Page 22 of Forsaken

Jessica's car backed out of her driveway, and he lowered his binoculars. She would spend the day preparing other people's food, orchestrating flavors and textures, unaware that she was about to become part of something transcendent. By tomorrow, her body would be an installation piece in his ongoing exhibition about the nature of control. The grapevines would embrace her like lovers, while frost transformed the scene into something between autumn and winter—another demonstration of his power to bend seasons to his will.

He started his own car, keeping well back as he followed Jessica's familiar route to work. The morning sun caught his rearview mirror, fragmenting into prismatic patterns that reminded him of the flowers he'd spilled from Hannah's mouth. Each death was a brushstroke in his masterpiece, a statement about the arbitrary nature of time and season. Agent Cross was beginning to understand, he could tell.

The ritual elements had to be perfect. He had already selected the ropes—the same marine-grade manila he'd used for the others, but this time stained purple with grape juice. The symbolism would be exquisite. Jessica's chef's coat would be stained the same color, marking her transition from creator to creation. Even the timing had to be precise. The wine pairing event would keep her at the restaurant until well after midnight, when the roads between there and the vineyard would be nearly empty.

Traffic flowed around them like a river, carrying them both toward their appointed destinies. Other drivers were focused on their mundane concerns—work, appointments, the small dramas of ordinary lives. None of them understood that they were sharing the road with an artist about to create his masterpiece. None of them could see that the woman in the car ahead, the chef on her way to work, was about to be elevated beyond their comprehension.

He hummed softly as he drove, tasting frost and grapes and victory on the air. In his mind, he could already see the scene: Jessica arranged among the vines like a sleeping Bacchante, frost glittering on her skin, purple-stained rope binding her to the ancient cycle of death and rebirth. Agent Cross would understand when she saw it. She would have to. After all, she had experienced her own death and rebirth, emerging changed but still blind to the greater transformations possible.

Some seasons never end. But first, they had to be killed. And Jessica Clarke, with her chef's precision and artistic soul, would help him demonstrate that truth in the most beautiful way possible. By this time tomorrow, she would be immortal—a permanent installation in his garden of impossible seasons.

The morning light caught the first falling leaves of autumn, their colors intense against the pale sky. Soon, those same leaves would form a crimson carpet in his vineyard, nature's own backdrop for his next masterpiece. He smiled, already anticipating Agent Cross's reaction when she saw how he had transformed death into art once again.

Soon, she would see the full scope of his vision. Soon, she would understand that seasons were merely suggestions, that time itself could be bent by those with sufficient will. And Jessica Clarke's death would bring that understanding one step closer to fruition.

The traffic light ahead turned red, and he stopped, watching Jessica's car continue forward. Let her enjoy these final hours of ordinary existence. By tomorrow, she would be extraordinary. By tomorrow, she would be art.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The crime scene photos spread across Morgan's desk by morning. Hannah Smith's face looked back at her from multiple angles, spring flowers spilling from her lifeless mouth like some twisted parody of speech. The image blurred as Morgan's exhausted eyes struggled to focus, and she pressed her palms against her face, feeling the rough edges of calluses earned during her decade behind bars. She hadn't slept more than an hour since they'd found the body, guilt gnawing at her consciousness like a physical pain.

Empty coffee cups littered her desk, a caffeinated timeline of a night spent chasing leads that went nowhere. The sun was just beginning to paint the Dallas skyline in shades of gold, but Morgan barely registered its beauty through the office windows. All she could see was Hannah's red hair fanned out around her head, woven through with impossible blooms that defied nature's laws. The young gallery owner's death felt like a personal failure, another mark against her record since returning to the Bureau.

"You need to sleep," Derik said softly from his desk. The silver at his temples caught the morning light, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't rested either. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his normally pristine suit jacket was draped over his chair – small signs of the toll this case was taking on them both. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten beside his keyboard, evidence of another meal interrupted by urgent developments that led nowhere.

"I need to find this bastard before he kills someone else." Morgan's voice was rough from too much coffee and too little rest. "We had Diana in custody. We were so close, and meanwhile..." She gestured at Hannah's photos, unable to finishthe sentence. The words stuck in her throat like thorns, bitter with the taste of failure.

The hum of the building's ventilation system provided a constant backdrop to their conversation, reminding Morgan of countless nights in her cell when that same sound had been her only companion. Outside, early morning traffic moved through downtown Dallas in waves, carrying people to jobs and lives that felt impossibly normal compared to the horror spread across her desk.

"The DNA results came back," Derik said, rolling his chair closer. "Same as the others. Nothing. Not a single trace. Even the flowers were handled with surgical precision – no skin cells, no hair, nothing we can use."

Morgan leaned back in her chair, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing against her shoulders.

She thought of Diana's passionate explanations about ritual significance, about sacred timing and natural cycles. The botanist had been wrong for the murders, but something about her knowledge nagged at Morgan's mind. She'd learned to spot patterns in chaos, to read the subtle signs that might mean the difference between life and death.

"We need to talk to Diana again," she said, already reaching for her jacket. The leather was cool against her skin, grounding her in the present moment. "She knows something – not about the murders, but about the rituals. About who might understand them well enough to perform them. There's a connection we're not seeing."

"After we accused her of murder?" Derik's eyebrows rose.

"She doesn't have to like us,” Morgan said. “She just has to want to stop this as much as we do."

"You think she'll even open her door?"

Morgan’s jaw clenched. “Only one way to find out.”

***

The drive to Diana's house took them through neighborhoods, still shaking off the morning chill. Frost glittered on dying grass, and bare tree branches reached toward a sky that promised another perfect autumn day. Morgan watched the city scroll past, her mind racing through possibilities. Every detail of their killer's methodology spoke of someone with deep knowledge of agricultural traditions, someone who understood the symbolic power of seasons and cycles.

They pulled up to Diana's modest craftsman home. The morning sun caught dew on her meticulously maintained garden, where late-blooming flowers defied autumn's advance. The contrast between Diana's careful cultivation and their killer's perversion of natural law wasn't lost on Morgan. Here, nature was nurtured and respected. Their killer sought to dominate it, to bend it to his will.

Morgan stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on the gravel driveway. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a reminder of the season's inexorable march. She approached the front door, Derik close behind, his presence a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of her thoughts.

Before she could knock, the door swung open. Diana stood there, her pale face drawn and wary. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she'd slept as little as the agents had.

"I saw you pull up," she said, her voice tight. "Come to accuse me of more murders?"

Morgan met her gaze steadily. "No. We're here because we need your help."

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