CHAPTER TWELVE

Morgan's feet hammered the damp earth, each breath tearing at her throat as she raced through the dense forest. The trees blurred into a tangle of shadows under the moon's half-hearted glow. Ahead, the outline of her father's cabin emerged, a dark silhouette against the night. This was the place she had unearthed so many buried truths, where secrets whispered through the timber walls.

She burst into the clearing and there he stood—John Christopher, her father, his weathered hand trembling on the grip of a revolver. His aim fixed on a figure before him: a woman, visibly pregnant, her eyes wide with terror. Morgan's heart clenched; every instinct screamed to intervene. "Dad, stop!" Her voice shredded the silence, but it was like screaming into a void.

The gun roared, a final verdict. The woman crumpled, a life extinguished, a future stolen. Morgan felt the scream rip from her, a sound of anguish and betrayal, but no one heard—the woods swallowed her plea.

Suddenly, the pines vanished, replaced by four cold walls steeped in darkness. Morgan sat, wrists chafing against the restraints that bound her to the chair. A solitary bulb swung overhead, casting an oscillating light over her interrogator—a man obscured in shadow, his presence heavy with accusation.

"Murderer," the voice rasped, a label she'd fought to shed for a decade. The word echoed off the concrete, a ghostly jury delivering its sentence over and over.

"Prove it," Morgan spat, her voice laced with venom. She glared into the darkness, challenging the faceless entity to reveal itself. The chair scraped against the floor as the man leaned forward, the bulb swinging erratically now.

Light sliced across the man's features, etching out the lines of time and malice. Richard Cordell stepped into clarity—a visage from a past Morgan wished could remain buried. His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, one that held no warmth, only a chilling satisfaction.

"Agent Cross," he began, his tone mocking the title she once held. "Or should I say, inmate Cross?"

"Go to hell, Cordell," she shot back, her words sharp as daggers. He had orchestrated her downfall once, but she would not cower before the puppeteer of her misfortunes.

Cordell moved closer, the light now steady upon his aged face. "You're already there, Morgan. And this time, there's no escape."

Her pulse thundered in her ears, a crescendo of rage and fear. This was the man who had framed her, the architect of her darkest days. And here he was, weaving another web of lies to ensnare her. But the truth remained her weapon, her unwavering ally amidst the deceit.

"Wrong again, old man," Morgan growled, defiance flaring within her. "I've been to hell and back. And I'll tear down your legacy brick by brick if I have to."

Cordell's smile wavered, the first crack in his fa?ade. Morgan saw it, the glimpse of uncertainty. She leaned into it, pressing her advantage. "Your empire is crumbling, and I'll be the one to watch it fall."

Morgan jolted awake, gasping for air as if she had been drowning. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a relentless drumbeat echoing the terror that clung to her skin like cold sweat. Derik shifted beside her, his voice heavy with concern.

"Hey," he murmured, his hand finding her shoulder in the dim light of predawn. "You were tossing and turning like you were fighting off demons."

She blinked rapidly, chasing away the remnants of her nightmare, the image of her father and the pregnant woman dissolving into the shadows of her room. "Just a dream," she rasped, her throat tight with unshed emotions.

"Another one about your dad?" Derik probed gently, green eyes searching hers for the truth she habitually concealed.

"Doesn't matter." Morgan swung her legs over the edge of the bed, distancing herself from the comfort he offered. She could still feel Richard Cordell's accusing gaze, the phantom weight of it bearing down on her even in wakefulness.

"Are you sure?" His voice was soft, tinged with the kind of patience that only someone who had known the jagged edges of pain could offer.

"Positive." She stood, her body moving on autopilot as she straightened her spine and forced herself to focus on the present. There was no time for the luxury of unraveling dreams when reality held far more pressing horrors.

Her eyes flicked to the digital numbers on the bedside clock—six a.m.—bold and unforgiving. Time didn't pause for personal demons or restless nights. With a deep breath, she collected the scattered pieces of herself, the agent overtaking the haunted daughter.

"Time to get up and keep working anyway," she declared, her voice steady now, the tremor banished. It was a mantra, a lifeline that had pulled her through ten years of hell and back.

