Page 30 of Forsaken

Derik stood close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed Morgan's, a subtle reminder that she wasn't alone in this hunt anymore. The silver at his temples caught the fluorescent light as he leaned forward to study the monitor, andMorgan found herself watching how the shadows played across his face.

"The paper quality is interesting too," Chan continued, lifting a page to examine its texture. "Cotton fiber content suggests it's from Crane & Co., their premium line. Not something you'd pick up at an office supply store. This is the kind of stationery used for formal correspondence, usually by—"

"People with authority," Morgan finished, her voice carrying the weight of bitter experience. "People who expect their words to carry weight." She'd seen enough official letterhead during her appeals process to recognize quality paper when she saw it.

Then she saw it. The words seemed to leap off the page, burning themselves into her mind: "When I take your sister, Marcus, you'll understand true loss. You'll know the pain of watching someone you love disappear, just as I lost my sister. Only then will you truly appreciate the art of transformation through sacrifice."

Morgan's breath caught as the implications crystallized.

"He lost a sister," she said, straightening from her examination of the letters. The fluorescent lights caught the scars on her knuckles. "The killer lost a sister, and he knew Thorn had one too. That's why he chose him—not just because of the paintings, but because he could use Elizabeth as leverage."

She turned to Derik, seeing the same realization dawning in his eyes. They'd worked enough cases together, before and after her imprisonment, to read each other's thoughts in moments like these. His hand moved unconsciously toward his weapon—a gesture she recognized from their years of partnership, a sign that he was already preparing for whatever came next.

"Chan," Morgan said, already moving toward the door, "I need everything you can get from these letters. Paper source, ink analysis, anything that might tell us who had access to this kindof stationery. And check for any connection to official letterhead—government agencies, law firms, corporate offices."

Derik fell into step beside her as they hurried toward the interrogation room where Thorn waited. Their footsteps echoed off the institutional tiles. She'd learned to read meaning in footsteps during those years inside—to know from the sound alone whether guards were making routine rounds or bringing bad news.

The interrogation room's harsh lighting had not been kind to Marcus Thorn. The elegant artist they'd arrested that morning had been replaced by someone smaller, more fragile, his careful composure crumbling like paint flaking from an old canvas. Sweat had soaked through his expensive shirt, and his hands trembled slightly as he looked up at their entrance. His eyes held a haunted look.

"Do you know anyone who's lost a sister?" Morgan demanded, not bothering with preamble. "Think carefully. Anyone in your professional circles, your social life, anyone who might have known about Elizabeth."

Thorn's brow furrowed with concentration, his artistic sensibilities momentarily overcome by genuine effort to help. His fingers moved unconsciously, as if painting invisible pictures in the air as he thought. "I... I don't know. There might be... The art world is surprisingly small in Dallas, but..." He shook his head, frustration evident in every line of his body. Paint still stained his cuticles, bright spots of color against his pale skin. "I can't think of anyone specific."

"What about Elizabeth?" Derik asked, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at interviews. He settled into the chair across from Thorn, his body language open and non-threatening despite the tension Morgan could read in his shoulders. "Would she know? Could someone in her life have made this connection?"

Thorn's laugh was bitter, empty of humor. The sound bounced off the interrogation room's concrete walls like broken glass. "You'd have to ask her." He ran paint-stained fingers through his disheveled hair, leaving streaks of color that somehow made him look even more unstable. "We're not... close. Haven't been for years. She never approved of my work, thought I was wasting my talent on 'morbid fascinations' instead of pretty landscapes that would sell better." His voice cracked slightly on the word 'better,' suggesting old wounds that had never properly healed. "I don't even know most of her friends."

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik, reading the same urgency in his expression that she felt. The ventilation system hummed overhead with monotony. Through the glass, she could see clouds gathering on the horizon, promising the kind of storm that could wash away evidence they desperately needed to find.

Time was running out. Somewhere in Dallas, their killer was probably already planning his next performance, selecting his next victim. But now they had something new—a personal connection, a motivation beyond mere artistic expression. Someone who had lost a sister, who saw murder as a way to spread that pain to others. The game wasn't just about seasonal rituals anymore. It was about loss, about revenge, about transforming private grief into public horror.

They had a new lead now—a thread of personal connection that might finally lead them to the truth.

The autumn sun slanted through the interrogation room's high window, casting prison-bar shadows across Thorn's haunted face. Each bar of light seemed to mark another hour ticking away, another moment when Elizabeth Thorn might be moving closer to becoming their killer's next victim. Outside, Dallas continued its daily rhythm, unaware that somewhere inits maze of streets, a killer was watching, waiting, planning his next transformation of life into death.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The autumn sun hung low in the Texas sky as Morgan and Derik pulled up behind the marked police cruiser parked in front of Elizabeth Thorn's modest ranch house. Shadows stretched across the manicured lawn like accusing fingers, and dead leaves skittered across the driveway in the late afternoon breeze. The patrol car's presence was a stark reminder of the threats hanging over the Thorn family—threats that had forced Marcus to play his part in someone else's elaborate performance piece.

Morgan studied the house through her windshield, cataloging every detail. Halloween decorations hung slightly askew on the front door, as if Elizabeth had started the seasonal ritual of decorating before fear had interrupted her normal life. A child's purple bicycle lay toppled in the yard, its training wheels catching the dying light—evidence of a normal life disrupted by terror.

"Two-car garage, back gate's locked, security cameras on all corners," Derik noted. "Rodriguez has good sight lines from the porch."

Officer Rodriguez nodded to them from his position by the front door, one hand resting casually on his weapon. His posture was alert but not tense, suggesting he'd found the right balance between vigilance and appearing non-threatening in a residential neighborhood. Morgan appreciated his positioning—close enough to respond instantly, but not so obvious as to alarm the neighbors.

"How long have you been on watch?" Morgan asked as they approached, noting how Rodriguez's eyes never stopped scanning the quiet suburban street.

"Over an hour now," he replied, shifting slightly to maintain his view of both approaches. "Nothing suspicious. Couple of dogwalkers, some kids heading to school. Mrs. Thorn hasn't left the house." He lowered his voice. "Her daughter's inside too. Brought her home from school today."

Morgan's heart clenched at that detail. Another child's life is disrupted by violence.

Elizabeth answered their knock looking like someone carrying too much weight on too little sleep. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hands showed slight tremors as she smoothed her apron—a nervous gesture that spoke of someone trying to maintain normalcy through routine. The scent of roasting chicken and herbs wafted from inside, competing with the sound of children's cartoons playing in another room.

"More questions?" Elizabeth asked, her voice tight with barely contained stress. She glanced past them toward the street, a habit born of recent paranoia. "The police showed me the letters Marcus received. The pictures of me, of my house." Her voice caught. "Of my daughter sleeping. I haven't—I haven't told her why she can't play outside anymore. How do you explain something like that to a seven-year-old?"

"May we come in?" Morgan kept her voice gentle but professional, the tone she'd perfected during years of victim interviews. "We have some specific questions that might help us end this."

Elizabeth hesitated, then stepped back to let them enter. The house's interior felt like a museum of interrupted domesticity—a half-folded basket of laundry on the couch, math homework abandoned on the coffee table, crayon drawings taped to walls at child height. Morgan's trained eye caught subtle signs of fear beneath the ordinary chaos: new deadbolts on the doors, curtains drawn despite the afternoon hour, a baseball bat propped in the corner that didn't match the rest of the decor.

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