Page 4 of Forsaken

The shrill ring of her phone cut through the dream like a blade, yanking Morgan back to consciousness. She bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs, the sheets tangledaround her legs like seaweed trying to drag her under. Her first conscious breath carried the lingering scent of rain from the night before, mixed with the familiar comfort of laundered sheets and Derik's aftershave. Beside her, Derik stirred, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon on the nightstand—a habit born from years of field work that mirrored her own vigilance.

Her heart pounded as the dream replayed in her mind. Thomas… her father… god, it was all so horrible.

Her phone continued its insistent cry, vibrating against the wooden surface. Assistant Director Mueller's name flashed on the screen, making her stomach clench. The digital clock beside it read 6:47 AM. Had word of yesterday's cemetery confrontation with Cordell reached him somehow? She caught Derik's concerned glance as he woke up. She swiped to answer, noting the shadows under his eyes that matched her own restless night.

"Cross here." Her voice was steady despite the sleep still clouding her thoughts.

“Morgan,” Mueller said. "I need you and Greene at headquarters. Now." Mueller's tone gave nothing away, clipped and professional as always. Before she could respond, the line went dead, leaving her with nothing but questions and the soft sound of Derik's breathing beside her.

Morgan lowered the phone, meeting Derik's questioning look. The early morning light caught the silver threading through his dark hair, a detail she usually found endearing but now only emphasized how much time they'd lost. "Mueller wants us in. Didn't say why."

"Think Cordell's already making moves?" Derik was fully awake now, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The muscles in his back were tense, coiled with worry. A fading scar traced his shoulder blade—a souvenir from a bust gone wrongthree years ago, while she'd been behind bars, unable to watch his back.

"One way to find out." Morgan stood, her joints protesting after yesterday's rain-soaked vigil at the cemetery. The memory of Cordell's smile beneath that black umbrella made her skin crawl. Even in the warm safety of her bedroom, that image chilled her to the bone.

In the living room, Skunk raised his head from his bed, tail wagging hopefully at the sight of them. Morgan paused to scratch behind his ears, drawing comfort from the pit bull's solid presence. "Sorry, boy. No morning walk today."

***

Twenty minutes later, they were navigating through downtown Dallas traffic, the city still shaking off its early morning stupor. The sun caught the glass-and-steel towers at odd angles, throwing sharp reflections across their windshield like warning signals. Morgan's coffee sat untouched in the cupholder, her appetite killed by the knot of anxiety in her stomach. Even the familiar skyline felt different this morning, as if Cordell's appearance had cast everything in a more sinister light.

Derik handled the car with the same quiet competence he brought to everything, but Morgan could see the tension in his grip on the steering wheel, in the way his eyes constantly checked the rearview mirror. After his confession about being blackmailed months ago, about how they'd threatened his son to force his cooperation in her frame-up, he'd developed an almost pathological need to spot threats before they materialized. Morgan sometimes forgot that Derik was once a married man with a son whose life he was never truly in. Cordell and his men had blackmailed him, threatened his child and ex-wife to getinformation on Morgan, to get her to slip up and put herself in a vulnerable position. But in the end, Derik got his ex-wife and his son on a plane to England, and he'd been by her side ever since.

It wasn’t easy to rebuild trust, but Derik had proven himself to her. After many cases together, they’d finally admitted that they were in love with each other.

The FBI headquarters loomed ahead, its modernist façade a contrast to the historic buildings surrounding it. Morgan's fingers traced the outline of her badge through her jacket—a habit she'd developed since getting it back, as if touching it could confirm this wasn't all some elaborate dream she'd conjured up in her cell. The weight of it was both comfort and burden, a reminder of everything she'd lost and fought to regain.

The parking garage was still relatively empty this early, their footsteps echoing off concrete as they made their way to the elevator. Morgan caught their reflection in the polished metal doors—her, covered in tattoos that told the story of her transformation, and Derik in his perfectly pressed suit. They made an odd pair, but somehow it worked. It had always worked, even before prison, before betrayal, before everything fell apart and reformed into something harder and more complicated.

Mueller was waiting in his office, his expression unreadable as they entered. The morning light streaming through the windows behind him turned him into a silhouette, a technique Morgan recognized from her own interrogations—putting the subject at a visual disadvantage. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the chairs before his desk.

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik before they took their seats. The office smelled of coffee and gun oil, with an undertone of the same leather that permeated most federal buildings. Better to get ahead of this. "Sir, about yesterday—"

"Cordell approached you at Grady's funeral." Mueller's interruption was calm, matter-of-fact. "I know."

The bottom dropped out of Morgan's stomach. She felt Derik tense beside her, his hand twitching toward hers before stopping short. "How—"

"Because this morning, I received an anonymous threat." Mueller's mustache twitched with barely contained anger, his fingers drumming once against his desk before going still. "Either I terminate your employment with the Bureau, or there will be consequences."

"Sir, I'm sorry," Morgan began, but Mueller held up a hand. The morning light caught his wedding ring, a flash of gold that reminded her of Cordell's umbrella in the rain.

"I don't bend to threats, Cross. Never have, never will. And I'm not about to start by losing one of my best agents." His eyes narrowed, crow's feet deepening at the corners. "Though I wish you'd told me about the cemetery immediately."

"We were going to," Derik said, leaning forward. "We just needed time to process what happened, to think through the implications."

Mueller nodded, his expression softening slightly. The change transformed his face, reminding Morgan of the photograph she'd seen of him with her father—both younger, both smiling, both unaware of the tragedy that would unfold in the years to come. Mueller had never known that Morgan was John Christopher’s son until she told him—he’d thought John had died, had no idea that he’d changed his identity to Christopher Cross. "The question now is who we can trust within the Bureau,” Mueller said. “Cordell's influence runs deep, and after over forty years in the FBI, I still can't be sure who's in his pocket."

Morgan's hands clenched in her lap, short nails digging into her palms. "So what's our next move?"

"For now?" Mueller reached for a stack of files on his desk, the movement deliberate and controlled. "We work. I'll look into the threat, see if I can trace its origin. Cordell is getting reckless—he thinks he owns the FBI, but he doesn’t. I have people in my corner too… and so do you, Cross.”

Morgan smiled, exchanging a look with Derik. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“My family is already on a plane out of the country,” Mueller said. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re going to keep pushing on. I have a job to do… and a job just fell on my desk.”

He slid two manila folders across his desk. The familiar weight and texture of the folders grounded Morgan as she opened hers, but the air left her lungs in a rush when she saw the contents. The crime scene photos were brutal—a young woman, bound and suspended from a dock over the Trinity River. Spring flowers were woven through her hair, despite the season. The contrast between the delicate blooms and the violence of the scene made Morgan's stomach turn.

"Laura Benson, twenty-five," Mueller said, his voice taking on the professional detachment necessary for discussing such things. "Found this morning by a jogger. Keep reading."

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