Page 5 of Forsaken

Morgan flipped through the pages, her trained eyes catching details that others might miss. The rope burns on the victim's wrists showed signs of struggle. The methodical placement of the flowers suggested ritual significance. The position of the body implied knowledge of knots and rigging.

Then she reached the second set of photos—another victim, another elaborately staged scene.

"Emily Whitmore," Mueller supplied. "Found in a cornfield last week. Different location, similar symbolic elements."

"A possible serial killer," Derik said quietly, studying his own copy of the file. His voice carried the weight of experience oftoo many similar cases. "With some kind of harvest or seasonal fixation."

Morgan looked up from the photos, her mind already shifting into profiler mode despite the chaos of her personal investigation. Years in prison had actually sharpened her analytical skills—watching other inmates, learning to read subtle cues that might signal violence, categorizing patterns of behavior. "The crime scene at the river—it's still active?"

Mueller nodded, shadows playing across his face as clouds passed outside his window. "CSI is there now. If you leave immediately, you can get eyes on it before they finish processing."

Morgan stood, tucking the file under her arm. The weight of Cordell's threats, of Mueller's investigation, of Thomas's unsolved murder—all of it had to be compartmentalized. There was a killer out there, staging elaborate death scenes along the Trinity River, and that had to take precedence. The dead demanded justice just as surely as she did.

"Sir?" She paused at the door, Derik close behind her, his presence as steady and reassuring as always. "Thank you. For not backing down."

Mueller's expression was grim, the morning light catching the silver in his hair. "Just watch your back, Cross. Both of you. Cordell didn't show his hand without a reason, and I doubt he's done playing games."

Morgan nodded, following Derik into the hallway. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face as he turned to her, concern evident in every line of his features. "You okay?"

She thought about Cordell's threat at the cemetery, about Mueller's refusal to fire her, about the photos of Laura Benson's flower-adorned corpse. Nothing about any of it was okay. But she had a job to do, and maybe that was enough for now. Maybesolving this case could be a step toward proving herself, toward showing Cordell and everyone else hadn't broken her—it had only made her better at hunting monsters.

"Let's go see what our killer left us at the river," she said, already moving toward the elevator. Behind them, Mueller's office door clicked shut, like the sound of a chess piece being moved into position.

The game, it seemed, was far from over. But Morgan had learned long ago that the best defense was a good offense. And right now, offense meant finding whoever had staged that grotesque tableau by the Trinity River. One monster at a time—that was how she'd survive this. That was how she'd win.

As the elevator doors closed, she caught their reflection again—her and Derik, partners despite everything, ready to hunt another killer.

The game wasn't over. It was just beginning.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Trinity River stretched before them like a serpent in the light, its murky surface reflecting the steel-gray sky above. Morgan's boots crunched on gravel as she made her way down the embankment, Derik close behind. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, creating a stark border between the ordinary world and the horror that waited at the water's edge. The morning air carried the crisp bite of fall, mingled with the river's perpetual organic decay.

The weight of her badge pressed against her hip, a constant reminder of everything she'd lost and fought to reclaim. Freedom still felt fragile sometimes, like a dream that could shatter at any moment. But here she was, back on the job, despite Cordell's threats, despite the corruption she knew lurked in the Bureau's shadows. The irony wasn't lost on her—hunting killers again while trying to expose the ones who'd framed her.

The dock creaked beneath their weight as they approached the cluster of personnel gathered at its end. The wood was still damp from yesterday's rain, and Morgan caught the lingering scent of wet timber. She fought back the memory of Cordell at the cemetery, of his black umbrella and cold smile. Focus on the case. One monster at a time.

Scattered around the crime scene were the familiar tools of investigation—numbered evidence markers, photographers documenting every detail, techs in white coveralls collecting trace evidence. The routine of it was almost comforting, a dance she'd performed countless times before prison. Before everything changed.

A woman of commanding presence with her raven hair pulled back into a severe bun greeted them. Her sharp, hawk-like eyes were underscored by dark circles - a telltale sign of thelong hours she had been on the case since the body's discovery. Her police uniform was immaculate despite the grueling scene, and her badge gleamed under the harsh daylight. "Agents Cross and Greene," she said in a tone laced with exhaustion but also relief at their arrival, "I'm Detective Sarah Martinez. I appreciate you coming out here."

Morgan noted the slight tension in Martinez's shoulders, the way her eyes lingered on Morgan's visible tattoos. She was used to it by now—the subtle double-takes, the unasked questions.Let them look.

"What do we have so far?" Morgan asked, scanning the scene. Even without the body—already lifted onto a gurney and draped in black—the dock told a story. Dark stains marked where Laura Benson had been suspended, and scattered flower petals still dotted the water's surface like pale stars. Each detail spoke of planning, of ritual, of someone who saw murder as art.

"Victim's car was found abandoned nearby," Martinez said, flipping through her notes. The pages rustled in the morning breeze. "Security cameras were conveniently out of order. CSI's processing the vehicle now, but initial sweep shows it was wiped clean. Too clean."

Morgan knelt near the metal cleat where the rope had been secured, studying the worn surface. The metal was old but well-maintained, sturdy enough to hold significant weight. She thought of the prison yard's exercise equipment, how even the simplest objects could become tools of violence in the right hands. "Professional job?"

"Looking that way." Martinez gestured to a forensics tech photographing the scene. Camera flashes punctuated her words like artificial lightning. "No prints, no hair, no fibers so far. Even the flowers were handled with care—not a single stem shows signs of being touched with bare hands."

The level of precision reminded Morgan of her own case, of how meticulously she'd been framed. Different circumstances, different perpetrator, but the same attention to detail. The same choreographed perfection.

Derik crouched beside Morgan, his suit pants gathering moisture from the dock. His presence was steady, grounding, a reminder that not everything in her life had been poisoned by betrayal. "Speaking of the flowers—any ID on the species yet?"

"That's where it gets weird." Martinez pulled out her phone, showing them a series of photos. The screen's blue light reflected in her tired eyes. "They're spring bloomers—daffodils, tulips, cherry blossoms. Nothing that should be growing naturally right now."

Morgan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air. The deliberate choice of out-of-season flowers spoke of resources, of planning, of symbolic meaning that went beyond mere decoration. "Greenhouse grown?"

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