Page 26 of Forsaken

The vineyard stretched out around them, rows of carefully tended vines disappearing into the morning mist. The seasonal timing wasn't lost on Morgan - harvest season, when the grapes would normally be heavy and ripe for picking. Instead, this particular row had become an altar for their killer's twisted vision of transformation. The air carried the sweet-sour scentof crushed grapes mixed with the metallic tang of blood, a combination that made her stomach turn.

"He's getting more elaborate," Derik said quietly, his shoulder brushing against hers as he crouched to study the ground beneath the body. "The level of detail in these vine patterns..." He trailed off, gesturing to where the plants had been manipulated into complex geometric shapes around Jessica's suspended form.

Morgan nodded, her mind already racing to connect the pieces. She studied Jessica's chef's coat, now stained purple with what looked like grape juice – another deliberate choice, another layer of symbolic meaning in their killer's twisted performance. The stains weren't random splatters but carefully applied designs that mimicked ancient symbols she recognized from Woods' research materials.

The morning light strengthened, casting long shadows through the vineyard rows that seemed to point toward Jessica's body like accusing fingers. Crime scene technicians moved through the scene with practiced efficiency, their cameras flashing like lightning in the dawn light. Each burst of artificial light revealed new details of the killer's meticulous work - the precise angle of Jessica's arms, the way her hands had been positioned to mirror the shapes formed by the vines, the careful arrangement of frost-covered grapes scattered around her feet like offerings at a pagan altar.

"Four victims," Morgan said, counting them off in her mind. "Emily Whitmore, the art dealer. Laura Benson, the librarian. Hannah Smith, the gallery owner. And now Jessica Clarke, the chef. They all dedicated their lives to enriching others. Culture, knowledge, creativity, nourishment." Her voice carried the weight of recognition, of pieces falling into place too late to save another life.

"And he perverted those contributions," Derik added, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Turned their life's work into elements of their death. Emily surrounded by the art of nature's death, Laura drowned with the flowers of false spring, Hannah transformed into a living sculpture, and now Jessica..." He gestured to the elaborate display before them. "Bound by the very vines that should have produced wine."

Morgan moved closer to Jessica's body, careful not to disturb any evidence. The killer had positioned her with the same artistic precision he'd shown with the others, but something about this scene felt different. The vine patterns weren't just decorative – they formed specific shapes, repeated motifs that tickled the edges of her memory. Each twist and turn seemed to reference something ancient, something significant.

A gust of wind sent dead leaves skittering between the rows, their rustle almost like whispered conversations in the morning stillness. Morgan pulled her jacket tighter, though the chill she felt had little to do with the autumn air. The scene before her spoke of someone who saw death as transformation, who viewed murder as a form of artistic expression. It reminded her uncomfortably of the careful way Cordell had orchestrated her own frame-up, how each piece of evidence had been arranged with similar precision to tell a specific story.

"Look at this," she called to Derik, pointing to a particular configuration of vines near Jessica's right hand. "The way they're woven – it's not random. He's recreating something." Her eyes traced the patterns, picking up details others might miss. "These shapes... they're like the ones in Woods' diagrams. Ancient symbols for transformation, for rebirth through sacrifice."

She thought of Elliot Woods sitting in that interrogation room, his academic enthusiasm masking something darker that she couldn't quite define. Was he their killer, using his knowledge to create these elaborate death scenes? Or was heanother carefully placed piece of evidence, like Diana Grove's greenhouse had been?

The sun climbed higher, burning away the morning frost and casting long shadows through the vineyard rows. Crime scene techs worked methodically, documenting every detail of the killer's latest performance. Morgan watched them photograph the precise arrangements of vines, the careful placement of frost-covered grapes, the way Jessica's chef's coat had been transformed into a canvas for the killer's purple-stained symbols. Each flash of their cameras seemed to emphasize the theatrical nature of the scene, how every element had been positioned for maximum impact.

"He's not just killing them," Morgan said, more to herself than to Derik. "He's transforming them. Each death is a statement about control, about power over life and death itself."

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she studied the intricate patterns woven into Jessica's hair. The vines formed a spiral that reminded her of ancient fertility symbols she'd seen in Woods' research materials.

“We need to find out more about Jessica,” Morgan said. “Let’s go talk to her family.”

Derik nodded, and they both walked away from the crime scene.

