Page 10 of For Blood

Morgan’s fingers stalled on the glossy surface of the photograph, her gaze locked onto the haunting parallels between past and present.The positioning of Rachel Martinez's body—an eerie mirror to that of Maria Santos two decades earlier—spoke volumes in its silent stillness.The killer had recreated the crime scene with meticulous detail, down to the deliberate stab wound and the cold sprawl of limbs.

"It feels like a message," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely rising above the hum of the projector.She flipped back to another photo of Maria's murder, her pen tracing invisible lines connecting the dots of both scenes.The similarities were too glaring to ignore; it was as if the killer had left breadcrumbs, leading them through a morbid trail of memories.The intent was clear: someone wanted them to tie these strings together, to see the pattern in the chaos.

"Whoever this is," Morgan continued, feeling the weight of Derik's gaze upon her, "they're not just tying up loose ends—they’re taunting us."Her mind raced, trying to sift through potential meanings, hidden threats, or boasts veiled within the replication of the old crime scene.Had the killer been biding their time all these years only to emerge from the shadows with such a brazen declaration?Twenty years was a long time—he could have moved somewhere else, left the country, built another life.Maybe he went to jail for another crime, served twenty years behind bars, and was now out.There was no way of knowing, not without knowing who he truly was.

Derik leaned back, the creak of his chair slicing through the tense air.His arms crossed over his chest—a protective barrier or perhaps a subconscious bracing against the twisted reality they were facing."Or it’s a copycat," he said, countering her theory with one of his own."Someone who wants us running around in circles chasing a case that’s already gone cold.Copycat killers love the attention, especially when they can confuse investigators."

The notion settled into the room, a palpable presence that seemed to challenge Morgan's instincts.It was a possibility, certainly—one that could not be discounted given the penchant for imitators to latch onto infamous crimes.Yet something gnawed at her, a visceral tug that whispered of connections deeper than mere imitation.

"Copycats can be sloppy," she retorted, her brow furrowing as she considered the crisp precision of Rachel's murder scene."They recreate what they know from reports, but this—" She gestured to the photos spread before them, this is intimate knowledge.It's too accurate, Derik.This person knew the original crime scene personally, or they've had access to information not released to the public."

Morgan's hand hovered over the pause button, her fingers tense as she absorbed the silence that had settled in the room like a foreboding mist.Derik's suggestion of a copycat killer nagged at her, but it was a line of thought riddled with holes, and she knew it.She let out a slow breath, grounding herself in the certainty that Rachel Martinez's death was a deliberate act, not an imitation.

"Either way, we treat this like an active threat," Morgan said, her voice carrying a steel edge.She nodded, conceding to the shadow of doubt that there might be more than one predator lurking in the darkness of their case."Someone out there wanted Rachel Martinez dead, and they've already shown they’re willing to kill.If we don’t get ahead of them, it’s only a matter of time before they strike again."

She stood up, the chair scraping against the floor, and pulled open the drawer of the metal filing cabinet beside her desk.The sound echoed through the room, a stark reminder of the urgency pressing down on them.Her fingers flipped through folders with methodical precision until she found what she was looking for—the original suspect list from the Santos case, yellowed with age but no less significant.

"We start with these," she declared, pulling the papers free and laying them flat on the table.Her eyes scanned the names of the men who matched Rachel's description of the killer.Tall with short dark hair and a penchant for leather jackets—those were the shadows they needed to chase.She handed a copy to Derik."We need to figure out where they are now, what they’ve been up to, if any of them slipped up over the years.Maybe we missed something."

As Derik took the papers, his gaze met hers, a silent exchange of determination mingled with the fatigue that came with reopening old wounds.They both knew the drill; suspects could change over the years, their lives taking turns that either pushed them further into darkness or allowed them to blend back into society, unnoticed.

Morgan's thoughts returned unbidden to her father, her heart clenching with the pain of his absence and the betrayal that still stung.Could there be a link between him and this case?Was he trying to reach out to her through these twisted events?It was a theory as wild as it was unlikely, yet it gnawed at her, demanding attention.

Derik shuffled the papers in his hands, breaking her reverie."We'll have to check current databases and see if any of them have popped up recently," he suggested, his green eyes searching hers as if trying to gauge her thoughts.

Morgan sifted through the stack of faded papers, her fingers brushing over the rough edges as if they might reveal secrets hidden for decades.The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of documents and Derik's steady breathing beside her.But inside Morgan's chest, a storm of emotions raged—a mix of determination and fear that knotted her gut.

She glanced at the projector screen, where Rachel’s image was frozen in time.Those wide, terrified eyes seemed to plead for justice, trapped in the amber of old footage.Morgan's heart clenched at the sight, a silent vow forming within her: she would not let Rachel’s death be in vain.

For twenty years, Rachel had lived with the image of a murderer etched into her memory—the same man who had taken Maria Santos's life in cold blood.Now, silence enveloped Rachel's voice, leaving behind a gap that echoed through the years.

CHAPTER FOUR

The room was dark except for the glow of a single desk lamp, illuminating an array of photos and documents spread out across the surface.The killer studied them with cold precision—Rachel Martinez, and the faces of others who had lied, each one carefully marked as part of the plan.

The killer's eyes narrowed as they scrutinized Rachel's photograph, tracing the lines of her face with a gloved finger."You thought you could hide," they whispered, their voice barely audible in the stillness of the room."But I've found you all."

They picked up a red marker, uncapping it with a soft click.The scent of ink filled the air as they drew a precise X across Rachel's smiling face.The killer paused, savoring the moment.Each mark was a promise, a vow of retribution long overdue.

Moving methodically, they turned their attention to the other photographs.Faces stared back, frozen in time, unaware of the fate that awaited them.The killer's hand moved swiftly, marking each one with the same crimson X.

"You all played your parts so well," the killer murmured, their voice tinged with bitterness."Such convincing liars."

They leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking softly.Their gaze swept over the collection of damning evidence spread before them.Years of meticulous planning, of piecing together the puzzle of betrayal, had led to this moment.

The killer's thoughts drifted to Maria, her face etched in their memory.She had been so full of life, so trusting.And these people—these cowards—had left her to die.The anger that had simmered for years threatened to boil over, but the killer pushed it down.Control was essential.Emotion would only cloud their judgment.

"Did you think I'd forget?"they asked the silent room, their voice barely above a whisper."Did you think your lies would protect you forever?"

Their focus wasn't on art or patience—it was on justice, their kind of justice.The people who lied all those years ago think they'd escaped the consequences, think time had erased their sins.But time hadn’t made the killer forget.Each false statement, each betrayal, had only fueled their anger.Maria had been left to die while these so-called witnesses covered for themselves, for others.

The killer stood, pacing the small room with measured steps.Their fingers trailed over the documents—police reports, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes.Each piece was a testament to the web of lies that had been spun, a web they were now poised to tear apart.

"You've had your time," they said, addressing the marked photographs."You've lived your lives thinking you were safe.But your time is up."

They paused, picking up a faded newspaper clipping.The headline screamed of tragedy, of a young life cut short.Maria's name was there, buried in the text.The killer's grip tightened, crumpling the edges of the paper.

"I promised you," they whispered, their voice thick with emotion."I promised I'd make them pay."

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