CHAPTER THREE

The fluorescent lights of the FBI headquarters buzzed like angry hornets, casting a sickly pallor over Morgan's tattooed skin. She strode through the hallway, her boots echoing against the linoleum, trying to ignore the knot in her gut that screamed this was all wrong. Derik walked beside her, his usual crisp appearance marred by dark circles under his eyes and a slight tremor in his hands.

"You hear about Grady?" A hushed voice caught Morgan's attention.

She froze, her body tensing like a coiled spring. Derik's hand brushed her arm, a silent reminder to keep moving.

"Yeah, found dead by the pier. Crazy shit," another agent replied.

Morgan's jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as she fought to keep her face neutral. She could still see Thomas's body sinking into the inky water, could still hear the crack of the sniper's rifle.

"Break room," she muttered to Derik, changing course abruptly.

They slipped into the small room, blessedly empty save for the droning of a TV mounted in the corner. Morgan's eyes locked onto the screen, where a reporter stood at the edge of the pier, her perfectly coiffed hair whipping in the wind.

"The body of Thomas Grady, 36, was recovered from the water early this morning," the reporter announced, her voice devoid of emotion. "Police are investigating the circumstances surrounding his death."

Morgan's chest tightened, a cold numbness spreading through her limbs. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white.

"Jesus," Derik breathed, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "It's surreal, seeing it like this."

Morgan nodded, unable to tear her eyes from the screen. "They don't know shit," she said, her voice low and harsh. "They don't know he was trying to help us. They don't know about Cordell, about any of it."

Derik stepped closer, his presence warm and solid beside her. "We'll make it right, Morgan. We'll take Cordell down."

She turned to face him, searching his green eyes for any hint of doubt. "You sure about that? Because right now, it feels like we're in way over our heads."

"Maybe we are," Derik admitted, his lips quirking into a humorless smile. "But when has that ever stopped you?"

Morgan let out a bitter laugh. "Fair point." She glanced back at the TV, where they were now showing a photo of Thomas. "I hated that bastard for so long. Now..." She trailed off, unable to put words to the complicated tangle of emotions in her chest.

"I know," Derik said softly. He reached out, his fingers intertwining with hers. "We'll figure this out, Morgan. Together."

She squeezed his hand, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability before the mask slipped back into place. "Yeah, well, let's hope Mueller comes through. Otherwise, we might be joining Thomas sooner rather than later."

As if summoned by her words, a shadow fell across the doorway. Morgan's head snapped up, her body tensing for a fight. But it was just Mueller, his expression unreadable as he jerked his head, silently commanding them to follow.

Morgan's fingers twitched, itching for a drink as she trailed Mueller down the hallway. The weight in her chest had morphed into a knot of anxiety, twisting tighter with each step. She could feel Derik's presence at her back, solid and reassuring, but it did little to quell the storm brewing inside her.

Mueller's office loomed ahead, a fortress of secrets and half-truths. As they approached, Morgan's mind raced, replaying Thomas's final moments on a loop. The sound of the gunshot, the splash of his body hitting the water - it all felt surreal, like a bad dream she couldn't shake.

"You two look like hell," Mueller remarked as he ushered them inside, closing the door with a soft click.

Morgan snorted. "Yeah, well, watching a man get shot tends to do that to you."

She sank into one of the chairs across from Mueller's desk, her body suddenly feeling every one of her forty years. Derik took the seat beside her, his knee brushing against hers in a subtle show of support.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and fixed Mueller with a hard stare. "So what's the play here, boss? We just pretend everything's peachy while Cordell's out there picking us off one by one?"

Mueller's expression remained impassive, but Morgan caught a flicker of something in his eyes - concern, maybe? Or was it guilt? Before she could decide, it was gone, replaced by his usual stoic demeanor.

"For now, yes," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "We can't tip our hand. Not yet.”

Morgan felt a surge of frustration, hot and familiar. She opened her mouth to argue, but Derik's hand on her arm stopped her. She glanced at him, saw the silent plea in his eyes, and swallowed her words with a grimace.

"Fine," she bit out. "So what do you want us to do? Twiddle our thumbs and hope Cordell doesn't decide to take another shot?"

Mueller's lips thinned. "I want you to do your jobs. There's a new case I'm assigning you. It'll keep you busy and, more importantly, it'll keep you in the field.” He slapped two files on his desk.

Morgan's fingers traced the edge of the file, her nails—chipped and uneven from nervous biting—catching on the paper. She flipped it open, eyes scanning the first page as Mueller's words hung in the air.

"A double homicide," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Fancy that."

Derik leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt through her, a reminder of their newfound closeness that felt both comforting and dangerous.

"Looks like a nasty one," he commented, his voice low.

Morgan snorted. "When are they ever not nasty?"

She could feel Mueller's eyes on them, calculating, assessing. It made her skin crawl. She looked up, meeting his gaze with a challenge in her own.

"So, what's the deal? Why us for this one?"

Mueller's mustache twitched, the only sign of emotion on his otherwise impassive face. "You're the best we've got, Cross. Despite... recent events."

