Page 40 of Forsaken

Nothing. No movement, no signs of life. Just the occasional flicker of a distant streetlamp and the rustle of autumn leaves in the crisp night air.

With a deep sigh, Morgan stepped out of the car, her body tense, ready for anything. The walk to her front door felt longer than usual, each step measured and cautious. As she fumbled for her keys, a glint of white caught her eye.

"What the hell?" she muttered, reaching into the mailbox. Her fingers closed around an envelope.

Curiosity warred with caution as she unlocked her door and stepped inside. The familiar sound of nails clicking on hardwood greeted her, and despite her unease, Morgan felt a smile tug at her lips.

"Hey, Skunk," she said softly, crouching to scratch behind the pitbull's ears. "At least someone's happy to see me."

Skunk's tail wagged furiously, his solid presence a comfort in the stillness of the house.

"Come on, boy," she said, moving towards the living room. "Let's see what we've got here."

She settled onto the couch, Skunk curling up at her feet. The envelope felt heavy in her hands, like it carried more than just paper. With a deep breath, Morgan tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in neat, handwritten script. Her eyes widened as she read the message:

"Morgan, I need you to meet me at the place where you broke your ankle."

The words seemed to swim before her eyes. Morgan felt her heart rate accelerate, her instincts screaming danger. A memory flickered in her mind. When did she break her ankle? It was only one time, when she was younger… a child.

Suddenly, Morgan warped back thirty years.

She was a kid again, ten years old, wading through the forest with a shotgun in her hand. Her dad was in front of her, geared up with his own weapon at the ready. They moved silently through the underbrush. Her dad turned back to her—he shushed her, and Morgan nodded.

They were about to find some game.

Morgan could still remember the moment her ankle caught on a root, causing her to trip and scare off any potential game. She’d tried to wedge her foot out, but then she’d heard a crack—the sound of her ankle snapping.

Morgan's breath caught in her throat as memories flooded back. The crisp autumn air, the crunch of leaves underfoot, her father's strong hand guiding her through the dense woods. She could almost smell the gunpowder and pine needles.

"It can't be," she muttered, her fingers tracing the words on the paper. "He's dead…”

This had to be a trap, a cruel game orchestrated by Cordell. But how could he know about that day?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. But Morgan could hardly pull her eyes off the words on the page.

"Morgan?" Derik called out, his voice laced with concern.

She tried to respond, but her chest felt tight, constricted. The room seemed to spin as panic took hold. Morgan gripped the edge of the couch, struggling to breathe.

Derik rushed to her side. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his green eyes searching her face.

Morgan opened her mouth, but no words came out. She gestured weakly at the letter, now crumpled in her fist.

"What is this?" Derik asked, gently prying the paper from her fingers. "Morgan, talk to me. What's going on?"

She gasped for air, fighting to regain control. "Can't... be... real," she managed between ragged breaths.

Derik's brow furrowed as he read the note. "Broke your ankle? What does this mean?"

Morgan shook her head, unable to articulate the storm of emotions and memories swirling inside her. The walls of her carefully constructed defenses were crumbling, and she felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be in years.

Suddenly, a flash of clarity cut through Morgan's panic. She sprang to her feet, startling Derik, and bolted towards her bedroom. Her heart pounded as she yanked open her closet door, scattering shoes and old case files in her haste.

"Morgan, what are you doing?" Derik called after her, his voice a mix of confusion and concern.

She didn't answer, her fingers frantically searching the back of the closet until they closed around a small, battered shoebox.With trembling hands, Morgan pulled out a faded envelope, its edges worn from years of handling.

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