Page 27 of Forsaken

Morgan noticed a stack of cookbooks on a nearby shelf, their spines cracked with frequent use, pages bristling with sticky notes and handwritten annotations. Jessica's passion for her craft was evident in every corner of the home. Even now, a recipe card sat on the kitchen counter through the open doorway, written in her careful hand, never to be completed.

"Did she mention meeting anyone?" Morgan asked, keeping her voice gentle but professional. "Any appointments or plans beyond shopping?"

Eric shook his head, then paused, his brow furrowing with effort. "She mentioned wanting to look at some art piece she'd seen in a window. Something about how it reminded her of harvest seasons in wine country." His voice broke on the lastword, perhaps remembering the vineyard where Jessica's body had been found. "I'm sorry, I can't... I can't remember anything else."

Morgan nodded, her eyes softening with empathy. "That's helpful, Mr. Chen. Thank you." She glanced at Derik, a silent communication passing between them. The art piece could be significant, another potential link to the killer's obsession with harvest symbolism.

"Is there anyone who might have had a grudge against Jessica?" Derik asked gently. "Any conflicts at work, or with friends?"

Eric shook his head, his gaze distant. "Everyone loved Jessica. She was... she was sunshine." His voice cracked on the last word.

Eric's words hung in the air, heavy with grief. Morgan's eyes swept the room again, searching for any detail that might offer a clue. Her gaze settled on a small succulent plant on the windowsill, its leaves drooping slightly. Jessica had probably meant to water it before leaving for work that fateful day.

"Mr. Chen," Morgan said, her voice low and controlled, "did Jessica ever mention feeling watched or followed? Any strange occurrences, no matter how small?"

Eric's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "I... I don't think so. I just know she was going to the strip mall today.”

Morgan nodded, taking it all in. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Morgan guided their vehicle into the strip mall's parking lot, her mind racing with possibilities. The shopping center was like dozens of others scattered across Dallas—a collection of small businesses arranged in a horseshoearound a central parking area. The morning sun cast long shadows across the asphalt. But something about one storefront caught her attention immediately.

"Derik," she said sharply, nodding toward an art supply shop tucked between a dry cleaner and a sandwich place. In the window, a painting dominated the display—corn stalks rendered in oils, their golden heads bowing beneath an autumn sky. The style was distinctive, almost grotesque in its intensity, transforming a simple agricultural scene into something more ominous. The artist had captured the corn in a way that made it seem almost predatory, the stalks reaching toward the viewer like grasping fingers.

They approached the shop on foot, their reflections ghosting across the glass as they studied the painting. Morgan bristled at the way the artist had captured the corn—not as life-giving sustenance, but as something darker, more ritualistic. The brushstrokes were aggressive, almost violent, creating texture that seemed to writhe and twist in the morning light. It reminded her too much of Emily Whitmore's crime scene, of how their killer transformed natural elements into instruments of death.

A middle-aged woman emerged from the dry cleaner's, arms full of plastic-wrapped garments. Her name tag identified her as Susan, and laugh lines around her eyes suggested a naturally friendly disposition. Morgan touched her FBI credentials as she approached, noting how the woman's expression shifted from open to concerned at the sight of the badge.

"Excuse me, do you know who owns the art supply shop?" Morgan asked, gesturing toward the darkened storefront.

"Oh, that's Marcus Thorn's place," the woman said, shifting her cleaning to one arm. Her keys jingled nervously as she adjusted her burden. "He did that painting too—does all sorts of agricultural scenes. Talented, but..." She hesitated, glancingaround as if checking for eavesdroppers. The morning sun caught her silver hair as she leaned closer. "Intense. Something about him always seemed a little off, you know? The way he'd talk about his paintings, like they were more than just art. Like they meant something deeper."

She paused, then added in a lower voice, "But he's closed today. Actually, I haven't seen him open all week. Which is strange—he usually keeps strict hours. Very particular about his routine."

Morgan caught Derik's eye, reading the same tension there that she felt. Another piece clicked into place, another connection forming in their tangled web of evidence. Marcus Thorn—an artist obsessed with agricultural imagery, whose painting style transformed natural scenes into something darker, whose shop sat in the last place Jessica Clarke had planned to visit.

Through the gallery window, other paintings were visible in the dimness—more agricultural scenes, each rendered with the same unsettling intensity. A wheat field at harvest time, the stalks seeming to bend of their own volition. A vineyard in autumn, its vines twisted into shapes that looked almost human in the shadows. Each piece seemed to capture nature not as it was, but as something warped and dangerous.

Morgan thought of Jessica suspended in that vineyard, of Emily in her cornfield, of Laura by her river, of Hannah with flowers spilling from her lips. Each death a performance piece, each scene arranged with artistic precision. The corn painting seemed to watch them through the glass, its golden stalks transformed into something sinister by shadow and skilled brushwork.

They had another name to investigate, another thread to pull in their increasingly complex tapestry of evidence. The question was whether Marcus Thorn would prove to be their killer, orjust another carefully placed piece of evidence in someone else's elaborate deception.

Above them, clouds scudded across the Texas sky like harbingers of approaching winter, while behind the gallery window, that corn painting seemed to watch their departure with malevolent intent. Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were being led down another carefully constructed path, yet something about those paintings spoke of a darkness she recognized—the same darkness she'd seen in the vineyard at dawn, where Jessica's body had been transformed into the killer's latest artistic statement about power and control.

The wind carried the scent of dying leaves and distant rain as they returned to their vehicle, each step taking them closer to whatever twisted revelation awaited them at the end of this new lead.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The walls of Morgan's office disappeared behind a collage of horror—crime scene photos and victim profiles arranged in a grim gallery that traced their killer's evolution. Past the harsh glare of her desk lamp, the autumn sun slanted through half-closed blinds, casting shadows across Emily Whitmore's cornfield tableau, Laura Benson's river scene, Hannah Smith's flower-strewn pond, and Jessica Clarke's vineyard installation. Each image spoke of meticulous planning, of death transformed into grotesque art by someone who saw murder as the ultimate creative expression.

Coffee cups from three different trips to the expensive shop down the street littered her desk—the kind of coffee Morgan had developed a taste for after a decade of prison sludge. Each cup marked another hour of staring at photos, searching databases, trying to understand the mind of someone who saw murder as performance art. Her eyes burned from too many hours studying screens and crime scene photos, but she couldn't stop. Not with the weight of four dead women pressing against her conscience.

Derik appeared in her doorway, bearing fresh reinforcements from that same coffee shop. His tie hung loose around his neck, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd gotten as little sleep as she had since finding Jessica's body.

"Marcus Thorn," Morgan said, gesturing to her computer screen where the artist's website displayed a gallery of unsettling images. Agricultural scenes dominated his work, but there was something profoundly wrong about them. Each piece seemed to pulse with barely contained darkness, a window into the mind of someone who saw nature as something to be dominated rather than respected.

"Listen to this," she said, leaning back so Derik could see the screen. The words seemed to writhe like Thorn's painted vines as she read them aloud. "'The cycle of seasons is merely a suggestion to those who understand true transformation. Through death comes transcendence. Through sacrifice, we bend nature to our will.' It's like reading a manifesto that perfectly matches our killer's work."

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