Derik watched her, the lines of his face etched with quiet understanding. He knew better than to push; they both carried their scars, after all. But his presence, solid and reassuring, reminded her that she wasn't alone—not anymore.

"Right behind you," he said, matching her resolve as he rose from the bed. They were partners, in more ways than one, bound by a shared determination to untangle the web of death that had ensnared them.

As they readied themselves for the day, the silence between them was comfortable, a mutual respect hanging in the air. Morgan’s fingers drummed against the bathroom countertop, a staccato rhythm that matched her racing thoughts. She caught her reflection in the mirror—a visage of determination etched into features that bore the weight of unresolved mysteries. The dream had been vivid, disturbingly so, but she pushed it down, locking it away where it couldn’t distract her.

"Hey," Derik's voice floated through the crack of the partially opened door, tinged with concern. "That dream seemed to rattle you pretty bad. Want to talk about it?"

She met his gaze in the mirror, her dark eyes resolute. "No," Morgan replied curtly, turning off the faucet. "It's nothing. Just echoes of the past."

"Alright," he conceded, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer before retreating.

Morgan knew she needed to delve deeper into Richard Cordell's shadowy influence, but not now—not when another killer was playing a macabre game with innocent lives. Shaking off the remnants of unease, she buttoned her shirt with practiced efficiency, sleeves hiding the inked stories on her arms.

"Focus," she muttered, slipping into the armor of Agent Cross.

"Ready?" Derik asked as he adjusted his tie, an attempt at normalcy amidst the chaos.

"Let's hit the road," she responded, her voice clipped. "We need to speak to Mariana Torres's family. It doesn't make sense; Mariana hadn't worked a case involving car crashes recently. Why did the killer cut her brakes?"

Derik nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "Maybe there's something personal in it. Something we're not seeing yet."

Morgan grabbed her keys, the metal cool against her skin. "Or it's a message. We find the link, we find the motive." She led the way out of the house.

***

Morgan eased her car to a halt, the engine's hum dying as she surveyed the neighborhood bathed in the hesitant light of dawn. The houses stood close together, wear evident in their sagging porches and peeling paint, a stark contrast to the glossy office towers where Mariana Torres had presided as a judge. Beside her, Derik shifted, his gaze following the path Morgan's took—studying the silent witnesses to lives less fortunate.

"Reggie Torres," she murmured, her eyes on the house that seemed to crouch between its taller neighbors, "lives worlds apart from his sister."

Derik nodded, his face reflecting the same curiosity that flickered in Morgan's eyes. "Different paths from the same starting line," he said.

They stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk, the door thuds echoing in the still air. A battered pickup truck sat neglected in the driveway, rust gnawing at its blue paint like a slow disease. Unkempt weeds vied for dominance in the small front yard, creeping up the walls of the house as if trying to escape the ground they sprouted from.

"Success doesn't always lift everyone in its wake," Morgan observed, her voice low. She could feel the weight of Reggie's existence pressing against her—a pressure that had no place in the sterile courtrooms his sister had frequented.

"Or maybe it's not about success." Derik glanced at her, his green eyes searching. "Maybe it's just about choices."

"Choices," she echoed, tasting the word. It was about choices, wasn't it? The choice to uphold the law or to bend it, to save a sibling or to let them flounder. To chase down killers or... Morgan shook her head, banishing the thought. This was not the time for introspection. As far as they knew, Reggie was a grieving sibling, not a suspect.

Morgan approached the front door. Each step felt heavier than the last, her mind racing with possibilities, each more troubling than the next. The morning air hung heavy with the scent of impending rain, the clouds above a tapestry of grays. Morgan's knuckles rapped against the weathered wood, a sharp contrast to the muffled chaos of the neighborhood waking up. Derik stood half a step behind her, his presence a silent reassurance in the grey morning light.

"Reggie Torres?" Morgan asked, badge in hand, when the door creaked open. The man on the threshold bore the unmistakable stamp of shared blood with Mariana—the same dark, haunted eyes—but where hers had held a fire, his seemed drowned in sorrow.

