Page 4 of For Wrath

Morgan's jawclenched involuntarily as she considered his words. She didn't want to be backin this world, but the thought of diving headfirst into another dark andtwisted mystery ignited a spark within her that she couldn't ignore.

"Frankly,I'm not sure if I want to be back on a case," Morgan replied, her voicesteady despite her reservations. She stared at the edge of Mueller's desk,avoiding his probing gaze. “And you suspended me, remember?”

"Understandable,"he conceded. "But for what it’s worth, I’d like to cut your suspensionshort. I think you should hear this out before making a decision.”

Morgan swallowedhard. A huge part of her wanted to tell Mueller to go screw himself, but shebit her tongue.

He went on, “Thismorning, forty-five-year-old Sheryl Stewart was found dead in her home by herdaughter. Her face... it was mutilated as if someone had given her a makeshiftfacelift. I’ve never seen anything like the crime scene photos.”

Morgan's browsfurrowed as she processed the information, an unsettling feeling settling inher stomach. She didn't need to see the photos to understand the horror of thescene; her imagination painted a vivid enough picture.

"Her daughter...How old is she?" Morgan asked, glancing up at Mueller with concern.

“Eighteen,"he answered solemnly, and Morgan clenched her fists in her lap, the nailsdigging into her palms. Despite her reluctance to return to this line of work,her heart went out to the young girl who'd just lost her mother in such abrutal fashion.

"The crimescene is still active," Mueller continued. "We could use yourexpertise, Cross. I know things have been difficult for you lately, but we needsomeone with your skills and experience on this one.”

Morgan's mindraced, weighing the potential consequences of stepping back into the frayagainst the burning desire to help bring justice to those who needed it most.As much as she wanted to tell Mueller off, she couldn't ignore the fire thatstill burned within her, the drive to uncover the truth and ensure that no moreinnocent lives were destroyed.

“So you’ll takeit?” Mueller asked.

Morgan clenchedher fists, nails digging into her palms as she took a deep breath. "Holdon," she said, her voice strained with the effort of keeping her emotionsin check. "I never said I'd take the case. Why do you want me back sobadly? You could find someone else."

Mueller leanedback in his chair, his eyes locked on hers, gauging her resistance. "We'reshort-staffed at the moment, and I think you're perfect for the job. You have aunique way of seeing things that others don't.”

"Really?"Morgan scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Because I thought you didn't trustme. I spent ten years in prison, remember? And then there was my recentsuspension."

"Look,"Mueller said, spreading his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "I knowwhat I said before, and I also know you're a damn fine agent who producesresults. This crime is too twisted to ignore, and we need the best on it."

Morgan stareddown at her hands, the ghost of her past still haunting her thoughts. Shefought the urge to storm out of his office, knowing that it wouldn't help hersituation, but the bitterness was hard to swallow. Still, this was probably theclosest thing to an apology she’d ever get from Mueller.

"Fine,"she relented quietly, her jaw tight. "I'll take the case." But as shelooked up into Mueller's eyes, she couldn't shake the feeling that somethingwasn't quite right. "But I'm doing this for the victims, not for you orthe Bureau."

"Understood,"Mueller replied, his gaze never wavering. "Now, I suggest you get to thecrime scene. Time is of the essence."

With one lastpiercing look, Morgan stood and walked towards the door. She knew this casewouldn't be easy; nothing ever was in her line of work.

But if there waseven a chance that she could bring the monster responsible for Sheryl's deathto justice, it was a risk she was willing to take.

CHAPTERTHREE

Morgan steppedout of her car and onto the gravel driveway of the sprawling mansion. Thebright sunlight illuminated its beige brick, casting crisp shadows from thenearby trees across the manicured lawn. Morgan squinted at the afternoon sun,feeling its heat on her skin as she stepped out of her car. She tugged at thecollar of her shirt, already feeling the oppressive Dallas heat.

"SpecialAgent Cross," one of the officers greeted her as she approached. "Yougot here quick."

"Time is ofthe essence, Officer," Morgan replied curtly, her eyes scanning the scenefor any possible clues. Ten years behind bars had hardened her, but she'dworked a few cases now and was starting to get back into the swing of being anFBI agent. "What do we have here?" Morgan asked.

"Victim isSheryl Stewart, age forty-five," the officer began, leading her toward theentrance of the mansion. "No sign of forced entry."

"Any knownenemies? Or a motive?" Morgan asked, her mind racing with possibilities.

"None thatwe're aware of right now," the officer admitted. "But she wasn'texactly a nobody, Special Agent Cross."

The grand foyerof the mansion spoke for itself – elegant marble flooring, a crystal chandelierhanging above, and priceless works of art adorning the walls. It was clear thatSheryl Stewart lived a life of luxury, and sometimes, wealth bred envy.

"Who foundher?" Morgan questioned, taking in her opulent surroundings. She couldn'thelp but feel a twinge of envy at this life she'd never know; it was peoplelike Sheryl who lived in mansions while she had spent a decade rotting in acell for a crime she didn't commit. She cursed herself for even having thethought. She was sure Sheryl would trade places with Morgan in an instant if itmeant she'd still be alive, and Morgan chastised herself for being so jaded.

"Herhousekeeper discovered the body this morning," the officer informed her, hisvoice wavering slightly. "You'll want to brace yourself, Agent Cross. It's...not pretty."

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