Page 24 of Forsaken

Morgan nodded, taking it all in. Perhaps someone odd and cold and brilliant was exactly who they were looking for.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The chill crept through Morgan's leather jacket as she and Derik climbed the worn limestone steps of Preston Hall. The morning sun cast long shadows across the history building's Gothic architecture, its spires and arches rising against the pale October sky like the bones of some ancient creature. Through leaded glass windows, Morgan caught glimpses of empty classroom chairs arranged in neat rows, waiting for students who wouldn't arrive for hours. The scene carried an eerie stillness that made her think of prison courtyards before dawn, when even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Dead leaves skittered across the weathered steps beneath their feet, nature's own reminder that everything died in its season. After ten years behind bars, Morgan found herself noticing these small details more acutely - the way light played across surfaces, the subtle shifts in temperature, the thousand tiny signals that marked the passage of time

Her boots clicked against marble floors that had been polished by decades of passing scholars, the sound echoing off walls adorned with framed academic achievements and faded photographs of graduating classes. The smell here was different, though - old books and furniture polish instead of industrial cleaner and despair. Somewhere in the building, a heating system clicked and hummed, its rhythm oddly similar to the background noise that had filled her cell for ten long years.

"Fourth floor," Derik murmured beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers as they approached the elevator. The silver at his temples caught the morning light filtering through tall windows, and Morgan noticed the tension in his jaw that appeared whenever they closed in on a promising lead.

The faculty wing stretched before them, brass nameplates marking the territories of generations of academics who'd made this building their domain. Morgan registered every detail: the emergency exit at the far end, the security cameras positioned at each corner, the way sound carried in the high-ceilinged hallway. Old habits died hard, even three years after her release. She found herself noting potential weapons - a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, a heavy trophy display case, the brass umbrella stand near the department office.

PROFESSOR ELLIOT WOODS, PhD - Department of Historical Studies. The nameplate was tarnished but recently cleaned around the edges, as if someone paid attention to appearances while letting substance decay. It reminded Morgan of the carefully staged crime scenes - beautiful on the surface but concealing horror beneath. Her hand brushed her weapon as Derik knocked, the familiar weight grounding her in the present moment.

"Enter." The voice carried the cultured tones of someone who spent more time lecturing than listening, someone used to being the authority in any room. Morgan caught Derik's subtle glance - he'd heard it too, that note of conscious sophistication that often masked something darker.

The office beyond the heavy wooden door was a cave of academia, morning light filtering through dust motes to illuminate towering stacks of leather-bound books and academic journals. The air smelled of old paper and coffee, with an underlying mustiness that spoke of too many hours spent inside with windows closed against the Texas heat. The walls disappeared behind floor-to-ceiling shelves, creating an almost claustrophobic feeling.

Woods sat behind a massive oak desk that seemed to anchor the chaos around him, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he looked up from whatever text had captured hisattention. He was smaller than Morgan had expected, with a scholar's slight build and prematurely balding head, but something about his carefully neutral expression made her bristle. She'd seen that look too many times in the yard - the studied blankness that hid calculation beneath, the way dangerous inmates could make themselves appear harmless until the moment they struck.

"Professor Woods." Morgan held up her credentials, watching his face with the careful attention she'd developed during years of reading other inmates for signs of violence or deception. "FBI. We need to ask you some questions about ritualistic agricultural practices and their modern applications."

"Fascinating subject." Woods leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. He steepled his fingers in a gesture that seemed practiced rather than natural, like an actor's interpretation of an academic rather than the real thing. The shelves behind him groaned with books on ancient ceremonies, their spines forming a wall of arcane knowledge that stretched from floor to ceiling. A framed diploma from Oxford hung slightly askew, while a collection of tribal masks watched them with empty eyes from a corner shelf. "Though I'm surprised the FBI has taken an interest in historical agricultural rituals."

Morgan stepped further into the office, conscious of how Derik positioned himself near the door - old habits from their years of partnership before everything fell apart. A shaft of morning sunlight cut across the room like a blade, illuminating particles of dust that danced in the air between them. On Woods' desk, a half-empty coffee cup bore a ring of dried residue, suggesting long nights spent poring over ancient texts.

"We're particularly interested in forcing flowers to bloom out of season," she said, noting how Woods' fingers twitched almost imperceptibly at the words. Behind her, she sensed Derikshifting his weight, reading her tension. "And in the symbolic significance of combining spring blooms with autumn harvests."

