Page 10 of Forsaken

Their killer had just made his first mistake. He'd shown his face, however briefly, to a camera. And Morgan intended to make it his last mistake.

The grainy figure on the screen continued his silent tirade, unaware that he'd just become the focus of a manhunt. Soon, she would know his name. Soon, she would know why Emily and Laura had to die, why spring flowers bloomed in autumn hair, why ancient symbols were carved into cooling flesh.

And soon, she would stop him before he could choose his next victim.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sun blazed against the greenhouse glass, turning the humid air inside into a shimmering haze of impossible spring. He moved between the carefully arranged rows, his practiced touch gentle as he examined each bloom. Daffodils nodded their golden heads in the amplified warmth, while tulips stretched toward natural light that filtered through carefully arranged shade cloths above. Cherry blossoms, coaxed from dormancy through precise manipulation of temperature and light, scattered pale petals across the black soil with each pass of his hand.

Everything here was precisely as it should be. The temperature held steady at sixty-eight degrees, maintained by a complex system of fans and misters that hissed softly beneath the afternoon heat. Dried herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles—yarrow, mugwort, vervain—each tied with twine and labeled in his precise handwriting. Their bitter fragrance mingled with the sweetness of forced blooms, creating an atmosphere thick with ritual significance.

At his workbench, leather-bound agricultural texts lay open, their pages casting long shadows in the slanted sunlight. Diagrams of lunar cycles and harvest rituals filled the margins, annotated in his careful script. A hand-drawn calendar dominated the center of the bench, each phase of the moon marked with symbols whose meanings he had spent years decoding. Red circles indicated the dates of his previous ceremonies—Emily in the cornfield, Laura by the river. Each death perfectly timed, perfectly staged, perfectly meaningful.

The radio hummed quietly in the corner, its afternoon news broadcast cutting through the greenhouse's humid silence. "Dallas police continue to investigate the death of Laura Benson,whose body was discovered earlier this week near the Trinity River..."

He smiled as he selected a particularly perfect tulip, its petals still closed against the bright day. They didn't understand, of course. How could they? They saw only the surface—a dead woman with flowers in her hair. They couldn't grasp the deeper meaning, the necessity of what he was doing. Each ceremony was a step toward something greater, something transformative.

He consulted his calendar, checking the upcoming lunar phases against his astronomical charts. The timing had to be perfect. Each death was a seed planted in the cosmic soil, and seeds required precise conditions to flourish. Emily's death had heralded the harvest, her blood feeding the corn that would sustain the cycle. Laura's drowning had blessed the waters that would nourish new growth. And Hannah—

His fingers traced the photograph pinned beside his calendar. Hannah Smith's gallery portrait showed a woman with striking red curls and an artist's thoughtful expression. She didn't know it yet, but she would play a crucial role in his great work. The wheel of the year turned ever onward, and each season demanded its tribute.

The coil of rope lay ready on his workbench, three-quarter inch manila treated for marine use. The same rope that had bound Emily, that had suspended Laura above the river's dark waters. His fingers found the familiar weave, testing its strength with practiced awareness. The rope was more than a tool—it was a link between worlds, binding the eternal cycles of death and rebirth.

"Initial reports suggest similarities to the murder of Emily Whitmore last week," the radio droned on. "The FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit has been called in to assist with the investigation..."

His hands stilled on the rope. The FBI's involvement was expected but irritating, like insects buzzing around a flower. They would seek patterns, of course, but they would look in the wrong places. They would search for human motives, human weaknesses. They couldn't understand that this was bigger than any one person—this was about the turning of great wheels, the alignment of ancient forces.

He returned to his flowers, selecting blooms with careful precision. Each one would play its part in Hannah's ceremony, just as the wheat field he'd chosen would serve as her altar. The air grew thicker with the scent of spring, with the promise of renewal through sacrifice. Outside, the wind stirred dead leaves across the ground, but in here, time bent to his will. In here, the seasons obeyed his command.

Soon, he would begin preparing the field. But now, surrounded by his impossible garden, he would commune with forces older than civilization itself. Forces that demanded blood and flowers, death and rebirth, an eternal dance of endings and beginnings.

The radio crackled with static, and he reached over to switch it off. In the sudden silence, he could hear the soft patter of cherry blossoms falling like snow, covering his workbench in a shroud of pale petals. Beams of afternoon sunlight caught the falling blooms, turning them into dancing motes of white against the humid air. His fingers found the rope again, feeling its strength, its purpose. Hannah's ceremony would be his finest yet—a perfect continuation of the pattern he was weaving through time itself.

Outside the greenhouse, the afternoon sun tracked its ancient arc across the Texas sky, counting down the hours until his next performance. But here in his sanctum, spring bloomed eternal, defying nature's laws even as it served something far older, far deeper, than mere seasons.

He smiled in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by his impossible garden. Everything was proceeding exactly as it should.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Morgan leaned closer to the computer screen, watching faces flicker past in a digital parade of potential suspects. The lights of the FBI tech lab hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the monitor that seemed to distort each image into something slightly sinister. Her eyes burned from hours of focus, but she couldn't look away. Somewhere in this stream of faces was the man from the grocery store footage, the man who had confronted Emily Whitmore days before her death.

Derik's presence beside her was steady, grounding. His shoulder nearly touched hers as they watched the facial recognition program work, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne. The tech analyst, Sarah Munson, sat at the main terminal, her fingers dancing across multiple keyboards as she refined the search parameters.

"Hold," Morgan said suddenly, her hand shooting out to stop the progression. "Go back two."

Sarah reversed the sequence with practiced efficiency. A driver's license photo filled the screen—salt-and-pepper hair, lean face, intense eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. The name beneath read "Victor Hale." Something about those eyes made Morgan's instincts bristle.

"Agronomist," Derik read from the profile, his voice tight with interest. He leaned in closer, his suit jacket brushing against Morgan's leather one. "Specializing in historical agricultural practices and crop development. Current employment: private research consultant for multiple agricultural firms."

Morgan felt her pulse quicken. Emily had been found in a cornfield, arranged like some twisted harvest offering. Laura's body had been adorned with spring flowers in autumn.Now, they had a suspect whose entire career revolved around manipulating the natural cycles of growth and decay. "Previous employment history?"

Sarah pulled up additional records, the screens reflecting in her glasses. "Ten years at the Department of Agriculture, followed by private consulting work. Multiple published papers on ancient farming techniques and their modern applications. No criminal record, but..." She paused, frowning. "There are some interesting financial records. Large equipment purchases, specialized greenhouse facilities."

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she processed the information. "Greenhouse facilities... perfect for growing out-of-season flora. And equipment purchases could explain how he's transporting and staging the bodies."

Derik nodded, his brow furrowed. "It fits the profile. Someone with extensive knowledge of agricultural practices, access to specialized equipment, and the ability to manipulate plant growth cycles."

"We need to dig deeper," Morgan said, her voice tight with urgency. "Sarah, can you pull up any affiliations or organizations he might be involved with?"

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