CHAPTER FIVE

The engine of the car sputtered to a stop, and Morgan stepped out onto the cracked pavement of the quiet street. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp leaves and the distant sound of children’s laughter—a stark contrast to the grim business at hand. She adjusted her leather jacket, feeling the comforting weight of its familiar bulk before glancing at Derik, who lingered beside the passenger door, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He looked tired, shadows under his green eyes hinting at sleepless nights filled with thoughts of their latest case.

"Ready?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow as they approached Simon Holt’s house.

"Let’s get this over with," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the knot forming in her stomach. The house was charming, almost deceptively so, with its neat white picket fence and flower boxes that flanked the windows—like the kind of place where dreams should flourish, not unravel.

They knocked on the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness. A moment stretched into eternity before it swung open, revealing a young woman standing there, her thin glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. Morgan noticed the way Melanie's hands trembled slightly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her bun seeming to hold back more than just hair. It held fear, uncertainty, and grief.

"Ms. Summers?" Derik introduced himself, his tone smooth yet careful.

"Yes," Melanie replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions about Simon." Morgan kept her expression neutral, but inside, she felt the familiar stirrings of sympathy for the woman before her. This wasn’t just another interview; it was a glimpse into a shattered life.

"Please, come in," Melanie managed, stepping aside to let them enter.

The living room was nearly bare, save for a couple of mismatched chairs and a small coffee table that looked like it had been picked up from a garage sale. The walls were adorned with a few framed photographs—smiling faces frozen in time—but they did little to fill the emptiness that lingered in the air. Morgan's instincts kicked in, her mind racing through the implications of such a stark environment.

"Are you planning on moving?" she asked gently, her eyes scanning for signs of life among the hollow spaces. It was a simple question, but one that carried weight.

Melanie shook her head slowly. "No," she said softly. "We’re not moving. A lot of our assets were seized before Simon died."

Morgan exchanged a quick glance with Derik. Assets seized? That was a new twist. She could feel the gears turning in her mind, piecing together fragments of information that could lead to something bigger. “Seized?” she prompted, curiosity piqued as she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Simon had... well, he had a gambling problem," Melanie said, her voice trembling slightly. "He was brilliant, a mathematician, but addiction is a beast. It finally caught up to him."

"How bad was it?" Derik interjected, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes focused intently on Melanie, urging her to continue.

"About a year ago…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the weight of the words threatened to crush her. "He used his company’s credit card to gamble. Tens of thousands—gone. When it came out..." She inhaled sharply, fighting back emotion. "His career was nearly destroyed. It was a dark time for both of us."

Morgan could see the tremor in Melanie's hands as she spoke, the rawness of pain coating each word. The story unfurled like a tight coil, revealing desperation and despair, and with it, Morgan's sense of urgency heightened. This wasn’t just another case; this was a life unraveled, a series of poor choices leading to a tragic end.

"Did he ever mention any threats or anyone he owed money to?" Morgan pressed, her voice steady, determined to dig deeper.

"No. He kept most of it to himself, trying to handle it alone, I guess." Melanie's gaze drifted to the window, where the autumn leaves swirled outside, their vibrant colors stark against the muted backdrop of her home.

"That must’ve been hard," Derik said quietly, sensing the depth of Melanie's grief without pushing too hard.

"Yeah," Melanie whispered, her shoulders sagging with the weight of memories. "He lost everything—his job, his reputation. But he was trying. He really was."

"Trying how?" Morgan's tone remained sharp, slicing through the fog of melancholy. She needed specifics, something tangible to hold onto amidst the emotional wreckage.

"Therapy," Melanie said, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "He started seeing Dr. Reid... a specialist. He thought that maybe he could turn things around again."

"Dr. Reid," Morgan repeated, mentally jotting the name down, aware that this could be a crucial lead.