Somewhere in Dallas, their killer was probably watching the news, savoring the impact of his latest performance. Morgan studied Jessica's face, peaceful despite the horror of her death, and felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle across her shoulders. They were missing something – some vital connection that would make sense of this elaborate theater of death. Morgan had learned that the most dangerous predators were often the most patient, the most precise in their planning. Like Cordell, who had orchestrated her frame-up with surgicalprecision, their killer was playing a longer game than they'd initially assumed.

The morning breeze carried the scent of dying leaves and fresh-turned earth, along with the sweet decay of overripe grapes still clinging to untended vines. Each death in their killer's performance piece seemed to build on the last, creating a narrative about transformation and control that was leading toward some grand finale.

Time was running out to figure out the rules before he staged his next deadly performance. And Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that everything – Woods' convenient expertise, Diana's greenhouse, even the elaborate staging of each death – was part of a larger deception designed to lead them away from the truth. She'd learned the hard way how evidence could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told. The question was: whose story were they really following?

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The autumn wind whipped dead leaves across Jessica Clarke's front lawn as Morgan and Derik approached the modest craftsman home. Wind chimes tinkled a discordant melody from the front porch. Morgan registered every detail of the property—the carefully tended flower beds with their dying autumn blooms, the weekend newspaper still rolled up in its plastic sleeve, the two coffee mugs left on the porch railing from what must have been yesterday's morning routine. Such ordinary signs of life made the horror of Jessica's death feel even more acute.

A child's bicycle lay abandoned on its side in the neighbor's yard, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked at passing traffic. The normalcy of the suburban street felt obscene against the weight of what they had to do. Morgan thought of her own family receiving news of her arrest ten years ago, of how ordinary moments could shatter into irreparable pieces with just a few words.

Eric Chen opened the door before they could knock, his face bearing hollow-eyed shock. He was younger than she'd expected, probably in his early thirties, wearing wrinkled scrubs that suggested he'd come straight from his hospital shift. A hospital ID badge still hung from his pocket, the smiling photo presenting a stark contrast to his current devastation. The house behind him smelled of coffee and cinnamon, domestic comfort turned tragic by circumstance.

"You must be the FBI agents," he said, his voice carrying the flat effect of someone moving through deep shock. "Please, come in. I've been trying to... to remember anything that might help." His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, like birds with broken wings. A half-eaten piece of toast sat abandoned on a side table,suggesting he'd been trying to force himself to eat when they arrived.

The living room was a museum of happiness interrupted—framed photos of the couple hiking, cooking, laughing together. A half-completed wedding seating chart lay abandoned on the coffee table, along with bridal magazines whose cheerful covers now seemed to mock their presence. Morgan’s eyes caught on a photo of Jessica and Eric in chef's coats, flour dusting their faces as they smiled at each other across a kitchen counter. The date stamp showed it was taken just last week.

Derik settled into an armchair while Morgan remained standing, her need to stay mobile, to keep exits in view, never quite forgotten. The room held so many small touches of a life shared—matching coffee mugs, a throw blanket draped over the couch that still held the impression of two people sitting close together, a calendar on the wall marked with both their schedules in different colored inks.

"I just saw her this morning," Eric said as he sank onto the couch, his fingers worrying at the hem of his scrubs, creating a loose thread that he couldn't seem to stop pulling. A medical textbook lay open on the coffee table, its pages marked with Post-its in Jessica's handwriting—she'd been helping him study for some exam. "Before my shift at the hospital. She was going to go shopping, run some errands. She was fine. She was..." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "She was planning what to make for dinner."

A motorcycle roared past outside, its engine sound muffled by the closed windows but still making Eric flinch. Morgan noticed how his eyes kept returning to a particular photo on the mantel—Jessica in her chef's coat, receiving some kind of culinary award, her smile radiant with pride and accomplishment.

"She was excited about the wine event," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Spent weeks planning the perfect menu. We were going to announce our engagement officially at the end of the night. She wanted to wait until after she'd proven herself to the restaurant's investors." His hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white with tension. "I should have driven her to work. I usually do, but I had an early surgery scheduled..."

Derik leaned forward, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at these impossible conversations. "Can you tell us where she planned to shop? Any detail might help, no matter how small."

"The strip mall on Henderson," Eric said, his eyes fixed on the photo of Jessica laughing in her chef's coat, her face dusted with flour. "She loved going there during quiet hours, when the lunch rush was over. Said it helped her think about menu planning." His voice hitched on the last words, present tense shifting to past in the cruelest way possible. "There's a spice shop there she liked. And a kitchenware store. She was always finding little things to improve her techniques."

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