Emily's crown, and filled Hannah's mouth with impossible flowers, he would make the vineyard acknowledge his mastery.

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