Woods' expression hardened, academic warmth replaced by something colder that made Morgan think of steel bars and locked doors. He stood abruptly, the movement causing several papers to flutter to the floor unnoticed. The morning sun through the window cast his shadow long across the cluttered office as he turned to face the campus quad below. His reflection in the glass seemed to watch them, a ghostly double keeping guard.

"I assume this is about the murders I've read about in the papers." His voice carried an edge now, sharp enough to cut through his scholarly facade. "And now you're here because someone mentioned my name. Let me guess - Diana Grove?" He spat the name like something bitter, suggesting old academic rivalries or deeper conflicts. His hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white with tension.

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, reading the subtle signs of his alertness in the way he'd positioned himself between Woods and the door. She thought of Hannah Smith's face in those crime scene photos, of spring flowers spilling from lifeless lips, of the precious time they might be wasting if Woods turned out to be another dead end.

"Professor Woods, three women are dead," Morgan said, keeping her voice steady despite the frustration building in her chest. The faces of the victims flashed through her mind - Emily in the cornfield, Laura by the river, Hannah with flowers spilling from her lifeless lips. Each death staged like some twisted art installation, each body transformed into a statement about power and control. "Each killed according to ritual patterns that align with your published works on agricultural ceremonies and seasonal transitions."

She watched him carefully as she spoke. The tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his left hand, the way he wouldn't quite meet their eyes - everything suggested anxiety rather than guilt, but she'd learned the hard way how deceptive appearances could be.

"And you think I had something to do with it?" He turned back from the window, anger flashing behind his scholarly facade like lightning in storm clouds. His reflection in the glass seemed to move independently, creating a disturbing double image. "Because I study these practices? Because I understand their significance?" His voice rose with each question, academic indignation warring with what sounded like genuine fear. "Do you also suspect every professor of military history when someone commits a crime with ancient warfare techniques?"

"We need you to come with us to answer some questions," Derik said, his tone carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at defusing tension. His presence near the door was casual but unmistakable - a subtle reminder that leaving wasn't really optional. "Help us understand who might have the knowledge to perform these rituals correctly."

Woods' laugh was sharp, bitter. "I most certainly will not." He drew himself up with academic indignation, but Morgan noticed how his hand shook slightly as he adjusted his glasses. "I have tenure, a reputation to maintain, and a lecture in forty minutes. I won't have my name associated with these grotesque murders simply because someone is bastardizing the traditions I study."

Sunlight caught the edge of a letter opener on his desk - brass, antique, shaped like a medieval dagger. Morgan cataloged it automatically as a potential weapon, even as her investigator's mind noted how it matched the ritualistic elements of their case. Everything in this office seemed to straddle the line between academic interest and something darker.

Morgan felt her patience wearing thin. Every minute they spent here was another minute their killer might be selecting his next victim, preparing his next performance.

"Professor, I understand not wanting to be connected to something horrible." She let some of her own experience color her words, thinking of the endless nights in her cell when she'd wrestled with the weight of false accusations. "I spent ten years in prison for a murder I didn't commit. Ten years watching the world go on without me, knowing I was innocent but unable to prove it."

Something in her words seemed to reach him. Woods studied her face for a long moment, perhaps seeing the truth of her experience etched there. His academic facade cracked slightly, revealing something more human beneath. "Ten years?" His voice had lost some of its defensive edge. "That must have been... difficult."

"It was. And that's why I'm asking for your help now." Morgan moved closer to his desk, noting how the sunlight caught the titles of the books surrounding them - ancient agricultural texts, studies of harvest rituals, treatises on the symbolic significance of seasons. "Not as a suspect, but as someone who might help us understand what these ritual elements mean. Help us prevent another family from going through what I went through. What the victims' families are going through now."

Woods sank back into his chair, the anger draining from his posture like water through a sieve. He removed his glasses, cleaning them with methodical precision that seemed to help him think.

"The mixing of seasonal elements - spring flowers with autumn harvests - it's all wrong." He spoke slowly, as if choosing each word with academic precision. "Blasphemous, by traditional standards. The ancient practitioners understood theimportance of maintaining natural boundaries. Each season had its purpose, its specific rituals. To combine them, to force nature to defy its own laws..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It speaks of someone who understands the significance but rejects the underlying wisdom. Someone who seeks to dominate rather than honor the natural order."

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