Page 28 of Forsaken

Derik set their coffee cups down, his expression hardening as he studied the images. "These installation pieces," he said, pointing to a series of photographs. "Look at how he arranges natural elements—flowers blooming in ice, wheat woven into human forms. The compositions mirror our crime scenes in a way that can't be coincidence."

Morgan nodded, pulling up another window that displayed Thorn's exhibition history. The timing of his shows, his fascination with transforming natural elements into twisted art pieces, his deep knowledge of agricultural rituals—it all seemed to fit their profile too perfectly. After her own wrongful conviction, she'd learned to be wary of evidence that aligned too neatly.

"Check this out," Morgan said, opening a document file. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with the same efficiency she'd once used to dig through legal documents during her appeal. "His academic background—he studied under Professor Woods at the university, specializing in historical agricultural practices. That's where he learned about the ritual elements we're seeing in these murders. The same symbols, the same seasonal significance."

She stood, moving to the wall where their victims' photos created a timeline of escalating horror. Emily in her cornfield, Laura by her river, Hannah with flowers spilling from her lips, Jessica transformed by vineyard vines. Each death more elaborate than the last, each scene arranged with an artist's eyefor detail. The progression was clear now—a killer growing more confident, more ambitious, more determined to make his grand artistic statement about power and transformation.

"There's something else," Derik said, scrolling through records on his tablet. The blue light from the screen cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "He's been purchasing supplies in bulk—same materials we're seeing at our crime scenes. More preservation chemicals, more out-of-season flowers. Either he's planning something big for his legitimate art..."

"Or he's preparing for his next performance," Morgan finished. But something nagged at her—the evidence felt almost too perfect, too carefully arranged. Like her own frame-up, where every piece had been positioned just so, creating an illusion of guilt that had cost her ten years of her life.

On her desk, crime scene photos seemed to pulse with significance—each victim transformed into art by someone who saw death as the ultimate creative expression. Each scene more elaborate than the last, building toward something even more horrific.

"We need to move on this," Morgan said, already reaching for her jacket. The leather was cool against her skin, grounding her in the present moment. The weight of her gun beneath the jacket was reassuring. "Even if Thorn isn't our killer, he might help us understand what these ritual elements mean. Before whoever's doing this can stage their next performance."

Through her window, the afternoon sun painted Dallas in shades of autumn gold, the city's glass towers reflecting light like signal fires. Inside, their killer's victims stared from countless photographs, their deaths transformed into installations in a grotesque gallery. Morgan thought of Emily in her cornfield, of Laura in her river, of Hannah by her pond, of Jessica in her vineyard—women whose lives had been cut short by someonewho saw their deaths as steps toward a twisted vision of transformation.

As they headed for the door, Morgan caught a last glimpse of Thorn's artwork on her computer screen—a field of wheat transformed into something menacing by his vision, just as their killer transformed victims into installations in their gallery of horror. Whether Thorn was their murderer or just another carefully placed piece of evidence in someone else's game remained to be seen. After all, Morgan knew too well how appearances could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told.

The game wasn't over, and she couldn't shake the feeling that they were still missing something crucial. But at least now they had a new direction to pursue, before more spring flowers bloomed in autumn's dying light.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Morgan and Derik approached the converted garage that served as Marcus Thorn's studio. Light spilled from beneath the door, along with the chemical scent of oil paints and turpentine, suggesting the artist was at work despite the early hour. Morgan took in every detail of the property—the overgrown yard, the empty recycling bins, the stack of canvases visible through a grimy window. Wind chimes hung silent near a side door, their copper tubes green with neglect. Everything spoke of someone consumed by their work to the exclusion of ordinary life.

"No security cameras," Derik murmured, his shoulder brushing against hers as they approached the main entrance. "For an artist with his reputation, you'd think he'd protect his work better."

"Unless he wanted to be found," Morgan replied, her hand moving instinctively to her weapon. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, each step echoing in the pre-dawn stillness.

