Page 8 of Forsaken

Derik nodded, following her train of thought. "Like it's being preserved. But for what?"

Morgan crouched down, examining the ground around the car without touching anything. "No tracks leading away. Hecovered his own footprints when he left." She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. "This killer, he's not just disposing of bodies. He's creating something. Each scene, each victim, they're all components in some larger... performance."

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down her spine. She'd seen ritual killings before, but this felt different. More deliberate. More patient.

"He's building something," she said finally. "Each death is a piece of some larger ritual. The seasonal elements, the timing with the moon phases, these agricultural symbols—it all means something to him."

"A calendar of death," Derik suggested, his voice grim. The wind carried the distant sound of traffic from the highway, a reminder that normal life continued just beyond this field of horrors.

"Maybe." Morgan thought of the flowers in Laura's hair, spring blooms in autumn's dying light. Of Emily's corn silk crown, harvest symbols carved into cooling flesh. "But I think it's more than that. He's not just marking time—he's trying to reshape it. Bend the seasons to his will."

She turned in a slow circle, taking in the field, the hidden car, the steel-gray sky above. Somewhere in this vehicle were clues to their killer's identity—and possibly hints about who he planned to take next. Because there would be a next victim. Everything about these crimes, from the seasonal symbolism to the careful staging, suggested a larger pattern still unfolding.

Looking back toward the cornfield, Morgan could almost see the killer moving through the rows, leading Emily to her fate. The sun caught the dried corn silk, turning it golden, like the flowers in Laura's hair—beauty twisted into horror, seasons transformed into instruments of death. Whatever ritual their killer was performing, it was far from over.

And Morgan intended to stop him before he could complete his grotesque calendar of death. She hadn't survived ten years, hadn't fought her way back to the Bureau, just to let another monster continue his reign of terror. She knew too well how it felt to be powerless, to be at the mercy of someone else's twisted designs.

Never again.

The wind picked up, sending a shower of dead leaves skittering across the ground between them. Each one seemed to whisper of secrets yet to be uncovered, of horrors yet to unfold. But Morgan had faced worse demons and survived. This killer, for all his ritual and symbolism, was just another monster in need of stopping.

And stopping monsters was what Morgan Cross did best—now more than ever.

CHAPTER SIX

In order to understand who may have killed her, Morgan wanted to understand who Emily Whitmore—the first known victim—was as a person. The sun hung high in a cloudless Texas sky as Morgan and Derik pulled up to Rachel Whitmore's modest craftsman home—Emily Whitmore’s sister. Dead leaves skittered across the brown lawn, and a trio of pumpkins flanked the front steps—cheerful decorations that felt obscene in light of Emily's death. The neighborhood was quiet at this hour, with only the distant hum of landscaping equipment breaking the midday silence. Morgan's fingers traced the outline of her badge through her jacket.

Her eyes swept the street, taking in details. Two-car garages, maintained yards, bikes left carelessly in driveways—the trappings of normal life that still felt foreign sometimes. A woman pushed a stroller on the opposite sidewalk, her pace leisurely, unhurried. No signs of surveillance, no unmarked vehicles that might suggest Cordell's people were watching. Still, Morgan made mental note of possible escape routes, counting cross-streets and analyzing lines of sight. Old habits died hard.

A woman's muffled singing drifted through the screen door—a lullaby. Derik's knuckles rapped against the door frame, and the singing stopped.

Rachel Whitmore answered with a baby propped on her hip, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. The infant, no more than six months old, regarded them with solemn eyes that seemed too knowing for such a tiny face. Rachel's free hand clutched a teething ring, and dark circles beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

"Mrs. Whitmore?" Morgan held up her credentials. "I'm Special Agent Morgan Cross, and this is Special Agent DerikGreene. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Emily, if that's all right."

"Oh, of course." Rachel's free hand fluttered to her throat. "Please, come in. I'm sorry about the mess—Lily's teething and sleep is... theoretical these days."

The living room was a battlefield of baby gear and half-folded laundry, with framed photos covering every available surface. Morgan's trained eye caught Emily's face in several of them—smiling, alive, unaware of the horror that awaited her in that cornfield. In one photo, the sisters stood together at what looked like a gallery opening, Emily's professional poise contrasting with Rachel's more relaxed demeanor. The baby squirmed in Rachel's arms, making small sounds of discontent.

"She's beautiful," Morgan said, nodding toward the infant. She meant it—there was something pure about babies, something untouched by the darkness she dealt with daily. In prison, she'd watched mothers cradle their children during visits, seeing how those brief moments of connection could sustain them through months of separation. She remembered one woman, Marie, who'd press her hand against the visiting room glass, matching her palm to her daughter's, trying to memorize the size difference before another year of growth separated them.

"Thank you." Rachel settled into an armchair, adjusting the baby against her shoulder. A burp cloth caught the drool from Lily's teething troubles. "She'll never know her aunt Emily, and that's—" Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry. What did you want to ask about?"

Morgan leaned forward, keeping her posture open, non-threatening. A decade behind bars had taught her how body language could defuse tension, make people feel safe enough to talk. She noted how Rachel's eyes kept drifting to the photos, as if she couldn't quite believe her sister was gone. "We'rereviewing Emily's case, and we're particularly interested in the location where she was found. Did cornfields hold any special significance for your sister?"

Rachel's brow furrowed, one hand absently patting the baby's back. The infant's eyes were starting to droop, lulled by the rhythmic motion. "No, nothing like that. Emily was an art dealer—she spent most of her time in galleries, not farms. She specialized in contemporary sculptures, actually. When the police said where they'd found her, it seemed... random. Wrong." She paused, adjusting the baby's position. "Emily was always more comfortable in high heels than hiking boots. She complained if she had to walk on grass in her good shoes."

"What about her routine in the weeks before she died?" Derik asked, his voice carrying that gentle authority that had always made him good at victim interviews. He'd positioned himself slightly apart from Morgan, giving Rachel space while maintaining eye contact.

Rachel's eyes clouded with memory. "She was working late a lot. There was a big exhibition coming up—some avant-garde artists from Europe. Emily was excited about it, said it could really put her gallery on the map." She absently stroked Lily's fine hair. "But she seemed... distracted, too. Like something was weighing on her."

Morgan leaned forward slightly. "Did she mention any new people in her life? Anyone who made her uncomfortable?"

"I told the other detectives about the argument," Rachel said, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. The infant made a small sound of protest before settling. "At the grocery store. They didn't seem to think it was important, but..."

Morgan felt her pulse quicken. In her peripheral vision, she saw Derik straighten slightly—he'd caught it too. "Tell us about the argument."

"It was maybe two weeks before she—before it happened." Rachel's eyes fixed on a photo of Emily, as if drawing strength from her sister's frozen smile. It showed Emily at what looked like a Christmas gathering, laughing at something off-camera. "I saw her in the parking lot of Marshall's Market, arguing with some man. When I asked her about it later, she brushed it off, said it was nothing. But Emily wasn't the type to argue with strangers. It bothered me."

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