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CHAPTER TWO

Inside Mueller’s house, the late-night silence felt heavy, like a thick wool blanket smothering her. Morgan sat on the plush couch, the cushions swallowing her whole. They had just laid out every detail of their night at the pier for the man they’d come to for help. She could still feel the adrenaline buzzing beneath her skin, a stark contrast to this domestic setting. It was absurd, really—Mueller in his cozy housecoat, looking like he’d just stepped out of a sitcom instead of a high-stakes conspiracy. The casualness of it all gnawed at her. How could he be so relaxed when Thomas Grady lay dead in a dark alley, and Cordell’s shadow loomed over them?

She glanced at Derik beside her, his profile taut with tension. His slicked-back hair glinted under the soft light, giving him an air of weariness that tugged at her heartstrings. He shot her a quick look, his green eyes flickering with unspoken questions. They were both strung tight, and she knew what he was thinking: how did they get here? Why had they decided to drag themselves into the lion's den, hoping for some scraps of support from someone like Mueller?

“Lucky us,” Mueller said, leaning forward. His mustache twitched, and he rubbed a hand over his gray hair, as if trying to comb away the weight of the situation. “My wife and kids are away for the week. If they were here… well, we couldn’t have this conversation.”

No shit, she thought. His voice was steady, but Morgan sensed the underlying current of unease. This wasn’t just a chat over coffee; they were tiptoeing through a minefield.

“You sure the police will collect the necessary evidence from the pier?” he asked, his gaze darting between her and Derik. “I mean, you didn’t draw too much attention to yourselves, did you?”

Derik leaned back, exuding a confidence that edged toward cocky. “We made the call anonymously, Mueller. They’ll find Thomas’s body. Trust me, the investigation will begin. There will be information ready by the morning.”

Morgan bit her tongue, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Trust, right. That word hung heavy in the air, taunting her. She had trusted once before, and it had cost her ten years of her life. She shifted slightly, the fabric of the couch clinging to her jeans, grounding her in the moment.

"Trust," she echoed, letting the word linger like smoke. She studied Mueller's face, searching for any sign of sincerity. But all she saw was a man caught in a web of bureaucracy, and she hated that she'd placed herself in this position—relying on someone who might very well be part of the problem.

"Do you really think they’re going to take this seriously?" Her voice was sharper than intended, slicing through the air. "A body at the pier isn’t exactly a routine Tuesday for the cops."

"Look, Morgan," Derik interjected, his tone soothing yet firm. "They’ll do their job. We know how these things work. You have to let them handle it."

"Handle it?" she scoffed. "You mean like they handled my case?"

"That’s enough!" Mueller cut in, his voice rising slightly. The room fell silent, the tension thickening like fog.

Morgan shifted in her seat, the plush couch beneath her feeling both foreign and suffocating. The shadows of Mueller’s living room seemed to close in as she stared at the man across from her. His housecoat hung loosely around him, a stark contrast to the sharp suits and polished shoes she usually saw him in—like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Was he really just an ordinary guy hiding behind those comfortable threads? Or was this just another performance in a long line of deceit?

"Are you one of Cordell's men?" The words slipped out before she could temper them, cutting through the thick silence like a knife through flesh. The air crackled with tension. She felt the heat of Derik's gaze on her, but her focus remained locked on Mueller.

His eyes widened, a flash of surprise that only fueled her suspicion. He opened his mouth to respond, but it was like watching a poorly scripted play. “What? No, of course not! I’ve been doing my job. Nothing more. I’m a good director at the FBI.” His voice wavered ever so slightly, and she caught the defensiveness lurking just beneath the surface.

"Right," Morgan said, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees, the weight of her conviction pressing against her chest like a caged animal. "And how do we know you're not just playing us? You worked with my father. Did you even know who he was?"

A thick silence enveloped the room. She could sense the shift in energy, a palpable unease settling over them. Mueller’s confusion morphed into something deeper, almost akin to fear. If he thought he could intimidate her by playing the innocent card, he had another thing coming.

"John Christopher," she spat out, letting the name linger like poison in the air between them.

Mueller’s expression shifted from surprise to disbelief, as if she’d thrown a glass of cold water in his face. She watched as he struggled to connect the dots, trying to reconcile the memories of a man he probably hadn’t thought about in years. But she didn’t give him time to catch his breath.

"Yeah, that John Christopher. The same one who shot Mary Price. The same one who supposedly died in the line of duty while you were busy climbing the ladder." She leaned back, crossing her arms defiantly. "So tell me, Assistant Director, what did you really know about him? About what happened back then?"

She could see the gears turning in his mind, the remnants of their earlier conversation evaporating into the ether as he grappled with the implications of her words. This was the moment—a reckoning of sorts. Would he crack under pressure or stand firm in his denial?

"Listen, Morgan," he began cautiously, but she cut him off, her voice rising in intensity.

"Don't 'listen' me, Mueller. I want the truth. You can act all innocent, but I'm not buying it. Something’s rotten in this whole goddamn operation, and I need to know where you fit into the equation."

His brow furrowed, and she could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. Whatever facade he held onto was slipping, revealing the cracks of uncertainty underneath. But she needed more than just doubt; she needed answers. And she wasn’t going to let him sidestep her questions. Not now. Not when everything they were fighting for stood on the edge of a knife.

"Did you even care?" she pressed, her voice low but laced with fire. "Did you care what happened to my father after he pulled that trigger? Or did you just bury your head in the sand and pretend it never happened?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy with implication. Morgan's heart raced as she watched him wrestle with the weight of the past, the ghosts of decisions made and lives shattered. She knew he was holding back, and she wouldn't let him hide behind his credentials any longer. Mueller’s eyebrows knitted together, but she saw the flicker of recognition flash in his eyes. Good. She needed him to connect the dots. She leaned forward, letting the anger and urgency seep into her words.

