CHAPTER FOUR

The damp air clung to Morgan's skin as she parked the car, the soft patter of leftover rain creating a rhythm against the windshield. She killed the engine and let the silence settle around them for a second, her fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel. Morning light slipped through the clouds like a reluctant guest, illuminating the alley where Lila Sanchez had met her end. It was almost serene now—a stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded just hours before. The neon sign from the convenience store at the corner flickered weakly, casting intermittent shadows across the wet pavement, a silent witness to the night's events.

"Ready?" Derik asked, his voice low but steady, as if he were trying to convince them both that this was just another day at the office. He'd been her partner for three years now, long enough to read the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched when cases got under her skin. This one already had its hooks in deep.

"Let's get this over with," Morgan replied, already swinging the door open. The chill in the air wrapped around her like a shroud, but she welcomed it. It kept her sharp. The familiar weight of her badge pressed against her hip, a constant reminder of the responsibility she carried. Her coffee sat forgotten in the cup holder, gone cold hours ago during their predawn briefing.

They stepped out onto the glistening pavement, the remnants of the storm reflecting the muted light. Morgan squinted ahead, focusing on the tarped-off area, her heart tightening as she caught sight of the forensic team working diligently. Their white suits stood out against the grimy backdrop of the alley, like ghosts moving through the morning mist. She felt the familiar stirrings of anger and sadness—two old friends who never seemed to leave her alone. Fifteen years on the force hadn't made it any easier; if anything, each case cut a little deeper.

"Looks peaceful," she muttered under her breath, an edge of irony lacing her tone. Peaceful didn't belong in this kind of place, not after what had happened here. A discarded newspaper tumbled past their feet, its pages heavy with rain, headlines blurred into illegibility. Just like the evidence they desperately needed to collect.

"Right?" Derik sighed, scanning the scene. His normally immaculate appearance showed signs of wear, his tie loosened and shirt wrinkled from the long night. "You'd never guess a girl died here." He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, disheveled by the night they'd had. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he, like Morgan, had been up since the first call came in at 2 AM. "At least it wasn't a total rain washout."

"Yeah, well, blood doesn't wash away so easily," she shot back, her eyes fixed on the ground. The words came out harsher than intended, but Derik knew better than to take it personally. They approached the blocked-off area, and her stomach twisted at the thought of what lay beneath that tarp. Lila had been stabbed multiple times, left to bleed out in this narrow alley. A dark corner of the city where hope went to die, wedged between a defunct laundromat and an aging apartment complex with boards where windows should be.

"Look," Derik said, pointing toward the forensic team. "They're still collecting." The technicians moved with practiced precision, photographing and bagging even the smallest pieces of potential evidence. Their methodical approach seemed almost ritualistic in the gray morning light.

"Good." Morgan took a moment to collect herself, inhaling the chilled air deeply before moving forward. Each step was measured, conscious of the weight that had settled in her chest. The smell of wet garbage from the nearby dumpster mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that she'd never quite gotten used to.

As she neared the scene, the smell of damp concrete mixed with something metallic hung in the air like a heavy curtain. The sight of officers crouched down, meticulously picking through remnants of the storm, sent a jolt of determination through her veins. They were looking for answers, but would they find anything meaningful? Would they uncover the truth behind Lila's death, or would it slip through their fingers like the rain-soaked evidence? A police photographer's flash punctuated the gloom at regular intervals, documenting every detail of this makeshift grave.

"See anything?" Derik called to one of the techs, breaking her focus. The young woman looked up from her work, her face partially obscured by a protective mask.

"Not yet," the officer replied without looking up, her gloved hands carefully swabbing a section of wall. "Just traces of blood washed away. But we're checking every inch." She gestured to a series of numbered markers placed strategically around the scene. "Found some fibers near marker three, might be from the perpetrator's clothing."

"Great," Morgan said, rolling her eyes. "What a start." She pulled out her notebook, its pages slightly damp from the morning air, and began jotting down observations. The violin drawing they'd found weighed heavily on her mind – a deliberate signature that seemed to mock their efforts to understand.

