Page 11 of Forsaken

Sarah's fingers flew across the keyboard once more. "Looks like he's a frequent guest lecturer at the University of Dallas Institute of Ancient Studies.”

"What else about academic background?" Morgan asked, leaning closer to read the scrolling text. The details of a life unfolded before them: degrees in agricultural science, research grants, conference presentations. A man dedicated to understanding—and perhaps controlling—the fundamental rhythms of growth and death.

"PhD in Agricultural Sciences from Texas A&M," Sarah replied, bringing up more documents. "His dissertation was on ancient harvest rituals and their relationship to modern farmingpractices. Specifically focused on the symbolic significance of seasonal transitions."

Morgan exchanged a meaningful look with Derik. The parallels were too precise to ignore. Their killer had staged his victims according to seasonal themes, using ritual elements that spoke of deep knowledge of agricultural traditions. And here was a man whose entire academic career centered on exactly that.

"What's his address?" Morgan was already standing, her body thrumming with the energy of a promising lead. She'd learned to read people's histories in their patterns, their choices. Hale's background sang with significance.

***

Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up to an impressive spread on the outskirts of Dallas, where suburban sprawl gave way to agricultural land. Fifty acres of cultivated fields stretched out before them, the sun painting the dying corn stalks gold. A cluster of modern buildings anchored the property, dominated by what appeared to be a state-of-the-art greenhouse operation. The glass panels caught the afternoon light like a wall of mirrors, nearly blinding in their intensity.

Morgan studied the layout with tactical precision, noting exits and potential cover. The main house was modern but modeled after traditional farmhouses, all clean lines and practical efficiency. Several work vehicles were parked in a neat row, including a dark SUV that made her think of the grocery store footage.

"Nice setup for a consultant," Derik muttered as they approached the main entrance. His hand hovered near his weapon, responding to the tension he could undoubtedly read in her posture.

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they approached the house, each step carrying them closer to what Morgan hoped would be answers. But something about the scene bothered her—it was too perfect, too precisely aligned with their profile. In her experience, both as an agent and an inmate, reality rarely presented itself in such neat packages.

As they neared the front door, a sudden gust of wind swept across the property, carrying with it the scent of freshly turned earth and something else—a cloying sweetness that made Morgan's nose wrinkle. She paused, her hand halfway to the doorbell, and turned to Derik with a frown.

"You smell that?" she asked, her voice low.

Derik nodded, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. "Reminds me of—"

"The crime scenes," Morgan finished, her hand moving instinctively to her holster.

Before either of them could say more, the door swung open, revealing a tall, lean man with piercing eyes that matched the driver's license photo. Victor Hale stood before them, dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, looking every bit the academic researcher.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but guarded.

Morgan flashed her badge. "Mr. Hale, I'm Agent Cross with the FBI, and this is Agent Greene. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your work."

Victor Hale's eyes flickered between Morgan and Derik, a fleeting tension crossing his features before settling into a mask of polite curiosity. "Of course," he said, stepping back to allow them entry. "Please, come in."

As they crossed the threshold, Morgan's senses went into overdrive. The interior was a study in contrasts – modern furnishings juxtaposed against walls adorned with ancient agricultural implements. Her gaze caught on a sickle mountedabove the fireplace, its curved blade gleaming dully in the afternoon light.

"Fascinating collection," Derik commented, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he scanned the room.

Hale's lips curved into a thin smile. "A hobby of mine. Each piece tells a story of how our ancestors understood the cycles of life and death." He gestured towards a seating area. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. What would you like to know about my work?"

“Actually,” Morgan said, taking a photograph out of her pocket, “do you recognize this woman?”

It was a photo of Emily Whitmore.

Hale’s eyes widened on it, the recognition clear.

“That’s… Emily Whitmore,” Hale said. “She passed away.”

“And you argued with her in the week before that,” Derik pointed out.

Hale swallowed hard. "Miss Whitmore and I had a professional disagreement," Hale said, his voice carefully controlled. A bead of sweat traced down his temple despite the chill. "Nothing more."

"Professional enough to confront her in a grocery store parking lot?" Morgan pressed, watching his reactions. Her hand drifted closer to her weapon, a movement born of years of experience. Behind her, she sensed Derik shifting to cover the side angle. "That seems personal."

Hale's eyes darted between Morgan and Derik, his composure cracking. "It was a misunderstanding," he said, his voice strained. "Emily was... interfering with my research. She didn't understand the importance of what I was doing."

Morgan took a step closer, her voice low and intense. "And what exactly were you doing, Mr. Hale? What kind of research requires confronting a woman in a parking lot?"

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