“Your precious FBI turned her into collateral damage in a botched operation. My father shot her, and you all just swept it under the rug.”

She watched as the color drained from his face, his bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. “You don’t understand,” he stammered, perhaps searching for some semblance of control. But there was no control left, not after what had happened at the pier. “That was years ago. It was a tragic mistake.”

“Tragic? Is that what you call it when an innocent woman dies?” Morgan snapped, her heart racing. “No, this isn’t about tragedy. This is about a cover-up, about Cordell using my father’s screw-up as an excuse to destroy lives. He ruined my dad, and now he’s out for me too. But I want to know why.”

“Morgan, I was told John Christopher was dead.” Mueller’s expression shifted then, settling into a hardened mask of thoughtfulness as if he was finally piecing together a puzzle he’d been avoiding.

“Right,” Morgan drawled, her skepticism clear in her voice. “So you just accepted it? No questions asked?”

Mueller shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I… I was not in the position to question it at that time.”

Morgan let out a bark of bitter laughter. She leaned back on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Mueller a look that could curdle milk. “Oh, how convenient.”

Next to her, Derik shifted uneasily. She felt his sharp gaze on her, but she didn’t meet it. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on Mueller, watching him squirm under the weight of her accusations.

Mueller took a deep breath, steeling himself. “What do you want from me, Morgan?”

“Answers,” she said simply.

“Listen,” Mueller started again, “I had no idea about your father’s real identity until you told me just now. John Christopher was a ghost. We all believed he’d died in action years ago.”

“And you never wondered?” Morgan pressed. “Never questioned why Cordell was so keen on brushing his death under the rug?”

Something crossed Mueller’s face then—dark and unreadable—and something cold coiled in Morgan’s gut.

“I did my job,” Mueller said finally, his voice as hard as granite. “How was I supposed to know he changed his identity and went off the grid? I don’t know about any of this—you’re severely overestimating my importance here, Cross.”

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" Morgan shot back. "None of you seemingly 'important' guys really know what's going on right under your damn noses."

Mueller was silent for a moment, his eyes downcast as he grappled with her words. When he finally looked up at her, there was a certain resignation in his gaze.

“Look, Morgan… I’m sorry about your father.” He hesitated, and she saw something flicker in his eyes — was it genuine regret? “I knew John. He—”

“Save your sympathies,” she interrupted brusquely, the bitterness creeping into her tone. “I don’t want them.”

Mueller sighed heavily. “Alright,” he conceded quietly, running a hand over his weary features.

They sat in silence; a tension that could be cut with a knife hung between them. Morgan’s mind was racing, her heart pounding against her ribcagelike a wild animal caught in a trap.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mueller?" She said finally, her voice ringing out in the harsh silence.

He swallowed hard, looking at her with an intensity she hadn't seen before. "I honestly wish there was more I could tell you," he murmured, looking almost regretful. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. “As for Cordell... I remember him. A powerful man. But why go after you?”

"Because he's got a vendetta, and I’m the last loose end he needs to tie up," Morgan replied, her voice steady but edged with urgency. “Thomas Grady was feeding me information. He knew something—something that could take Cordell down. And now he’s dead.”

Silence blanketed the room, heavy and oppressive. Morgan could feel the weight of their shared history pressing down on them both. She wasn’t just fighting for herself anymore; she was fighting for the truth, for Mary Price, for Thomas, and even for her father’s legacy.

"Okay," Mueller finally nodded, a grim determination settling onto his features. “I’m glad you came to me with this. I’ll need to start digging. We need evidence—something concrete to expose Cordell and his people. But we have to tread carefully. If Cordell has men inside the Bureau…”

"Then we’ll expose them," Morgan cut him off, her resolve hardening. “I won’t back down. Not again. Not when I’m so close to the truth.”

She could see Mueller weighing his options, the worry lines etched deep on his forehead. But she wasn’t asking for permission—she was declaring war. The stakes had never been higher, and if they didn’t act fast, they would lose everything.

“What do you want to do, Cross?” Mueller asked. “Lay low? Keep working? Whatever happens, it can’t be known that I’m involved in this. If we end up with a case, I should still assign you to it.”

Morgan nodded. “I won’t let Cordell win, and I won’t run. If he really wanted me dead on that pier, I doubt the sniper would’ve missed. They were aiming for Thomas… but that doesn’t mean Derik or I are in the clear.”

"We're not in the clear," Derik added, his voice low and steady. He had been quiet, observant, soaking in everything that was happening around him. But now, he was stepping forward, bracing himself against the tide that Morgan was stirring up. His gaze was fixed on Mueller, a silent challenge etched onto his face. "If Cordell is as dangerous as we think he is, then he won't hesitate to take any of us down."

There was a long silence where the ticking of the clock seemed to echo loudly in the room. Mueller squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, looking older and more worn out than Morgan had ever seen him. But when he opened his eyes again, there was a newfound determination in them.

"Alright," He intoned grimly. "Then it's settled. We move carefully, and we make sure to watch each other's backs. This is not just about taking down Richard Cordell anymore; it's also about protecting ourselves and ensuring that the FBI remains what it should be—a pillar of justice."

It wasn’t exactly an inspirational speech, but hearing Mueller putting all of his cards on the table gave Morgan an unexpected sense of relief. She nodded tersely at him, her mind already whirring with strategies on how to outmaneuver Cordell.

She just hoped her trust in Mueller wouldn’t prove to be misplaced.

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