"Yes," Melanie nodded, her expression shifting between hope and despair. "He believed he could beat it. We both did."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, caught in the vortex of Melanie's grief and despair. She watched as the woman fumbled with the worn-out bracelet that clung to her wrist, her gaze vacant as she ventured into the labyrinth of her memories.

"Did it help?" Derik ventured, his voice threading through the silence that had descended over them.

Melanie shrugged, a ghost of a smile flitting across her face. "I like to believe it did. He was more focused, started getting up early… even found a job at a local bookstore. He tried, he really did."

"But things didn't change, did they?" Derik's voice broke the momentary silence, his question hanging heavy in the room.

Melanie sighed, nodding. "Simon was hopeful at first, but as time went on, he started to withdraw again. He stopped talking about his therapy, became secretive... It felt like he was slipping away."

"Did you ever meet this Dr. Reid?" Morgan asked, her dark eyes narrowing slightly.

"No," Melanie admitted, shaking her head. "Simon wanted to handle it himself. I guess he thought he was protecting me."

Morgan and Derik exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. There was something here—a thread that just needed a little more tugging.

"And the company credit card he used for gambling... Did you ever see any of the bills or statements?" Morgan inquired.

Melanie nodded. "Yes, they all came here. I saw the amounts... It was... overwhelming. Despite everything, I still wanted to make it work. And now he’s gone…”

"Thank you for sharing that with us," Derik replied, his voice low and respectful, acknowledging the fragile nature of their conversation.

"Just… please find out what happened to him," Melanie pleaded, her voice a fragile thread.

Morgan felt the gravity of the moment settle heavily on her chest. They were stepping into dangerous waters, but the currents were drawing them in. As they prepared to leave, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Simon Holt’s fate intertwined with something darker than mere addiction—a tangled web waiting to be unraveled.

***

Morgan leaned back in the passenger seat, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against her thigh as she stared at the front of Melanie's house through the gathering dusk. The low hum of their unmarked car's engine filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of browning leaves skittering across empty sidewalks. The setting sun painted long shadows across the suburban street, transforming familiar territory into something more sinister.

Her coffee had gone cold hours ago, forgotten in the cup holder between them. The scent of stale cigarette smoke clung to her clothes—a reminder of the three breaks she'd taken today, each one an attempt to clear her head of the images that haunted her: Simon's body, arranged with such precision it made her stomach turn, and those damned calling cards that seemed to mock everything they represented.

"Why was he killed like that?" Morgan muttered, more to herself than to Derik. Her voice carried the weight of too many sleepless nights. "Leaving behind those damn calling cards... It's like a twisted trophy collection." She squinted at the house one last time before turning her attention to her partner. Derik's knuckles had gone white against the steering wheel, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something harder, more brittle.

"Don't know, but it feels personal," Derik replied, his voice steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he shifted in his seat. The leather creaked beneath him, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space. His green eyes, usually bright with humor, had taken on a haunted cast that Morgan recognized all too well. "What do you think it means?"

Morgan let out a slow breath, watching it fog the window slightly. "Both Lila and Simon had their demons," she said, the words coming slowly as she pieced together the puzzle that had been consuming her thoughts. "Addictions that consumed them, destroyed everything they'd built." She leaned forward, unconsciously closing the space between them as if sharing a secret. The scent of worn leather mingled with the bitter reminder of her earlier cigarettes. "But the killer? He didn't showcase their struggles; he flaunted their brilliance instead. Their achievements. The medals, the awards, the recognition—all carefully arranged around them like some sick shrine."

Her hand moved unconsciously to the scar on her forearm, a habit she'd developed when deep in thought. "It's as if he wanted to remind them of what they used to be—what they lost. Like he's holding up a mirror to their fall from grace."

"Mockery?" Derik suggested, raising an eyebrow as he turned to face her more fully. The dying sunlight caught the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples. "Or maybe he thinks he's saving them somehow? Preserving them at their peak?"

