Page 19 of Forsaken

Morgan leaned forward slightly. "And what intent would that be, Dr. Grove?"

A ghost of a smile played at Diana's lips. "Transformation. Rebirth through sacrifice. The eternal cycle of death and renewal." Her fingers traced the air above the photograph, outlining invisible patterns. "Whoever did this fancies themselves an artist, recreating sacred rites for a modern audience."

"You seem to have quite a deep understanding of the killer's motives," Derik observed, his tone deceptively casual.

Diana's gaze snapped to him, sharp and challenging. "I have a deep understanding of agricultural rituals and their cultural significance. That's my job, Agent...?"

"Greene," Derik supplied.

"Agent Greene," Diana continued, "My research focuses on the intersection of botany and anthropology. Of course, I recognize these symbols. But that doesn't mean I know anything."

“We have reason to believe Hannah Smith has been taken by this killer. Can you tell us where you’ve been tonight?”

“At my work, all night,” Diana retorted. “You can’t seriously think I did this?”

Morgan leaned back, her eyes never leaving Diana's face. "We have surveillance footage of you near Smith Gallery multiple times over the past week. Care to explain that?"

Diana's jaw tightened, a flicker of something—anger? fear?—passing across her features. "I was... conducting research," she said slowly. "The gallery has been featuring an exhibit on ancient agricultural practices. It's relevant to my work."

“And why don’t you tell us more about this work?” Derik asked.

Diana sighed, her eyes seemingly bored by this. "The ancient practitioners understood that every plant had its season, its purpose.” Her pale fingers traced patterns in the air, leaving ghost-trails in the harsh lighting. "They saw death and rebirth as part of the same cycle, each feeding into the other. The offerings had to be precise, had to align with the natural order." Her hands sketched another pattern, this one reminiscent of the spring flowers they'd found at Hannah's abduction site. The movement was graceful, practiced—the gesture of someone who spent more time with plants than people.

"Tell me about daffodils," Morgan said, keeping her voice neutral. She watched Diana's face with the same careful attention she'd once used to read other inmates, looking for the subtle tells that might signal violence or deception. "About forcing them to bloom out of season."

Diana's eyes lit up with academic enthusiasm, the green of her irises catching the fluorescent light like cut glass. "Fascinating process, actually. It requires careful manipulation of temperature and light cycles, tricking the bulbs into thinking winter has passed. But it's not natural." Her expression darkened slightly, professional passion giving way to something closer to reverence. "Some would consider it a perversion of the sacred order. In traditional rituals, timing was everything. You couldn't simply force nature to bend to your will."

The words struck a chord in Morgan's mind, resonating with everything they knew about their killer. Diana clearly understood the significance, but something about her passion felt wrong. It was too academic, too theoretical. Morgan had interviewed enough killers to know the difference between intellectual fascination and the kind of obsession that drove someone to murder. Her decade behind bars had taught her thattrue obsession had a different flavor, a darker edge that Diana's enthusiasm lacked.

The wind rattled the interrogation room's high window, carrying the distant sound of traffic and the scent of dead leaves. The contrast between the sterile interior and the natural world outside seemed to emphasize the artificiality of their killer's work—his determination to make nature obey his commands, to force life from death.

"Like I said, you were seen watching the Smith Gallery," Morgan pressed, studying Diana's reaction. Her fingers tapped against her thigh beneath the table. "Multiple witnesses placed you there in the days before Hannah Smith's disappearance."

"Of course I was there." Diana's response was immediate, indignant. She leaned forward, her raven hair falling across her face like a curtain. "They're currently exhibiting Janet's botanical series—microscopic photographs of plant cells transformed into abstract art. The gallery's been advertising it for months." Her hands moved again, sketching the shapes she described. "Do you know how rare it is to find artists who truly understand the intersection of science and aesthetics? Who can capture the sacred geometry inherent in natural forms?"

Morgan thought of the photographs she'd seen in the gallery, the delicate patterns that had seemed purely abstract until Diana's words reframed them. The explanation felt genuine—too genuine for someone trying to construct an alibi.

"Where were you on October fourth?" Derik asked, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at interviews. "Between six PM and midnight."

"October fourth?" Diana frowned, her brow furrowing as she accessed the memory. Then her expression cleared, professional pride replacing confusion. "I was in Arkansas, at the Ozark Botanical Gardens. They have a rare species of night-blooming cereus I've been studying. I spent three days there collectingspecimens." She gestured toward the two-way mirror, where Morgan knew other agents were watching. "Your people can check the security footage. I had to sign in and out every time I accessed the greenhouse complex."

Morgan kept her expression neutral, but her mind was racing. Emily Whitmore had died on October fourth, her body arranged in that cornfield like a twisted harvest offering. If Diana was telling the truth about Arkansas—and something in Morgan's gut said she was—then she couldn't have killed Emily.

The door opened with a soft click, and Agent Larson poked her head in. The young tech analyst's face was carefully blank, but Morgan caught the slight tension around her eyes that suggested important news. "The Arkansas footage just came in," she said. "Grove's telling the truth. Security cameras show her collecting specimens during the entire window of Whitmore's murder."

Diana's alibi wasn't the only thing bothering Morgan. The woman's entire demeanor was wrong for their killer. She had the knowledge, certainly—her academic background provided all the ritual elements they'd seen at the crime scenes. But her passion was for preservation, for understanding. Their killer's obsession was with transformation, with forcing nature to bend to his will.

Morgan thought of Victor Hale's greenhouse, of how perfectly that evidence had aligned with their profile. Now here was Diana Grove, another suspect who seemed to fit every criterion—except the ones that mattered most. She knew too well how evidence could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told. Her own frame-up had been just as meticulously crafted, each piece positioned with surgical precision to create an illusion of guilt.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Agent Ramirez stepped in, his face tight with urgency. The night shifthad left dark circles under his eyes, and his tie hung loose around his neck. "Agents Cross and Greene? You need to see this. Now."

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik before they both stood. The movement was synchronized, born of years of partnership and shared understanding. "We'll continue this later," she told Diana, who had started sketching plant patterns on her legal pad, seemingly lost in her own academic world again.

In the hallway, the lights hummed with monotony. Morgan's boots squeaked slightly on the polished floor as she followed Ramirez. Derik walked close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed—a subtle reminder that she wasn't alone in this hunt anymore.

"Hannah Smith's car was just found," Ramirez said, leading them toward the operations center. His words carried the weight of development they'd been waiting for, though his tone suggested it wasn't the break they'd hoped for. "Abandoned near a lake outside of town. Local PD secured the scene, but..." He hesitated, pushing through the double doors into the bustling command center. "You need to see this."

The operations center was a hive of controlled chaos, multiple screens displaying maps and data streams while agents coordinated search patterns. The room smelled of coffee and nervous energy, reminding Morgan of late nights at the BAU before everything had fallen apart. On the main display, crime scene photos showed Hannah's dark sedan parked at an odd angle near the lake's edge. The driver's door stood open, like a mouth frozen mid-scream.

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