Page 33 of Forsaken

They exited the car in unison, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The air hung heavy with the scent of autumn decay and something darker – the unmistakable odor of fear.

"Morgan," Derik whispered, nodding towards a rusted van partially hidden behind overgrown bushes. "That could be Vanessa's."

She nodded grimly. "Stay sharp. Simon's unpredictable, but he's meticulous. This is his stage, and we're walking right into his performance."

As they approached the clinic's entrance, Morgan's mind raced. Was she leading them into a trap? The weight of her past pressed down on her, threatening to cloud her judgment.

"I've got a point," she said, her voice barely audible. "Watch my six."

With a nod from Derik, Morgan braced herself and kicked in the door. It gave way with a shriek of protesting metal, revealing a yawning darkness beyond.

The stench hit them first – mildew, rot, and something sickeningly sweet. Morgan's instincts screamed danger as they entered, weapons raised.

"You hear that?" Derik whispered.

A faint sound echoed through the halls – rhythmic, almost melodic. It raised the hair on the back of Morgan's neck.

"He's here," she breathed, her grip tightening on her gun. "And he's waiting for us."

The rhythmic sound grew louder as Morgan and Derik crept down the dimly lit corridor. Rounding a corner, they froze. A shaft of fading sunlight pierced through a broken window, illuminating a scene that made Morgan's blood run cold.

Vanessa sat slumped in a weathered chair, her wrists bound tightly behind her. Delicate spring blooms—incongruous against the decaying backdrop—were woven intricately through her disheveled hair. The nurse's chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular breaths.

"Oh God," Derik whispered.

Morgan's eyes locked onto the figure looming over Vanessa. Simon Drayton stood unnaturally still, a glinting knife held mere inches from the nurse's exposed throat. His eyes, wild and feverish, met Morgan's gaze.

"Welcome to the final act," Simon's voice rang out, eerily calm. "I was beginning to think you'd miss the crescendo."

Morgan's finger tightened on the trigger. "Step away from her, Simon. It's over."

A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. "Over? No. This is just the beginning of understanding."

Simon's free hand gestured theatrically. "Each death, a brushstroke. Each victim, a canvas. Don't you see the beauty in it?"

Morgan's mind raced. She needed to keep him talking, buy time. "Tell me about the beauty, Simon. Help me understand."

Simon's eyes blazed with manic intensity as he began to weave his grotesque tapestry. "Laura Benson, the librarian," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "She denied Mary the sanctuary of silence when her mind was screaming." His grip on the knife tightened. "Emily Whitmore, so-called patron of the arts, who couldn't see the brilliance in Mary's therapy proposal."

Morgan's gaze darted between Simon and Vanessa, her mind racing. She needed to defuse this situation, but one wrong move could be catastrophic.

"Hannah Smith," Simon continued, his voice rising. "She saw Mary's qualifications but not her worth. And Jessica Clarke..." He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "She turned Mary away on the darkest night of her life."

Morgan took a careful step forward. "And you think this is justice, Simon? These murders?"

His eyes snapped to her, fervent and unyielding. "This is art, Agent Cross. A mirror held up to a society drowning in its own indifference." He gestured towards Vanessa with the knife. "And she... she's the masterpiece. The nurse who failed Mary when she needed care the most."

Morgan lowered her weapon slightly, a calculated risk. She thought of her own years behind bars, the anger that had threatened to consume her. "I understand pain, Simon," she said softly. "The betrayal, the rage. I've been there."

Simon's brow furrowed, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his mania. Morgan pressed on, "I made a choice in prison. To seek justice, not revenge. To build, not destroy." She met his gaze, unflinching. "You still have that choice."

For a moment, the room was silent save for Vanessa's ragged breathing. Morgan held her breath, hoping against hope that she'd reached some part of him that was still human.

Simon's grip on the knife loosened, his eyes flickering with a moment of doubt. Morgan's heart raced, sensing a fragile opportunity. But as quickly as it appeared, the vulnerability vanished from Simon's face, replaced by a twisted resolve.

"No," he snarled, lunging toward Vanessa with terrifying speed. The blade glinted in the dim light, arcing toward her exposed throat.

Morgan's instincts took over. The crack of her gunshot echoed through the decrepit room. Simon staggered backward, clutching his shoulder, a look of shock etched across his features.

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