"Hey, it could be worse. At least we're not the ones stuck cleaning it up," Derik quipped, managing a small grin despite the grimness of the situation. He'd always used humor as a shield against the darkness of their work, a trait that Morgan had come to appreciate over the years.

"True. But I'm betting they wish they were somewhere else too." She watched as another tech carefully photographed a section of wall where blood spatter told its own violent story. The pattern suggested a struggle, but the rain had washed away too much detail to be certain.

Morgan's boots crunched against the rain-slicked pavement as she stepped deeper into the scene. The damp air clung to her skin, a stark reminder of what had transpired only hours ago. She could feel Derik's presence beside her, his voice low and steady as he spoke with a local officer, but all she could focus on was the dark ground beneath her feet—the same ground that had witnessed Lila Sanchez's final moments. A nearby security camera hung uselessly from its mount, its wires exposed – another dead end in what was becoming a frustrating investigation.

"Known to us," Derik said, keeping his tone neutral as he flipped through his notes. "Addict. In and out of the system." He paused, scanning the page. "Last arrest was six months ago, possession charges."

Morgan nodded absently, her gaze locked on the faint traces of blood etched into the asphalt, washed away by the storm but still whispering the tale of violence. It felt like a cruel joke—a life reduced to mere remnants. Sure, Lila had struggled, but this? This was no random act of desperation. No, it was too methodical, too personal. Morgan's instincts prickled at the back of her mind, reminding her that sometimes the worst monsters wore familiar faces. The violin drawing kept coming back to her – an artistic touch that seemed completely at odds with the brutal nature of the crime.

"Doesn't fit," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. She kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the alleyway. The sound echoed off the brick walls, momentarily drawing the attention of nearby officers.

"What's that?" Derik asked, glancing over, his green eyes narrowing in concern. He'd learned to trust Morgan's intuition over the years, even when the evidence seemed to point in a different direction.

"Just thinking. If they thought she was an easy target…" She trailed off, thinking back to the evidence photo of the violin drawn and left behind. The detail in the drawing had been remarkable – clearly the work of someone with artistic talent. "Why leave the violin photo behind? It's not just a memento—it's a message. But what does it mean?"

"Could be a taunt," Derik suggested, crossing his arms. His jacket was spotted with rain, giving him a disheveled appearance that matched the grimness of their surroundings. "Or maybe a signature. You know, like some sick calling card."

"Yeah, but a violin?" Morgan scoffed, shaking her head. A gust of wind sent a plastic bag tumbling down the alley, urban tumbleweed in their concrete desert. "It doesn't match the brutality of how she died. It feels…personal."

The rain-soaked asphalt glistened under the muted morning light as Morgan stepped further into the alley, her boots splashing through puddles that mirrored the chaos of the night before. The forensics team moved like ghosts around her, buckets and cameras in hand, their faces set in grim determination. She could feel the weight of Lila's story hanging in the air, a thick fog of tragedy and loss that wrapped around her like an unwanted shroud. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed – the city's constant reminder that death never took a holiday.

"Another one bites the dust," the local officer said, his voice low and resigned as he approached. Officer Martinez, according to his nameplate, wore the weary expression of someone who had seen too many lives unravel in these streets. His notebook was as worn as his expression, pages dogeared and stained with coffee. "Lila Sanchez. Twenty-six. Addict. Been struggling for years."

"She was clean for a while, though," Derik interjected, shifting beside her, his brow furrowed as he consulted his notes. "But recently fell off the wagon. Last known address was a halfway house on Eighth Street."

"Yeah, well, isn't that how it always goes?" Martinez shrugged, his tone dripping with defeat. "Just another sad story in a long line of tragedies." He gestured vaguely at the surrounding buildings, their facades marked with graffiti and decades of neglect. "This neighborhood's been going downhill for years."

