Page 8 of For Us

It was sickening. Those pageants – they exploited children, robbed them of their innocence. And for what? A shiny crown and a few minutes of fame? Morgan couldn't understand it.

Skunk whined softly as if in agreement, nuzzling her hand with his wet nose. Morgan spared him a brief smile before turning her attention back to the case.

The glow of the computer screen cast eerie shadows across Morgan's face as she continued her search through the darkest corners of Lizzie Meadows's past. She decided to check Lizzie's record, just in case.

Lizzie only had one thing on her record, a case that had been dropped because it had happened before she'd turned eighteen, but only briefly went to trial after. As she read the details, a horrifying story unfolded.

Abigail Jones – a shy, quiet girl who had once been friends with Lizzie – ended her life in their senior year of high school. A torrent of cruel messages and public humiliation led the girl to believe she had no way out.

And at the center of it all was none other than Lizzie Meadows.

"Jesus Christ," Morgan whispered, feeling a wave of fury rise within her. She knew people could be cruel, but this was beyond anything she'd imagined.

Her hand tightened around the glass of whiskey clenched in her fist, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. It took every ounce of restraint not to hurl the glass against the wall in anger.

Morgan's mind raced with thoughts, trying to make sense of Lizzie's actions and how they might connect to her murder. Was it possible that someone had sought revenge for Abigail's death? Or was there something more sinister at play?

Nothing was ever that simple, was it? Her gaze once again drawn to the haunting photos of Lizzie Meadows. A beautiful young woman with a deadly secret hidden behind her dazzling smile.

Morgan's fingers flew across the keyboard, her brow furrowed with determination. It seemed as though Lizzie's harassment of Abigail Jones had been effectively wiped from the internet – no news articles, no social media posts, nothing. The only trace she could find was a single thread on an obscure forum where users debated the legitimacy of the allegations.

"Someone went to great lengths to bury this," Morgan muttered under her breath, Skunk curled up at her feet. She scrolled through the forum, noting the conflicting opinions and heated arguments. One user claimed to have inside knowledge of the situation, but their account had since been deleted.

As if on cue, her phone began to vibrate on the table beside her. The screen displayed 5:00 AM, and Morgan felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. She knew that early morning calls were rarely good news.

"Cross," she answered tersely, her grip tightening on the phone.

"Morgan, it's Derik." His voice sounded strained, and Morgan could sense the urgency in his tone. "We've got another victim."

CHAPTER FIVE

The tires of Morgan's car screeched against the damp pavement as she pulled up outside the concert hall, where the most recent victim had allegedly been found. The dim streetlights cast an eerie glow over the building, shrouding it in shadows and giving it a sinister appearance. She stepped out into the morning air, her breath visible as she exhaled.

"Over here," Derik called out from near the entrance. He stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face tense. "Janitor found the body inside."

"Another one with the gloves?" Morgan asked, her voice taut with anger and frustration.

"Seems like it," he replied grimly. "Let's go."

As they entered the darkened concert hall, Morgan's heart pounded heavily in her chest. The faint smell of stale perfume and sweat hung in the air, a remnant of the previous evening's performances. Her jaw tightened, knowing that the horror that awaited them was far removed from the world of music and celebration.

In the center of the stage, illuminated by a single spotlight, was the body. A young woman lay face-down on the keys of a grand piano. Her hair cascaded around her head like a macabre halo, and her feet dangled limply off the edge of the stage. The way she was positioned made it seem like she was merely part of a twisted performance.

"Jesus," Morgan whispered, her stomach twisting in knots. White silky gloves encased the woman's hands, glued to her skin with an almost surgical precision. It was a chilling echo of Lizzie Meadows's death, and Morgan knew there had to be a connection.

"Same MO as before," Derik confirmed, his voice hushed. "Gloves glued to the hands, no obvious cause of death."

"Any connections between the victims yet?" Morgan asked, her mind racing with possibilities. She remembered the hidden truths she'd uncovered about Lizzie's past – could there be a similar secret lurking behind this woman's life?

"Still working on it," he replied, his gaze never leaving the gruesome scene before them.

"Find out everything you can about her," Morgan instructed, her voice firm. "Friends, family, enemies… anything that could lead us to who did this."

"Of course," Derik nodded.

Morgan crouched beside the lifeless body, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt a mixture of anger and dread gnawing at her insides, fueled by the sight of those haunting white gloves glued to the victim's hands.

"Excuse me! I know this woman!" a voice called out, cutting through the tension in the room. Morgan glanced up to see a man in his fifties, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, followed closely by a pair of uniformed officers. "I'm Roger Walter, chairman of this concert hall."

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