The unspoken hung between them—Thomas's death, the conspiracy, the danger. Morgan's jaw clenched.

"Right," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because nothing says 'best agents' like a couple of walking targets."

Derik's hand found her knee under the desk, a gentle squeeze. A warning, maybe, or just support. Morgan wasn't sure which.

Mueller leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. "This case needs your particular... skills. Your ability to think outside the box. To see connections others might miss."

Morgan laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You mean my ability to smell bullshit a mile away? Yeah, I've got that in spades."

Morgan turned her attention to the files, absorbing the inked words like a punch to the gut.

"Sanchez, Lila—26," Mueller began, his mustache twitching with each syllable. "Stabbed. Left to bleed out in an alleyway downtown. The rain was kind enough to wash away any convenient evidence."

"Mother Nature’s alibi," Morgan muttered under her breath, flipping through crime scene photos with detached precision. The images were a blur of dimly lit concrete and dark stains diluted by water, the aftermath of violence now sanitized by weather.

"Isn't she always?" Derik quipped, but his joke landed in the room like a lead balloon.

Mueller continued, undeterred. "But our perp left us a bread crumb, and it's a weird one." He nodded toward the file, where a photograph of a soaked piece of paper held center stage. On it, sketched with a careful hand, was a simple violin.

"Musical tastes or just dramatic flair?" Derik mused, leaning closer to the photo.

"Could be a calling card. Could be nonsense," Morgan said, her brows knitting together. She hated puzzles with missing pieces. They reminded her too much of her own life—a jigsaw with half the edges gone.

"Here's where it gets interesting," Mueller said, his voice dropping a notch. "Last week, we found Simon Holt. Same MO—stabbed, bled out. His hands clutching another artistic masterpiece."

"Let me guess, a violin?" Derik asked, cutting through the dramatic pause.

"Not this time. Equations. Math equations," Mueller corrected, sliding a photocopy across the desk. It was littered with numbers and symbols, the language of logic amidst the chaos of murder.

"Math and music," Morgan said, a hint of a smirk on her lips despite the gravity in her chest. "Our killer's got eclectic taste."

"Or there's a message in the madness," Derik added.

"Exactly," Mueller confirmed. "Link's clear as day—both victims are practically waving these papers in our faces. The parchment itself appears to be from the same notebook.”

Morgan's fingers curled around the edges of the files, the violin sketch a stark contrast against the sterile background of Mueller's desk. She felt the itch of curiosity beneath her skin, an old friend whispering in her ear after a night that nearly saw her at the bottom of the pier with Thomas Grady.

"Methodical bastard," Derik murmured, his gaze locked on the files as if they might sprout legs and bolt. He had that look he always did when the gears in his head started turning—sharp, like the edge of a knife that hadn't dulled from too many nights drowning sorrows in whiskey.

Mueller stood still as stone, eyes hawk-like on them. "I want you two fully on this," he said, voice carrying the weight of command and concern. "If you can handle it."

Morgan’s lips twitched. She'd been thrown into fires hotter than this—the burn now was just another day at the office.

"Always eager for a hunt, boss," she retorted, her voice cracking like a whip in the room. "Don't worry about us."

Morgan looked back down at the files, but not before catching Mueller's ever-so-slight nod of approval. She faced Derik, but his gaze was locked on the photograph of the violin.

Mueller gave a curt nod, his mustache bristling like a warning flag. "Good. Because this feels different. Calculated. This killer is playing a game."

"Yeah, well, he won’t get away with it," Morgan replied, tossing the file back onto the desk. The sound echoed in the silence, a definitive challenge laid bare.

Mueller acknowledged their resolve with a stiff nod, his features hardening into something that could have been cut from stone. "You're dismissed. Keep me updated."

Morgan and Derik rose from their seats simultaneously, the worn-out leather of the office chairs creaking under the sudden absence of weight. As they reached the door, Mueller called out again, his voice surprisingly soft.

"Cross... Greene, be careful."

The words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of their dangerous line of work. Morgan turned back to face her superior, her eyes meeting his with an unspoken understanding. She gave him a curt nod before stepping out into the dimly lit hallway.

Once they were out of earshot, Derik let out a long sigh, running his fingers through his slicked-back hair in a rare display of unease. "This is it then? Diving headfirst into another case while we've got Cordell's shadow looming over us?”

"We’ve always been good at juggling, haven't we?" Morgan replied nonchalantly, yet her brown eyes portrayed a hint of trepidation.

Derik chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, I suppose we have.”

But there was more here than just a new case. Mueller had thrown down a gauntlet, sure, but it was also a lifeline—a chance for Morgan to prove that she wasn't broken by past betrayals or shadowy conspiracies. Her heart thrummed with a fierce beat, the kind that could only come from staring down darkness and refusing to blink.

She locked eyes with Derik, whose green eyes bore into her with a blend of admiration and concern. "We’ll solve this," she said with a certainty that surprised them both.

“I know we will," Derik replied, his faith in her unwavering as ever. But something else flickered there—worried lines creased his forehead, adding years to his handsome face. The fear that they were stepping into another hornet’s nest was unmistakable.