The garage door groaned open at Morgan's knock, revealing a space transformed by obsession. Paintings covered every available surface, their agricultural scenes writhing with suggested violence even in the weak morning light. Corn stalks reached like grasping hands toward unseen victims, wheat fields twisted into almost-human shapes, vineyard vines coiled with sinister intent. The walls disappeared behind shelves crammed with books on ritual sacrifice and seasonal ceremonies, their spines cracked with frequent use. Art supplies cluttered every surface—brushes soaking in murky solvent, palette knives crusted with paint, canvases in various stages of completion leaning against walls like accusations.

Marcus Thorn's hands shook so badly he dropped his paintbrush, sending a spray of crimson across the concrete floor.The splatter pattern looked too much like blood in the studio's harsh lighting. He backed away from his canvas until he hit a shelf of books, sending several volumes on ritual sacrifice tumbling to the ground. His elegant features contorted with a mix of terror and resignation as Morgan and Derik entered, their weapons drawn. Paint-stained hands rose slowly, fingers trembling.

"I knew you'd come," he whispered, his cultured voice cracking around the edges. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the autumn chill. "I saw the news about Jessica Clarke. About what happened in the vineyard. I've been... I've been waiting." Despite his evident fear, something about his demeanor struck Morgan as rehearsed, as if he'd practiced this moment in front of his mirrors.

"FBI," Morgan announced, though his words confirmed he'd been expecting them. "Keep your hands where we can see them." She noted his reaction—the way his shoulders slumped with almost theatrical relief, the careful way he telegraphed each movement. A canvas behind him showed a half-finished scene of wheat fields beneath a blood-red sky, the paint still wet and glistening.

"Please," he said, his voice carrying the polished tones of someone who spent more time in galleries than interrogation rooms. "There's no need for weapons. I won't resist." His intense blue eyes darted between them, showing more fear of what might come next than of their current presence. "I just... I need to wash my hands first. The paint—" He looked down at his stained fingers as if seeing them for the first time, crimson dripping onto his expensive shirt. "I don't want to stain anything."

The strange domesticity of his concern struck Morgan as wrong somehow. She exchanged a quick glance with Derik, reading the same unease in his expression that she felt.Everything about this felt wrong—too easy, too scripted. She thought of her own frame-up, of how every piece had been positioned just so, creating an illusion of guilt that had cost her ten years of her life.

"Turn around slowly," Derik instructed, moving to secure him while Morgan kept her weapon trained. "Hands behind your back."

"The paintings," Thorn said as Derik applied the handcuffs. His eyes swept the studio with something like desperation. "They're worth considerable money. Please make sure someone secures the studio. There's a gallery showing next month—" He broke off, letting out a bitter laugh. "Though I suppose that's irrelevant now."

Morgan studied his face, reading the micro-expressions she'd learned to interpret during her years behind bars. Fear was there, certainly, but something else too—a kind of resigned acceptance that didn't quite fit the moment. "You seem very calm for someone about to be arrested for multiple murders."

"Do I?" Thorn's smile was fragile as spun glass. "I assure you, Agent Cross, I'm anything but calm. I'm simply... prepared." He glanced at a particular painting—a cornfield scene that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Emily Whitmore's crime scene. "We all face judgment eventually, don't we? For our choices, our compromises, our sacrifices?"

The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. She'd heard too many performed confessions not to recognize the careful construction of his speech.

Morgan's instincts flared. There was a dissonance between Thorn's words and his demeanor that set her on edge. She holstered her weapon, moving closer to examine the painting he'd referenced.

"Sacrifices," she repeated, her eyes tracing the contours of the cornfield. "Is that what these are to you? Sacrifices for your art?"

Thorn's expression flickered, a brief crack in his composure. "Art demands everything of us," he said softly. "But I think you know that's not what I meant."

Derik finished securing Thorn and began a cursory search of the studio. Morgan watched as he rifled through drawers and examined shelves, his movements methodical and practiced.

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