"Yeah, that's me," he rasped, voice heavy with weariness. He stepped aside, gesturing them into the dim interior.

The scent hit Morgan first; a pungent mix of marijuana and stale alcohol assaulting her senses as she crossed the threshold. The living room was a visual cacophony, strewn with dirty laundry and empty bottles—a stark departure from the sterile order of Mariana's world. Reggie slumped onto a frayed couch, his hands trembling slightly.

"Reggie, we're sorry for your loss," Derik said gently.

"Loss..." Reggie's whisper trailed off as he rubbed his face, fingers coming away wet. "It's all my fault."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derick, her mind already running through the implications of his words. Her gut twisted with the familiar mix of empathy and suspicion, but she kept her voice steady. "Why would you think that, Reggie?"

He looked up at her, tears brimming in those reddened eyes, and Morgan felt the weight of the unsaid hanging thickly in the room. She knew they were on the brink of something, a truth teetering on the edge of revelation. But whatever Reggie held back remained locked behind a wall of grief and guilt, waiting for the right key.

"Can you tell us about the last time you saw Mariana?" she prodded, her instinct telling her that Reggie's torment was a piece to a larger puzzle—one she was determined to solve.

Reggie's gaze dropped to his fidgeting hands as he grappled with memories that clearly pained him. In that moment, surrounded by the detritus of a life falling apart, Morgan could almost see the fractured lines of a family trying to hold each other together.

“The last time I saw her… she was so mad at me for what I’d done, but she still bailed me out, because she was my older sister, and that was what she did… but she bailed me out.”

Reggie's confession hit the stagnant air like a shockwave, rippling through the cluttered space and crashing into Morgan's senses. "Say that again," she commanded, her voice low but insistent. "Mariana bailed you out? Of what, jail?”

He nodded, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand, a childlike gesture that seemed incongruent with the gravity of his admission. "Yeah. Drunk driving," Reggie muttered, his voice breaking. "Hit another car... caused them to spin out and hit a pole. They died.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. "Mariana took care of it. Got me out before I could even sober up."

Morgan exchanged a tense look with Derik. This was it—the reason why the killer had cut Mariana’s brakes. It wasn’t because she had been a judge on a case like that. It was because she, a judge herself, had bailed someone out for causing the wrongful death of another; death by crashing into a pole, the same way Mariana died.

But this wasn’t public information. So how would the killer know Mariana ever bailed Reggie out at all?

"Did anyone else know about this?" Morgan asked, her mind racing. The room seemed to close in around her, the walls whispering secrets.

Reggie shook his head, his eyes lost. "No. It wasn't public. Mariana... she had connections. Kept it quiet."

"Connections," Morgan echoed, the word tasting like bile. It was a thread, frayed and thin, but it connected. Someone with access, someone who knew things they shouldn't. Her eyes met Derik's, a silent exchange passing between them.

"Someone who knew about your bail might have had a motive," Derik added, his tone careful. "They targeted Mariana because of what she did for you."

"But I don't..." Reggie trailed off, helpless. "I don't know who would do that. Who could?"

“We’re hoping we can find that out. Thank you, Reggie," Morgan said, standing.

As they left the house, the morning sun did little to warm the chill that had settled in Morgan's bones. The neighborhood was waking up, life going on as if nothing had changed, as if Mariana Torres hadn't been brutally murdered.

"Someone with access to sealed records," Morgan mused aloud, her thoughts a whirlwind of profiles and possibilities. "A cop, a clerk... anyone in the judicial system."

"Or someone hacking into it," Derik suggested. "We need to look at everyone who touched those files."

"Everyone," Morgan agreed, her resolve hardening. The game was afoot, and she was no stranger to hunting monsters. They lurked in the shadows of data and in the light of day, hiding behind smiles and badges. But she would find this one. She had to.

"Let's get to HQ," she said, unlocking the car. "We have work to do."

The engine roared to life, a growl of determination as they pulled away from the curb. Reggie's house faded into the rearview mirror, but the image of Mariana Torres—judge, savior, victim—lingered in Morgan's mind, a specter demanding justice.