Morgan clenched her jaw, irritation bubbling beneath her skin. The casual dismissal of Lila's death made her blood boil. Addiction didn't explain the brutality of this murder. This was different—too calculated, too personal. She stepped closer to the tarped-off area, swallowing the bitterness rising in her throat. "You think this was just a random act of violence?"

"To be honest? Most likely." Martinez's eyes betrayed the hollow truth behind his words. He'd already written this case off, filed it away in his mind under 'unsolvable.'

"Doesn't feel right." Morgan shook her head, glancing at Derik. His brows knitted together in agreement. They were both thinking the same thing. There was more to this than met the eye. The violin drawing nagged at her consciousness, a detail too specific to ignore.

"Look, we need to get moving," Morgan said, firing off her thoughts like bullets. Her mind was already racing ahead, plotting out their next moves. "I want to talk to her family. Find out who she really was, beyond the headlines." She pulled out her phone, checking the time – barely 7 AM, but this couldn't wait.

"Good call." Derik nodded, already pulling out his phone. His fingers moved quickly across the screen, pulling up addresses. "Maybe they'll know what the violin means. Could be something from her past."

"Exactly." The drawing had haunted her since she first saw it. Why leave such a symbol behind? Was it a taunt or something darker, a reflection of Lila's lost potential? The precision of the artwork suggested someone with training, someone who knew their way around a pencil and paper.

"Let's go," she commanded, turning on her heel, the damp air clinging to her skin as she walked away from the horror of the crime scene. With each step, a sense of urgency surged within her. Time was slipping through her fingers, and the answers lay somewhere waiting to be uncovered. The morning traffic was beginning to build, the city awakening to another day, oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded in this forgotten corner.

They climbed back into the car, the scent of wet pavement lingering in the air. Morgan cranked the engine, the growl of the vehicle cutting through the silence. As they pulled out of the alley, she felt the weight of Lila's life pressing down on her shoulders. The violin drawing burned in her mind like an accusation. Someone had orchestrated this, someone with a message to send, and she wasn't about to let them slip through the cracks. The city streets stretched out before them, a maze of possibilities and dead ends, but somewhere in this urban labyrinth, a killer was waiting to be found.

***

The engine hummed steadily as Morgan navigated the streets, her focus split between the road ahead and the chaos churning in her mind. The gray clouds hung low like a shroud over Dallas, threatening rain again, but for now, a muted light broke through, casting everything in an eerie glow. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, feeling the tension in her shoulders creep up.

"Nice neighborhood," Derik said, breaking the silence. He leaned back in his seat, eyeing the manicured lawns and pristine houses that seemed to mock the grim reality they were dealing with. "Not what I expected."

"Yeah, well, addiction doesn’t always discriminate against where one grew up," Morgan muttered, glancing at a quaint brick house with white shutters. It looked inviting, a picture of normalcy, but beneath it all lay the remnants of a girl who had lost herself. How could someone grow up here and end up dead in a filthy alley? It was a riddle Morgan couldn't shake off.

They pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching against gravel, and she killed the engine. The weight of Lila's life pressed heavily on her chest. Morgan stepped out, the damp air wrapping around her like a cold blanket. She turned toward the door just as Mrs. Sanchez appeared, her face a canvas of grief painted with years of worry. Before they could knock, the woman opened the door, her pale skin stark against the darkness inside.

"Are you the FBI agents?" Mrs. Sanchez asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, ma'am. Special Agents Morgan Cross and Derik Greene. We're here to talk about Lila," Morgan said, suppressing the urge to reach out and comfort the woman. Instead, she stepped inside, the warmth of the home enveloping her, contrasting sharply with the chill creeping into her bones.

"Please," Mrs. Sanchez gestured them in, leading them to a living room thick with unspoken sorrow. Morgan took in the photographs lining the walls—Lila smiling, carefree, the embodiment of innocence. But one particular image caught her breath: a young Lila, violin cradled under her chin, eyes sparkling with passion. The sight stirred something deep within Morgan, a flicker of recognition. The drawing left behind at the crime scene—the violin—had been more than just a symbol; it had been a part of Lila’s identity.