"Great. A killer with a savior complex. Just what we need," she scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. Her tablet came to life with a soft chime as she tapped it awake, the blue glow casting harsh shadows across her features. With practiced movements, she pulled up Simon's profile again, though she'd memorized most of it by now. "But look here... both victims were in therapy. That's not just a coincidence anymore."

"Yeah?" Derik's posture changed subtly, some of the tension in his shoulders giving way to curiosity. The shift was slight, but Morgan had known him long enough to read the signs. "What are you thinking?"

"Simon was seeing Dr. Clayton Reid," Morgan said, her voice taking on that sharp edge Derik recognized as her hunting tone. "What if Lila had been a patient of his too? I mean, think about it—both victims struggled with addiction, both were high-achievers who fell from grace, both killed in ways that highlighted their former glory—"

"That's a bold leap, Morgan." Derik's caution was automatic, but she could see the spark of interest in his eyes. "We don't even know if she had any therapy records. Could be reaching."

"Maybe, but it's worth investigating." Morgan's mind raced ahead, piecing together possibilities like a jigsaw puzzle. Her heart quickened with the familiar thrill of a potential breakthrough. "If Reid has been treating both of them, then he might know more than he let on during questioning. Or worse..." Her voice trailed off as an unsettling thought took root.

"More than just a therapist," Derik finished for her, his expression darkening as he followed her train of thought. The engine's idle seemed to grow louder in the lengthening shadows. "You think he could be connected to the murders?"

"Exactly." Morgan shot him a sharp grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath the weight of possibility. They had a lead now, however tenuous, and she intended to chase it down until it either broke open or dead-ended. As they pulled away from the curb, the house diminishing in the rearview mirror, the thrill of the hunt surged within her, electric and familiar.

Morgan's fingers moved across the tablet screen with practiced efficiency, the sense of urgency building in her chest as she typed in "Dr. Clayton Reid." The car's engine provided a steady backdrop to her racing thoughts, the air growing thick with anticipation. Her pulse quickened as the search results populated—this could be the thread that unraveled everything. The first link drew her eye immediately, its polished layout and professional graphics practically screaming success and discretion.

"Damn," she muttered, scrolling through page after page of carefully curated content. "This guy's got a whole PR team behind him. Everything's perfect—too perfect."

Derik leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers as he studied the screen. The faint scent of his aftershave mingled with the lingering coffee and smoke. "Looks like he's catering to the high rollers—celebrities, CEOs, anyone who needs their skeletons kept firmly in the closet. What's his specialty?"

"Addiction therapy, all varieties." Morgan's eyes narrowed as she scanned through testimonials that read more like advertising copy than genuine gratitude. "He's got an office in one of those glass towers downtown. The kind of place where the furniture costs more than our annual salaries combined."

"High price for a therapist," Derik replied, his words carrying a weight of suspicion. "But if you're paying for silence as much as treatment..."

"Exactly." Morgan tapped her chin thoughtfully, her mind already several steps ahead. "If Simon and Lila were both his patients, he'd know everything about them. Their struggles, their secrets, their shame. And if he's involved..." The implications sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the autumn air seeping through the car windows.

"Let's find out if Lila ever went to him," she said decisively, already reaching for the door handle. The surge of determination flowing through her veins was better than any caffeine boost. They couldn't let this lead grow cold.

"Think the office is still open?" Derik asked, checking the dashboard clock that glowed at 6:47 PM.

"Only one way to find out." Morgan pushed the car door open with perhaps more force than necessary, stepping out onto the cracked pavement. The chill October air wrapped around her like a warning, carrying with it the scent of dead leaves and wood smoke. Above them, the sky had deepened to a bruised purple, the first stars beginning to emerge like distant witnesses to whatever truth they might uncover.

As she slammed the door shut, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were finally on the right track—even if that track led somewhere darker than either of them was prepared for. But that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, they had a lead to chase and questions that needed answers, preferably before another body turned up with its own grotesque display of former glory.