CHAPTER TEN

The metallic glint of the gun in Oliver's trembling hand was all the confirmation Morgan needed. Instincts honed by years of danger propelled her upward, the chair skidding back with a screech against the wooden floor. Beside her, Derik mirrored the action, his firearm drawn as swiftly as hers. Their training had merged them into a single force of authority.

"Oliver, don't," Morgan commanded, her voice a sharp blade cutting through the thick tension. Her dark eyes locked onto the man who seemed to be teetering on the edge of an abyss.

But Oliver's gaze was inward, fixated on something beyond their reach. "You can't understand," he whispered, the muzzle of the gun cold against his temple. "There's nothing left for me here."

"Please, put down the gun," Morgan implored, her plea wrapped in the authoritative tone of Agent Cross but softened by the empathetic undertones of someone who knew loss. She could almost feel the weight of the weapon in Oliver's hands, heavy with his desolation.

"We do understand, Oliver," Derik added, his voice gentle yet firm. "But this is not the way."

A bitter laugh escaped Oliver's lips as he closed his eyes, shutting out the world. His finger began to tighten on the trigger, and Morgan's heart lurched.

"Oliver!" It was more than a shout; it was a raw, desperate cry as Morgan made a split-second decision. Her finger squeezed the trigger of her own weapon, the report deafening in the stillness of the living room.

Time seemed to fracture, the moment stretching like taffy as the bullet found its mark. Oliver's arm jerked, the gun slipping from his grasp and clattering to the hardwood floor. A sharp cry pierced the air, and Morgan's chest tightened at the sight of blood blossoming across the fabric of his housecoat.

Morgan's breath hitched, her ears still ringing from the gunshot. She barely registered Derik's swift movement as he lunged toward Oliver, his large hands deftly stripping the gun away and sending it skidding across the floor. The metallic clang of it hitting the wall was a punctuation in the chaos.

"Oliver Denton, you're under arrest," Derik declared, his voice steady despite the tremor that Morgan knew was coursing through both their veins. He secured Oliver's uninjured arm behind his back with practiced ease, even as blood seeped through the fabric of his housecoat, dark and accusing.

She watched, her own weapon now feeling like a lead weight in her holster. This wasn't how she envisioned it—she was trained to save lives, not teeter on the edge of taking them. Shooting to disarm was textbook, but reality was a jagged edge that cut deep into her resolve.

"Call it in," Morgan managed to say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. But Derik was already ahead of her, his words a rapid-fire stream into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

"You'll get medical attention soon, Oliver. Hang in there," he said, the kindness in his tone at odds with the iron grip he kept on the suspect.

Morgan knelt beside the broken man, her hands hovering, unsure whether to offer comfort or restraint. He looked up at her, his eyes swimming pools of despair. "Why?" he whispered. The single word hung heavy between them, freighted with the weight of loss and rage. “Why not just let me die?”

"Because we need answers," she replied, her voice firm yet not unkind. "And because your son wouldn't want this for you."

Oliver's breaths came in shuddering gasps, his gaze flickering to the pictures of his child that adorned the walls. For a moment, there was silence, save for the sound of his pain.

"Did you do it, Oliver?" Morgan asked, unable to mask the urgency in her voice. "Did you kill them because of what happened to Ben?"

The question lingered, a specter in the dimly lit room. Oliver's laughter was hollow, void of humor. "Does it matter?" he rasped, his voice laced with bitterness. "They took everything from me. My boy... my life..."

Derik met Morgan's eye, his own green orbs a tumult of emotion. They both knew the gravity of the situation; a confession loomed close, yet Oliver's words were a riddle wrapped in grief.

"Your life isn't over," Morgan countered, though doubt gnawed at her. Was his attempt at ending his life an admission of guilt, or simply the act of a shattered soul?

"Isn't it?" Oliver challenged, his voice growing weaker as the room filled with the sounds of approaching sirens.