The air was thick with the weight of unspoken words as Morgan settled into the plush couch of the living room, her muscles tense beneath the surface. The room felt like a time capsule—where laughter and light had once thrived, only shadows remained. She glanced at Derik, who sat opposite Mrs. Sanchez, his green eyes solemn yet alert, scanning for any telltale sign that might lead them deeper into Lila's story.

"Mrs. Sanchez," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the heaviness pressing down on her chest. "What did the violin mean to Lila?"

Fresh tears brimmed in Mrs. Sanchez’s eyes, glistening like raindrops on a windowpane. “Lila… she was a prodigy,” she said, her voice trembling but filled with pride. “By five, she was playing pieces that left adults speechless.”

Morgan leaned forward, intrigued. A child genius—a rarity like a comet streaking across the night sky. “Did you think she’d pursue music professionally?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Sanchez replied, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “We thought she'd become famous—maybe even play at Carnegie Hall.”

A smile flickered across Morgan’s lips for an instant before reality pulled it away. It was a tragic twist of fate, one she recognized too well. “But something changed?”

"High school," Mrs. Sanchez said sharply, anger threading through her grief. “That’s when everything fell apart. She started to rebel against us, against everything we wanted for her.”

"Rebellion often comes with a price," Morgan murmured, recalling her own struggles with authority and expectation. She could almost taste the bitterness of rebellion—the sweet release of breaking free, followed by the bitter aftertaste of consequences.

"She struggled," Mrs. Sanchez continued, the pain in her voice cutting through the air. “Mental illness runs in my ex-husband’s family. By the time she was a teenager, it was too late. Depression, anxiety... it consumed her. And then came the drugs.”

Morgan felt a knot tighten in her stomach. They were skirting the edge of a familiar abyss, one she had seen consume too many lives. “And she became addicted to heroin?” she asked, her tone gentle yet probing.

"Yes." Mrs. Sanchez shook her head, the soft clink of her jewelry echoing in the silence. “We tried everything—rehab, therapy. Nothing worked. She lost herself. Sometimes she was clean, but it never lasted. Eventually, she ended up homeless.”

“Homeless.” The word hung in the air like a ghost, a reminder of the darkness lurking beneath the surface of seemingly perfect lives. Morgan’s mind raced. “Did she have any close friends? Anyone who might’ve been with her during those times?”

"Nobody stayed for long," Mrs. Sanchez admitted, her voice cracking. “They all drifted away, unable to handle it. I don’t blame them, really. It's hard to watch someone you love self-destruct.”

"I understand," Morgan replied, the edges of her own memories fraying under the weight of empathy. “But someone must have known her well enough to care.”

"Maybe," Mrs. Sanchez whispered, her gaze dropping to her lap, where her hands twisted anxiously. “But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her…”

But Morgan knew better. She knew that darkness loved to prey on vulnerability, and Lila had been as vulnerable as they come.

"We need to find who's responsible," Morgan said, her voice low, softening the blow. "Can you think of anyone who might've held a grudge against Lila? A dealer, an ex-boyfriend?"

Mrs. Sanchez shook her head, her face a ghostly pallor against the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Lila... she wasn't involved with anyone for long." Her gaze shifted towards the photographs lining the wall—the relics of a happier time. “If there was, she never mentioned him.”

"What about the people she got the drugs from?" Derik asked, leaning forward in his chair. His green eyes were sharp, hard, like jade under a microscope. “Did she ever mention names?”

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Sanchez replied. “I was shut out of Lila’s life.”

For a moment, the room fell silent save for the quiet ticking of an ornate clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Then Mrs. Sanchez sniffled and wiped her nose with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. Morgan wasn’t sure if the addiction angle would pan out, anyway, considering Lila wasn’t the only victim—Simon Holt had been murdered too. They needed to know more about him, draw connections between him and Lila.

