Page 35 of Forsaken

"We can't control it," Morgan mused, her gaze distant. "We can only try to nurture what's good and hope it takes root."

As she turned to leave the room, Morgan felt a weight lifting—not entirely, but enough to breathe a little easier. The case was closed, but the work of healing, of justice, of transformation—that would continue long after the flowers had faded away.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Morgan stood at the back of the crowd gathered outside the FBI building. Camera lenses glinted like watchful eyes, their attention fixed on Mueller at the podium. The morning air carried a hint of winter's approach, rustling dead leaves across the manicured lawn while reporters shifted impatiently, hungry for details about Simon Drayton's arrest.

Police barricades created an artificial boundary between law enforcement and the press, their metal frames catching the sunlight like prison bars. Morgan studied the crowd with the careful attention she'd developed during her years inside, noting possible escape routes and analyzing sight lines out of habit. Even now, three years after her release, certain instincts refused to fade.

"You sure about this?" Derik's voice was low beside her. "Cordell will be watching. Every network in Dallas is covering this."

"That's exactly what I want," she said quietly, watching another news van pull into the parking lot. "Let him watch. Let him see I won't back down." She’s learned that sometimes the best defense was a deliberate show of strength—even if you had to fake the confidence behind it.

The crowd's murmuring grew louder as Mueller approached the podium, his mustache catching the morning light. Camera shutters clicked like mechanical insects, documenting every moment of the FBI's carefully constructed narrative. Morgan studied the faces in the crowd, wondering which ones might report back to Cordell, which eyes might belong to his vast network of informants. Even now, she could feel the weight of invisible observation.

Mueller's voice carried across the plaza, strong and authoritative as he detailed Simon's capture. He touched on the ritual elements of the murders without revealing too much, maintaining the delicate balance between public interest and operational security. Each word was chosen carefully, building the official story while protecting sensitive details that could compromise future prosecution.

"And now," Mueller said, his expression grave beneath the sun, "I'd like to invite Special Agent Morgan Cross to say a few words about the investigation."

The crowd's attention shifted like a physical weight as Morgan moved toward the podium. Her boots struck the concrete with deliberate purpose, each step carrying her closer to the performance she'd planned for an audience of one. Behind her, she sensed Derik tensing slightly, reading the determination in her stride.

From behind the podium, Morgan faced the sea of cameras with the same steady resolve she'd developed during years of prison yard confrontations. The microphone carried her voice across the plaza, strong and unwavering despite the hurricane of emotions beneath her professional facade. "Simon Drayton has been arrested for the murders of Emily Whitmore, Laura Benson, Hannah Smith, and Jessica Clarke. He will never harm another person, never transform another life into his twisted art." She paused, letting the words settle over the crowd like leaves. "But this success belongs to more than just the FBI. It belongs to every police officer, every detective, every civilian who helped bring justice to these women and their families."

The sun caught her badge as she shifted, sending a flash of gold across the assembled crowd. Wind rustled through nearby trees, carrying the scent of dying leaves and approaching winter. "I was made for this work," she continued, her voice carrying the weight of hard-won truth. "Prison didn't change that. Tenyears behind bars for a crime I didn't commit only made me better at spotting monsters who think they're above the law." Her eyes swept the crowd, imagining Cordell watching from some comfortable office, his morning coffee growing cold as he absorbed her challenge. "I will never back down. Not for as long as I live."

She leaned slightly closer to the microphones, her next words aimed like arrows through the cameras. "And tonight, I'll be celebrating at the place where everything changed. Where truth got twisted into lies, and justice lost its way." The wind caught her words, carrying them across the plaza like a declaration of war. "Some of you know exactly where I mean."

The crowd erupted with questions, but Morgan was already moving away from the podium, her message delivered. She caught glimpses of reporters frantically typing on phones, of cameras tracking her movement, of the story already spreading through the digital ether toward its intended target.

As Morgan stepped away from the podium, the cacophony of shouted questions and camera shutters faded into white noise. She felt Derik's presence at her back, a silent guardian as they navigated through the throng of reporters. Their voices blurred together, a dissonant chorus demanding answers she had no intention of providing.

There was only one person she was worried about now—and that was Richard Cordell.

Drawing him out of the shadows was the only option she had left.

***

Later, in Mueller's office, the hum of the ventilation system provided a backdrop to Derik's controlled fury. "You basically invited him to come after you," he said, pacing near the windowwhere Dallas's skyline stretched toward a perfect Texas sky. His reflection ghosted across the glass, a shadow of agitation. "Told him exactly where you'll be, like painting a target on your back."

"We needed to draw him out," Morgan replied. The chair creaked beneath her as she shifted. "Get him to show himself again. And now he will." Her fingers drummed once against her thigh, a habit born of counting hours in a cell.

Mueller leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. Afternoon sun slanted through his window, catching dust motes that danced like memories in the air. "Cordell certainly saw that press conference. Every network in Dallas carried it live." His expression hardened, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. "But confronting him at the site where your father allegedly shot Mary Price? That's a hell of a risk, Morgan."

"It's not just a risk," she said, standing to face them both. Her shadow stretched across Mueller's desk, long and distorted in the light. "It's a calculation. Cordell operates in shadows, manipulates from a distance. But this?" She gestured toward the windows where cameras were still being packed away on the plaza below. "This forces him to meet me on my terms. In the open." Her eyes fixed on Mueller's, carrying the weight of years spent planning this moment. "Mueller, do you have a team of agents you trust? Who you know aren't on Cordell's side?"

Mueller's mustache twitched as he considered her words. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, its sound muffled by thick windows. "I have a small team of agents, and also police officers, who I'm damn sure he hasn't gotten to," he said finally. His fingers traced the edge of a case file, a gesture that spoke of careful consideration. "We can have them guarding you from the shadows. Greene and I will be there too."

"I don't like this," Derik interjected, his worry evident in every line of his body. He moved closer to Morgan, close enoughthat she could smell his cologne again. "Cordell got Thomas Grady shot with a long-range sniper rifle. What makes you think he won't do the same to you?"

"And Thomas Grady was an agent," Mueller reminded them, his voice carrying the weight of authority. He stood, moving to join them near the window where Dallas sprawled beneath the sky. "We don't know how high up this thing goes, but we do have some people in our corner. Greene, we'll have to watch every corner of that parking lot and cover all the buildings. We'll suit Cross up to be bulletproof, and we'll lure Cordell out."

"What if he doesn't come?" Derik asked, his hand unconsciously moving toward his weapon. The gesture wasn't lost on Morgan—she'd seen it too many times during their years of partnership.

"He'll come," Morgan said with quiet certainty. A cloud passed over the sun, casting momentary shadows across the office that seemed to emphasize the weight of her words. "Now that I've met Cordell, I can see what type of man he is. He hasn't gotten me killed yet... because he wants to kill me himself."

Morgan's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications. Derik's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, the wind picked up, sending more dead leaves skittering across the plaza below like nature's own warning signs.

"You're talking about using yourself as bait," Derik said, his voice low and controlled. Sunlight caught the silver in his hair, a reminder of the decade they'd lost to lies and prison bars. "Do you realize how insane that sounds?"

---