Page 18 of Forsaken

The greenhouse air hit them like a wall—humid, organic, alive with the breath of thousands of plants. Their footsteps echoed softly against the concrete paths as they followed signs toward the western wing, where rare specimens were housed.

Then they saw them—daffodils and tulips, arranged in precise rows. The same varieties found at their crime scenes, forced to bloom months before their natural season. Morgan's pulse quickened as she studied the careful cultivation, the obviously recent activity around the planters.

Morgan and Derik exchanged a knowing glance, their steps slowing as they approached the greenhouse entrance. The air grew thicker, heavy with the scent of earth and chlorophyll. Through the glass, they could see a lone figure moving among the plants, her dark hair a stark contrast against the vibrant greens and yellows.

"Diana Grove?" Morgan called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The figure stiffened, then turned slowly. Even from a distance, those piercing green eyes were unmistakable. Diana's gaze flicked between Morgan and Derik, her expression unreadable.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of an accent Morgan couldn't quite place.

"FBI," Morgan said, holding up her badge. "We need to ask you a few questions about your work here."

Diana's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded, setting down the pruning shears she'd been holding. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

As they stepped closer, Morgan's trained eye took in every detail. Diana's hands were stained with soil, her fingernails rimmed with green.

"Maybe it’s better for this conversation to happen at the station,” Morgan said. “We need you to come downtown with us."

Diana's professional demeanor hardened instantly. "I'm in the middle of crucial research. Whatever this is about, it can wait until morning."

"It can't," Morgan said evenly. "This is about Hannah Smith."

"I don't know anyone by that name." Diana's voice carried a sharp edge now. She set down her shears with deliberate care, her movements precise and controlled. "And I don't appreciatebeing interrupted in my work by federal agents who won't explain themselves."

"Dr. Grove," Derik stepped forward, his tone reasonable but firm. "We’re investigating a series of murder—and a kidnapping that is currently in progress. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have a strong reason for it.”

Diana's eyes darted between them, something calculating beneath her academic exterior. “You think I am a murderer and a kidnapper?” She laughed lightly. “Come now, that is simply ridiculous.”

Morgan’s gaze didn’t waver. “If you have nothing to hide, then you won’t mind coming with us.”

Diana's fingers tightened around the pruning shears, her knuckles whitening. For a tense moment, Morgan thought she might lash out. But then Diana's shoulders sagged, and she set the tool down on a nearby workbench.

"Very well," she said, her voice tight. "But I insist on knowing the charges."

"No charges yet," Morgan replied, keeping her tone neutral. "We’ll explain everything at our headquarters.”

As Diana removed her work gloves and lab coat, Morgan's eyes swept the greenhouse. The carefully arranged flowers, the meticulous notes pinned to boards, the array of specialized tools – it all spoke to an obsessive attention to detail. Just like their killer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In the interrogation room, Diana Grove's face was gaunt, deepening the hollows beneath her striking green eyes. Morgan studied her from across the metal table, cataloging each micro-expression with the precision she'd developed. The hum of the ventilation system provided a familiar white noise—too familiar, reminding her of countless nights in her cell when that same sound had been her only companion. Diana's hands moved constantly as she spoke, sketching patterns in the air like an artist working with invisible clay. The clock on the wall read 12:17 AM, its red digits marking time with merciless precision. Diana's expensive blazer was wrinkled now, her professional composure fraying at the edges like fabric under too much strain.

“Dr. Grove,” Morgan said, “we understand you have been spending time near Smith Gallery, despite claiming that you don’t know the owner, Hannah Smith.”

Diana lifted an arched eyebrow, leaning back in the chair. “Oh, that Hannah Smith? How could I have known that was who you meant?”

“So you do know her,” Derik clarified.

Diana scoffed. “Barely. I’m aware of her.”

"She's missing," Morgan said. "I'm sure you've heard on the news about the killings happening in town."

Morgan slid a photograph across the table, showing a scene from Emily’s murder. Diana looked at it, and her nostril twitched.

“Do you recognize the symbology in this image?” Morgan asked.

Diana's eyes flickered over the photograph, her expression carefully neutral. "Of course I recognize it," she said, her voicecrisp. "Anyone in my field would. These are classic elements of harvest rituals—the positioning of the body, the floral arrangement. It's a crude imitation of ancient ceremonies, but the intent is clear."

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