Morgan pulled out a photograph from her jacket pocket and handed it to Mrs. Sanchez. “Do you recognize this man?” she asked. It was a photo of Simon Holt—a nice-looking, ordinary man with glasses and a shy smile.

Mrs. Sanchez frowned. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“His name was Simon Holt,” Morgan said. “A week ago, he was killed under similar circumstances as Lila. I wanted to know if they knew each other.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Sanchez said. "Simon Holt," she repeated, rolling the name over her tongue as if expecting it to shed light on some hidden corner of her memory. She looked up, meeting Morgan's piercing gaze. "I'm sorry, but Lila never mentioned him."

Morgan sighed inwardly, her disappointment a harsh contrast against the flickering hope that had briefly come alive. It was a dead-end, just like the ones they'd been hitting throughout this case. But dead-ends didn't deter Morgan Cross--they only steeled her resolve.

"Alright," she said, standing up from the couch and extending her hand towards Mrs. Sanchez. Her grip enveloped the older woman's hand firmly, bracingly. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sanchez."

"You'll find out who did this to her?" The question was more a plea than an inquiry, a desperate cry for justice from a mother who had lost too much.

"We'll do everything we can," Morgan promised, her voice steady with conviction.

Mrs. Sanchez nodded slowly, tears pooling in her eyes again, the pain etched into every wrinkle on her face echoing into the silence that hung heavy in the room.

***

The front door of the Sanchez house clicked shut behind them, and Morgan stepped into the cool morning air, inhaling the scent of wet grass and distant city life. Each breath felt heavy, with the weight of Mrs. Sanchez's sorrow still lingering in her chest. The image of young Lila—a girl lost to drugs and a violent end—clung to Morgan's mind like a stubborn stain.

"Hey," Derik said, breaking her reverie as he caught up beside her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Morgan replied, though it was more for his sake than hers. Her thoughts were a swirling storm. The drawing of the violin—it hadn’t just been some random doodle left on a whim; it was a piece of Lila’s identity. A haunting reminder of what she could have been. "Let’s get moving," she urged, nodding toward the car parked patiently at the curb. Each step felt like trudging through quicksand, but they had work to do. The case was too fresh, too raw, and Morgan burned to understand why someone would choose to leave such an emblem behind.

"Simon Holt next?" Derik asked, his voice steady, but Morgan could sense the edge of urgency beneath it. He knew that even as they shifted their focus, the shadows of last night’s chaos still loomed.

"Yeah," Morgan said, her tone clipped. "We need to talk to his family. Find out if there's any connection between him and Lila beyond the obvious."

"Obvious" meant addiction, pain, a life unraveling in public view. But Morgan suspected there was more to the story—the intersection where lives collided often held secrets, and she intended to find them.

They reached the car, the metallic click of the locks echoing in the quiet neighborhood. Morgan slid into the driver’s seat, her fingers tightening around the wheel. She could feel the pulse of determination thrumming under her skin.

"What do you make about the violin?" Derik asked, settling into the passenger seat, eyes fixed on her with that familiar blend of concern and curiosity. “Think the killer could be someone who knew Lila as a child?”

"Could be," Morgan mused, starting the engine with a low rumble that vibrated through her body. "It’s not just art; it’s a legacy. Maybe someone wanted to remind Lila of who she used to be. Or maybe it was personal—a way to mock her fall."

"Or both," Derik nodded, casting a glance back at the Sanchez house as they pulled away, its facade now fading behind them. "I guess the question is, how did that person even know about her past? She hadn’t been a prodigy for some time.”

"Exactly," Morgan agreed, shifting gears, the city unfolding before them. The streets were slick from last night’s rain, reflecting the muted sunlight breaking through the clouds. But the beauty of the morning felt hollow against the backdrop of murder and loss. As they drove, Morgan’s thoughts drifted back to the other night—to Thomas Grady, dead, to the knowledge that Cordell and his men could be watching her every move. But she pushed it aside.

Whoever this killer was, he picked the wrong time to mess around in Dallas. Morgan gripped the steering wheel tighter. She was not in a generous mood.