Morgan felt a chill run down her spine. Tonight had brought them face-to-face with death, its shadow lingering in the corners of the room. And as they waited for the paramedics to arrive, the uncertainty was a living thing, whispering questions that begged for answers.

Was Oliver Denton their killer, or just another victim in a string of tragedies? As the line between justice and vengeance blurred, Morgan knew one thing for certain—the truth was still out there, waiting to be uncovered. And until it was, none of them could rest.

***

Morgan's boots clicked in a staccato rhythm against the sterile hospital floor. It was a sound that matched the hammering of her heart, relentless and unyielding. The pallid corridor stretched out before her like a runway to uncertainty, fluorescent lights flickering overhead casting long shadows that danced with each turn of her dark-clad form.

"Hey, Morgan," Derik called softly, his voice laced with exhaustion. "You should sit down for a minute."

She shook her head, her dark hair swaying about her shoulders. Pacing was the only thing keeping the adrenaline at bay, the only thing stopping her from crashing. She had shot a man today - Oliver Denton, a desperate father whose life seemed to crumble piece by piece. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than just grief gone wild.

"Can you believe he's our guy?" Derik probed cautiously, leaning against the cool wall. His green eyes searched hers, looking for an answer she wasn't sure she had.

Morgan stopped and turned to him, her tattoos shifting with the movement of her arms. "I don't know, Derik. Something doesn't add up," she replied, her voice a stark whisper in the empty hall. "The evidence... it's thin. All this time, we thought it was a vendetta against the system that took his son. But pulling a gun on himself?"

Derik ran a hand through his slick black hair, a nervous gesture she had come to recognize. "Yeah, I wish we knew what was going through his mind. Maybe we pushed too hard, cornered him into thinking there was no other way out."

"Or maybe he's just that good at playing the victim," Morgan countered, her gut twisting with doubt. This case had burrowed under her skin, reminiscent of her own past, a time when the truth had been so skillfully manipulated against her.

"Oliver's motive, it felt right initially," Derik added, "but now... I can't reconcile the man who wanted to end his pain with the cold-blooded precision of these murders."

"Neither can I." Morgan resumed her pacing, her thoughts chasing each other in circles. "I keep thinking about the toy bear pieces left at the crime scenes. It's personal, symbolic. Does it really track back to Oliver's loss?"

"Everything's muddled. Grief, anger, revenge – they can push anyone over the edge. But is it enough to make you murder three people?" Derik pondered aloud.

"Dammit." Morgan's fist clenched. They were professionals, trained to follow the evidence, yet here they were, doubting their instincts, questioning the path they had taken.

"Hey," Derik's voice broke through the cacophony in her head, gentle yet firm. "You save a life tonight, Morgan. That shot—"

"It wasn't a choice, Derik." Her words cut the air, sharp as the memory of gunfire.

"But it wasn't us because of you. Because of what you did." His affirmation was unwavering, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the comfort of believing it. “And Oliver will live too. He couldn’t hurt himself either.”

"Yeah." The admission came grudgingly from Morgan; she didn’t love having to fire her weapon. Her mind replayed the scene—a blur of movement, the glint of metal, the split second where everything had hung in the balance.

The sterile hush of the hospital corridor was broken by the approaching footsteps of a nurse. She stopped before them, her face etched with the weariness that came with too many hours on a too-long shift.

"Agents?" Her voice was soft, a stark contrast to the chaos that had led them here. "You can see him now."

Morgan nodded in acknowledgment, her body moving on autopilot as she followed the nurse into the room where Oliver Denton lay. The scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils as she entered, and she saw him there—the man whose life had teetered on the edge of her decision.

Oliver's arm was bandaged, stark white against his skin that had turned an unhealthy pallor. Tubes and wires snaked from his body to the monitors that beeped with a rhythm he was lucky to still have. His eyes were closed, the shadows beneath them telling tales of torment and loss.

