Page 14 of Forsaken

He sketched a series of interlocking circles, each representing a season. "See, traditionally, the rituals would follow this pattern - a natural progression. But what you're describing..." He drew jagged lines connecting disparate points on the circles. "It's chaos. A violation of the natural order."

Morgan leaned in, studying the diagram. "So he's not honoring these traditions, he's corrupting them. Why?"

Victor shook his head. "I can only speculate, but... in many cultures, disrupting the natural cycle was seen as a way to gain power. By breaking taboos, by forcing unnatural combinations, a practitioner might believe they could harness energies beyond normal human reach."

"Like playing God," Morgan murmured, a chill running down her spine.

"Exactly," Victor nodded. “I wish I could tell you more.”

Morgan managed a slight smile. “No, you’ve helped a lot. Thank you.”

Morgan left Victor to be processed, her mind already racing with the implications of his words about blasphemy and perversion of sacred rites. The late afternoon sun hit them like a physical force as they pushed through the building's heavy doors. Morgan paused at the top of the steps, letting the fresh air clear her head of the interrogation room's staleness.

"You okay?" Derik asked quietly.

"I will be," she said, "when we catch this bastard."

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dying leaves and distant rain. Downtown Dallas loomed before them, its glass towers reflecting the sunset like flames. Somewhere in that urban maze, their killer was probably already planning his next performance, selecting his next victim, preparing to bend another season to his twisted will.

But Morgan had learned patience, had learned to wait and watch and strike at the perfect moment. Each dead end was just another piece of the puzzle, another step toward understanding. She thought of Victor's words about blasphemy and perversion, about the sacred boundaries between seasons. Their killer wasn't just taking lives—he was trying to rewrite the natural order itself.

She would find him. No matter how many dead ends she had to navigate first.

CHAPTER TEN

Hannah Smith's heels clicked against the polished floor of her gallery as she made her final rounds. The evening pressed dark fingers against the windows, transforming the space into a maze of shadows and reflective surfaces. Her own image multiplied in the glass cases displaying delicate sculptures, each reflection seeming to move independently in her peripheral vision.

Something felt wrong tonight. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what had triggered her unease—perhaps the black sedan that had been parked across the street since lunch, or the way the evening shadows seemed to shift and breathe when she wasn't looking directly at them. The feeling had started around closing time, when the last potential buyer had lingered too long near the door, asking questions that went nowhere.

She checked her phone again: 8:47 PM. The screen's glow cast strange shadows across the modern art pieces, making the abstract sculptures look alive and predatory in the dimness. Three missed texts from her sister about their breakfast plans tomorrow. Hannah typed out a quick response, her fingers hesitating over the keys. Should she mention her unease? No—Melissa would only worry, and there was probably nothing to worry about anyway.

Just finishing up. Definitely still on for breakfast. Corner Cafe at 9?

The reply came almost immediately:Perfect! Don't work too late. Love you.

Hannah smiled, but the expression felt forced. The gallery seemed too quiet now, too empty. The security system's soft beeping as she entered the code echoed off the high ceilings, and she found herself glancing over her shoulder at nothing. She'dread the newspaper articles about the murders—everyone had. Two women dead in as many weeks, their bodies arranged like some twisted art installation. The thought made her stomach clench.

Outside, the evening air carried the crisp bite of autumn, tinged with car exhaust and the lingering warmth of a Texas October. Hannah pulled her blazer tighter, her keys a reassuring weight in her hand. The black sedan was still there, half-hidden in shadows. As she watched, a figure shifted in the driver's seat, and she quickly looked away.

The streetlights cast pools of warm light on the sidewalk, creating dark spaces between that seemed to pulse with possibility. Hannah's pace quickened, her heels striking a sharp rhythm against the concrete. Was that movement behind her, or just her imagination playing tricks? The sound of distant traffic seemed muffled, as if the world were holding its breath.

Something caught her eye—a splash of unexpected color along the building's foundation. She slowed, despite her instincts screaming at her to hurry. There, nestled against the brick, were clusters of spring flowers. Daffodils and tulips, their delicate petals luminous in the streetlight. She frowned, trying to remember if she'd noticed them earlier. Who would plant spring bulbs in autumn?

The newspaper articles flashed through her mind:...spring flowers woven through the victim's hair... seasonally inappropriate blooms found at both crime scenes...

Footsteps behind her now, definitely real. A shadow detached itself from the darkness between streetlights. Hannah fumbled with her keys, her heart thundering against her ribs. The parking garage was still thirty feet away. Her phone was in her hand before she consciously decided to reach for it, but her fingers felt clumsy and slow.

Something sweet and chemical filled her nostrils—a cloying scent that reminded her of art restoration solvents. Her knees began to buckle. The phone slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering against the sidewalk. As consciousness faded, her last thought was of those impossible flowers blooming in the wrong season, their pale petals seeming to glow like tiny moons in the gathering dark.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Morgan's apartment felt too quiet in the evening, the silence broken only by Skunk's soft snoring between her and Derik on the couch. Skunk’s solid warmth against her leg anchored her to the moment, keeping the day's frustrations from overwhelming her. Outside, Dallas traffic moved in distant waves, while inside, case files lay scattered across her coffee table like fallen leaves—crime scene photos and witness statements that had led them nowhere.

The Victor Hale dead end gnawed at her. She'd seen too many perfect setups in her time, both as an agent and an inmate, to trust evidence that fell into place too neatly.

Her eyes drifted to the photo of Emily Whitmore's crime scene, stark against the dark wood of her coffee table. The corn silk in the victim's hair caught the harsh flash of crime scene photography, creating an almost ethereal effect that seemed to mock the violence of her death. Next to it lay Laura Benson's autopsy photos, spring flowers still tangled in her wet hair, their delicate petals a perversion of nature's order.

Morgan shifted through the papers, her movements deliberate and controlled—another habit learned inside, where sudden gestures could be seen as threats. Witness statements, forensic reports, background checks—all of it pointing to dead ends and false leads. The case felt like a maze where every promising path led back to the beginning.

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