CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dahlia Maddox's fingers rapped against the metal interrogation table, sharp nails clicking rhythmically in the cold silence of the room. Her eyes, steel grey and unblinking, fixed on the one-way glass before her. She knew they were watching.

Morgan peered through the window, studying the talent agent's severe features cast in stark shadows under the glaring fluorescent lights. Dahlia's arms were crossed tightly, her shoulders taut with a barely contained fury. But there was something else there, flickering beneath the surface. Fear. Desperation. Secrets are itching to break free.

"She's hiding something," Morgan muttered, her gaze never leaving Dahlia.

Beside her, Derik sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Dahlia's not going to crack easily. She practically has manipulation down to an art form, especially with those kids she represents."

Morgan's jaw clenched. She knew Dahlia's type all too well - the kind that thrived on control, on bending others to their will until they snapped. Her own ten years behind bars, framed for a crime she didn't commit, had taught her the true face of power-hungry manipulators.

"We have to find her breaking point," Morgan said quietly, the old anger simmering in her gut. "Whatever she's keeping buried, I'm going to dig it up. Even if I have to carve it out of her."

Derik's green eyes slid to hers, worry creasing his brow. "Just be careful, Morgan. Pushing too hard, too fast...she might shut down completely."

A smile tugged at Morgan's lips, sharp and mirthless. "Oh, I'll find that line. And then I'll obliterate it."

She reached for the door handle, the cold metal biting into her tattooed skin. Revenge still burned like a wildfire in her blood, Richard Cordell's face forever seared into her memory. But first, she had a job to do. And heaven help anyone who stood in her way.

With a resolute twist of the handle, Morgan stepped into the interrogation room, Derik a silent sentinel at her back. It was time to unearth Dahlia Maddox's secrets - by any means necessary.

The metal door swung open with a heavy clang, shattering the tense silence. Morgan strode inside, her boots thudding against the concrete floor, Derik's imposing presence flanking her.

Dahlia's head snapped up, her icy blue eyes narrowing to slits as they approached. She straightened in the hard metal chair, squaring her shoulders, her red-painted nails curling into her palms. A defiant smirk twisted her lips, as if to say, 'Give it your best shot. You won't break me.'

Morgan almost laughed. If this woman thought she could intimidate her with a little posturing, she was in for a rude awakening. Prison had scraped Morgan raw, and built her back up into steel.

She slid into the seat across from Dahlia, locking eyes with her, unflinching under that glacial stare. Derik took up position in the corner, a looming specter, coiled and ready. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on.

Morgan leaned back, casual, letting the silence stretch. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm and even. Deceptively gentle. "Lila Sanchez and Evan Rhodes. Tell me about them."

Dahlia's gaze flicked away, just for a second. Her smirk tightened. "Who?" she asked coolly.

"Two of your former prodigies. Lila, the violinist. And Evan, the tech whiz." Morgan tilted her head, studying Dahlia's too- smooth expression. "Ring any bells? Before the drugs swallowed them whole, that is."

Dahlia examined her nails, feigning boredom. "I've fostered the talents of countless children over the years, Agent Cross. You can't expect me to remember every single one."

Morgan smiled, razor-sharp. "Ah, but I think you do remember them, Dahlia. Intimately. Right down to how they took their coffee and what shampoo they used." She leaned forward, her elbows braced on the table. "See, control is your drug of choice. And you can never forget an addict who dared to slip out of your grasp."

Dahlia stiffened, her nostrils flaring. For a moment, Morgan glimpsed the fury simmering beneath the mask, raw and ugly.

"Lila and Evan," Morgan pressed, her voice deceptively soft. "Two brilliant souls, crushed under the weight of your impossible expectations. Tell me, Dahlia, what happened when they failed to meet your standards? When they dared to be human?"

Dahlia's lips curled into a sneer. "Their failures are not my concern. I gave them the tools to succeed. What they did with those tools once they left my tutelage is on them, not me."

Morgan shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "And there it is. The crux of your philosophy. You mold these children, shape them into your vision of perfection, and then cast them aside when they inevitably crack under the pressure."

Dahlia's eyes flashed, her mask slipping for just a moment. "I push them to greatness. If they can't handle it, that's their weakness, not mine."

Morgan leaned back, her gaze never leaving Dahlia's face. She could see the cracks now, the fault lines in Dahlia's carefully constructed facade. Time to hammer them home.

"But what happens when they break, Dahlia? When they shatter into a million pieces, unable to cope with the scars you've left on their psyche? Do you even care? Or are they just collateral damage in your quest for vicarious glory?"

Dahlia's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white. She opened her mouth to retort, but Morgan cut her off.

"I think you do care, Dahlia. More than you'd ever admit. Because their failures reflect on you. They're a crack in your perfect record, a blemish on your reputation. And you can't stand that, can you? The idea that anyone might see you as fallible, as human."

Morgan could practically hear Dahlia's teeth grinding, see the vein pulsing in her temple. She was close, so close to cracking her wide open.

"So tell me, Dahlia," Morgan said, her voice a razor's edge. "Just how far would you go to punish those who disappointed you? To make them pay for their perceived sins against your legacy?"

