Page 25 of Forsaken

Morgan thought of the crime scenes, of spring flowers blooming in autumn's dying light, of life and death mixed together in grotesque tableaux. "Will you come with us?" she asked. "Help us build a profile of someone who would intentionally pervert these traditions?"

He hesitated, his academic demeanor warring with obvious reluctance. Finally, he nodded. "Let me cancel my lecture and gather some relevant materials." His hand moved to his phone, then paused. "But I want it noted that I'm cooperating voluntarily, and I want my department chair informed of where I'm going and why."

As they waited for Woods to make his arrangements, Morgan watched him move around his office, selecting books and files with careful consideration. His movements were precise, controlled - the gestures of someone who lived in a world of ideas rather than action. But there was something else about him that nagged at her instincts, some subtle wrongness she couldn't quite place.

She thought of Hannah's face in those crime scene photos, of spring flowers spilling from lifeless lips, of all the ways that knowledge could be twisted to serve darkness. The most dangerous monsters were often the ones who could justify their actions with elegant theories and ancient wisdom. The question was whether Woods was one of those monsters, or just another academic whose work had been perverted by someone else's madness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The interrogation room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Elliot Woods' face as he gestured animatedly, his academic passion transforming the sterile space into an impromptu lecture hall. Morgan watched him from across the metal table, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle tell that might reveal something beneath his scholarly facade.

The room smelled of stale coffee and nervous sweat, undercut by the sharp tang of industrial cleaner that seemed universal to all institutional settings. A paper cup sat untouched near Woods' elbow, its contents long since gone cold. The professor had been talking for nearly two hours, his academic enthusiasm seemingly inexhaustible as he detailed the historical significance of various harvest rituals.

"The mixing of corn silk with a harvest moon phase—it's a perversion of ancient fertility rites," Woods explained, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he leaned forward. Papers covered the table between them, ancient agricultural diagrams and ritual calendars spread out like evidence at a crime scene. His fingers traced the lines of a particularly complex diagram, leaving slight smudges on the pristine photocopy. "But combining it with spring flowers? That's not just unorthodox—it's a deliberate violation of sacred boundaries. Whoever's doing this understands the power of these rituals but rejects their fundamental purpose."

A ceiling tile above them had a water stain in the shape of Texas, and Morgan found her eyes drawn to it repeatedly as Woods spoke. She'd spent ten years studying similar stains in her cell, finding patterns in the random marks left by time and decay. The habit had stayed with her, along with so many others forged in that decade of captivity.

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, who stood near the door with his arms crossed. His tie hung loose around his neck.

The academic's tweed jacket was worn at the elbows, and ink stains marked his shirt cuff—small details that spoke of a life spent among books rather than in the field. But something about his enthusiasm felt off to Morgan's practiced eye.

"You're saying he's not just killing them," Morgan said, drawing Woods' attention back from whatever academic tangent he'd been about to pursue. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh under the table, a habit she'd developed inside to help maintain focus during long interrogations. "He's making a statement about control. About power over natural law itself."

Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, its sound muffled by thick concrete walls. The autumn sun had begun its descent, painting the high window's light in shades of amber that seemed to mock the artificial brightness of the interrogation room. Morgan thought of all the sunsets she'd missed during her incarceration, each one marked only by the changing angle of shadows in her cell.

"Exactly!" Woods' eyes lit up with scholarly enthusiasm, though something darker lurked beneath his academic excitement. A vein pulsed at his temple as he shuffled through his papers, selecting another diagram with trembling fingers. "These aren't just murders—they're demonstrations. Each death is arranged to show mastery over nature's most fundamental boundaries. Spring flowers in autumn, harvest symbols out of season—he's declaring himself above natural law."

She thought of Hannah Smith's face in those crime scene photos, of spring flowers spilling from lifeless lips, of how their killer transformed death into grotesque art. Everything about this case felt arranged, curated. She'd spent ten years paying forsomeone else's carefully constructed lies, and she wasn't about to let another killer hide behind false facades.

A fly buzzed against the high window, its drone mixing with the ventilation system's hum to create a discordant symphony that set Morgan's teeth on edge.

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss, cutting through Woods' theoretical discourse. Assistant Director Mueller stood in the doorway, his expression grim enough to make Morgan's instincts immediately shift to high alert. The fluorescent lights caught his wedding ring as he gestured for her to join him, a flash of gold that reminded her of autumn leaves in morning sun. His mustache twitched with barely contained urgency—a tell she'd learned to read during their years of working together.

"A minute, Agent Cross?"

In the hallway, the lighting was no less harsh, but at least the air felt cleaner. Morgan noticed the tension in Mueller's jaw, the way his shoulder holster hung slightly askew beneath his suit jacket—small details that suggested he'd moved quickly to bring her this news.

"They found another body," Mueller said without preamble. His voice was low, meant only for her, but the words seemed to echo off the cinderblock walls like prayers in an empty church. "Vineyard this time. Female victim, arranged with some kind of ritual elements. First responders are saying it's... elaborate." He paused, his expression darkening. "More elaborate than the others."

Morgan's blood ran cold. "It's too soon," she said, her mind racing through implications. "Hannah Smith's body was found less than twenty-four hours ago. He's never escalated this fast."

The building's heating system kicked on with a clang that made them both start slightly. Through a nearby window, Morgan could see the Dallas skyline silhouetted against the autumn sunset, its glass towers reflecting orange light like signalfires. Somewhere in that urban maze, their killer was probably already planning his next performance.

"He's accelerating." Mueller's expression hardened, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern. "And there's more. The victim... she's been identified as Jessica Clarke. Local chef, scheduled to cater a wine event tonight. Her staff reported her missing when she didn't show up for prep work."

A custodian pushed his cart past them, wheels squeaking against the polished floor. She watched the man disappear around a corner, leaving behind the sharp smell of cleaning solution that made her think of crime scene cleanup crews.

"Woods?" she asked, glancing back toward the interrogation room where the professor was still arranging his papers with academic precision. Through the two-way mirror, she could see him muttering to himself as he sorted documents into neat piles, his movements almost ritualistic in their attention to detail.

"Keep him here," Mueller ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "If he's not involved, maybe he can help us understand what this new scene means. If he is involved..." He let the implication hang in the air between them, heavy with potential consequences.

Morgan nodded, already calculating next steps.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The autumn air bit through Morgan's leather jacket as she ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, frost crunching beneath her boots. Dawn painted the vineyard in shades of rose and gold, the vines stretching toward the horizon like soldiers standing at attention. She registered every detail: the way the morning light caught the ice crystals on the leaves, the subtle patterns pressed into the frozen soil, the heavy stillness that always seemed to gather around death. Above, a murder of crows circled the scene, their black wings cutting shadows across the frosted ground.

Detective Martinez's team had already erected portable flood lights, their harsh glare creating a bubble of artificial day in the pre-dawn gloom. The lights cast multiple shadows across Jessica Clarke's body, transforming the scene into something that belonged in a modern art installation rather than a crime scene. The chef hung suspended between two rows of vines, her body arranged with the same terrible precision Morgan had seen in their killer's other tableaux. Grapevines had been woven through Jessica's short dark hair like a crown of thorns, while others wrapped around her limbs in patterns too intricate to be random. Each twist and turn of the vines seemed deliberate, creating a macabre sculpture that merged the dead woman with the dying autumn landscape.

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