She studied his face, searching for any clue that might betray the truth of the man who lay before them. Was he the architect of sorrow that had claimed three innocent lives? There was no satisfaction in this tableau, no clear answers—just the complex tapestry of human frailty.

"Been through hell, hasn't he?" Derik murmured from beside her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Looks like he brought some back with him," Morgan replied, her gaze never leaving Oliver. She could see the remnants of anguish that clung to him; it mirrored the darkness she'd seen in too many eyes, including her own at times.

Oliver stirred then, a slight twitch of his fingers drawing their attention. Whether it was the pain or the presence of strangers that roused him, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that seemed to have lost their fire.

For a moment, Morgan felt the weight of the badge on her chest grow heavier. Here was a man who had suffered, who had almost succumbed to despair. And here she stood, the arbiter of his fate, hoping against hope that justice would not be another casualty in an already tragic tale.

Oliver's breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life in the otherwise still figure on the bed. She had seen this vulnerability before, in those who had reached their breaking point, and it never got easier. He looked at them then.

“Hello again,” was all he said.

"Oliver," she began, her voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. "I need to ask you again. Do you know anything about the deaths of Mariana Torres, Elaine Harrows, or Gina Bellwood?"

His eyes met hers, a flicker of something that might have been indignation—or fear—passing through them before he answered. "No," Oliver rasped, each word punctuated by pain. "I would never... I didn't hurt anyone."

She scrutinized him, searching for any telltale signs of deception. But there was something in his voice, a raw honesty that seemed to cut through the clinical sterility of the room.

"Look, I swear it," he continued, his voice gaining strength as he clung to his innocence. "I'll do whatever you need. I'll cooperate."

His gaze held hers, and for a moment, Morgan saw the man behind the bloodshot eyes—a man cornered by circumstances, perhaps, but not a killer.

"You talked about Ben," Morgan pressed on, invoking the memory of his son. "You remember what you were willing to do for him. He wouldn't want this for you, Oliver. You have to keep living."

Oliver's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his bandaged arm a stark reminder of how close he had come to a different choice. "You're right," he admitted with a shaky exhale. "Ben... he was everything. And you're right. I have to live—for him. I am not a murderer, Agent Cross."

There was a resonance to his words that struck a chord within Morgan. His grief was palpable, his resolve to honor his son's memory genuine. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel a twinge of compassion for the broken man in front of her.

Morgan stepped out of the sterile hospital room, her boots silent on the polished floor. Beside her, Derik's presence was a steadying force in the chaos that churned within her. They paused in the hallway, the fluorescent lights casting stark shadows on their faces.

"His alibi," Morgan started, breaking the silence as she turned to face Derik, "we need to go over it again."

Derik nodded, his green eyes reflecting a weariness that mirrored her own. "We'll get the team on it first thing. Every statement he's made, we verify. If there's even a thread out of place..."

"Then we pull," Morgan finished for him, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew the drill, had run the gamut more times than she cared to count. The ink on her arms seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her heart—a constant reminder of the past that shaped her.

"Still," Derik added, running a hand through his slick black hair, "he doesn't fit the profile of our killer, does he? Not really. He's just... broken."

"Broken or not, we can't afford to be wrong," she replied, her voice a low rasp. But somewhere inside, Oliver Denton's pained admission resonated with her own hidden fractures. A grieving father, lost without his son, didn't necessarily equate to a murderer. And if they were wrong about him, the real killer was still out there.

"Come on," Derik said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "It's late, and we're running on fumes. Let’s break for the night."

As they moved towards the exit, Morgan could feel the weight of exhaustion settling in her bones. It had been hours since they'd eaten, and the adrenaline that had fueled her earlier was waning fast. She nodded, conceding to the logic in his words. There was a part of her that wanted to keep pushing, to stay until every possibility was exhausted.

But Derik was right; they needed rest, clarity, and a fresh start come morning.