Dahlia's eyes widened, a flicker of something raw and primal flashing across her face before she quickly masked it. But Morgan had seen it—the fear, the guilt, the shame. It was there, buried beneath the layers of arrogance and denial.

"How dare you," Dahlia hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I have dedicated my life to nurturing talent, to giving these children a chance to shine. And you have the audacity to sit there and accuse me of... of what? Harming them? Punishing them?"

She leaned forward, her face inches from Morgan's, her eyes blazing with a manic intensity. "I push them because I believe in them. Because I know what they're capable of. And if they can't handle that, if they crumble under the pressure, that's not on me. I'm not responsible for their weaknesses."

But even as the words left her lips, Morgan could see the doubt flickering in Dahlia's eyes, the slightest hesitation in her voice. She was trying to convince herself as much as Morgan, desperately clinging to the belief that her methods were justified, that her intentions were pure.

Morgan held her gaze, unflinching. "But you are responsible, Dahlia. You're the one who molds them, who shapes them. You're the one who holds their dreams in your hands. And when you crush those dreams, when you break them down and leave them shattered, that's on you. Whether you want to admit it or not."

Dahlia's lower lip trembled, her composure cracking like a porcelain mask. For a moment, Morgan thought she might crumble completely, might finally admit to the depths of her obsession, the lengths she'd gone to maintain her iron grip on her prodigies.

But then, just as quickly, the mask slipped back into place. Dahlia straightened in her chair, her eyes hardening, her jaw set in a stubborn line. "I have nothing more to say to you. I've done nothing wrong, and I won't sit here and be slandered by your baseless accusations."

Morgan sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and pity. She'd been so close, so damn close to breaking through Dahlia's defenses. But she could see now that the woman was too far gone, too deeply entrenched in her own delusions to ever truly confront the reality of what she'd done.

She glanced at Derik, who had been watching the exchange with a grim expression. He gave her a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgment that they'd pushed as far as they could. For now, at least.

Morgan turned back to Dahlia, her voice cool and professional once more. "This isn't over, Ms. Maddox. We'll be looking into your program, your methods, your former students. If there's anything there, anything at all that suggests you've crossed a line, we will find it. And we will hold you accountable."

Dahlia met her gaze with a defiant stare, her lips curled in a sneer. "Do what you must, Agent Cross. But you'll find nothing. My conscience is clear."

“We’ll be right back.”

But as Morgan and Derik left the interrogation room, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that Dahlia's conscience was anything but clear. There was something there, something dark and twisted lurking beneath the surface. And one way or another, she was determined to uncover it.

As the door closed behind them, Morgan let out a frustrated sigh. "She's hiding something, Derik. I can feel it."

Derik nodded, his brow furrowed. "I agree. But without any hard evidence, our hands are tied."

Morgan leaned against the wall, her mind racing. Dahlia's airtight alibi for the night of the most recent murder had thrown a wrench in their investigation. But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that Dahlia was somehow connected to all of this, even if she wasn't the one wielding the knife.

"We need to dig deeper," she said, pushing off from the wall. "There has to be something we're missing. Some connection between Dahlia and the victims that we haven't found yet."

Derik fell into step beside her as they walked down the hallway. "Where do you want to start?"

Morgan thought for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Dahlia's program. Her former students. We need to find out if there are any other prodigies who fell from grace, anyone else who might fit the profile of our victims."

Derik nodded, already pulling out his phone. "We better convince her to help us, then. After how we talked to her, I doubt she’ll be in a generous mood.”

"You're right," Morgan agreed, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry smile. "But I have a feeling there's more to Dahlia than meets the eye. Her conscience may be clear, but I don't think that makes her innocent, far from it. Let’s go back in there and talk to her.”

As they reentered the interrogation room, Dahlia's narrowed eyes met them. Her mask was back on, cool and composed as a marble statue. But fractures were already running through her facade, thin cracks that had been largely ignored until now.

Morgan took a seat opposite Dahlia once more, conserving her stern gaze for the woman across the table. "Dahlia, we understand you’re feeling attacked," she began, softening her voice with a practiced ease. "It’s nothing personal. We're just trying to find out what happened to those people."

"I've already told you," Dahlia snapped, every word dripping with defensiveness. "I've done nothing wrong."

"But maybe you've seen something suspicious, noticed something that felt off?" Derik suggested from where he was standing against the wall. His tone was conciliatory, coaxing even. “Maybe you can think of someone who might match the profile of our killer—a prodigy who fell from grace. Or you might be able to identify a future victim who fits that profile.”

Dahlia paused at his words, her gaze flicking uncertainly between Morgan and Derik. For a moment, it seemed as if she might actually consider cooperating.

Then, the defiance returned to her eyes. “You don’t understand,” she snapped, “My program is not a petri dish for some psychopath. My students are vulnerable, yes, but they’re not prone to... violence.”

Morgan leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “We’re not saying that they are,” she said evenly, trying hard to retain her patience. “We’re just trying to find connections, patterns that might lead us to whoever’s doing this.”

Dahlia gave a curt nod, clearly reluctant to agree but seeing the logic in Morgan’s words. “Fine,” she conceded, albeit begrudgingly, “I’ll provide you the names of my current and former students who I think could potentially match the profile you’ve described.”

It was not an admission of guilt, but it was a start—one that Morgan intended to take full advantage of.