CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morgan's eyes narrowed as the Dallas morning sun glittered off the serene waters of the pier. It was a scene she'd witnessed countless times, but today, it held a chilling undertone. Beside her, Derik adjusted his tie, a nervous habit that surfaced when they were on the brink of something big. They had traced Theodore Nash to this haven for boating enthusiasts, his absence from home leading them straight here.

They stepped out of the car, crisp air filling their lungs as they approached the boathouse pier with purposeful strides.

"Morning," Morgan greeted the young receptionist, a girl named Tina with wide, observant eyes. Derik flashed their badges, all business. "We're looking for a boat registered to a Theodore Nash."

"Of course, Agents." Tina's fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up records with efficiency. She pointed toward Dock C. "His slip is at the end, the white sailboat with blue trim—The Siren's Lullaby."

"Has he been around today?" Derik queried, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Tina nodded. "He checked in about thirty minutes ago."

Morgan lingered, her gaze steady on the young receptionist. "One more thing, Tina," she said, her voice low and measured. "Theodore Nash... what's his reputation around here?"

Tina hesitated, biting her lip as she glanced at the dock through the window. "Well,” she started, fidgeting with a pen, “he can be... difficult. Gets into arguments a lot. Some folks try to avoid him."

"Difficult how?" Morgan probed, sensing the reluctance in the girl's tone.

"Hot-tempered, I guess. He doesn't really take well to being told 'no', or when things don't go his way." Tina's eyes darted away, and she shuffled some papers unnecessarily. "He’s had fights with other boat owners. Calls it 'defending his territory’.”

"An asshole, then," Morgan concluded, her suspicions growing like weeds in an untended garden.

"Basically, yeah." The word slipped out before Tina could censor it, and her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and fear.

Derik leaned against the counter, his demeanor gentle, designed to disarm. "Ever feel unsafe around him, Tina?"

She paused longer this time, her fingers trembling slightly. "Sometimes he looks at me funny, you know? It's probably nothing but..." Her voice trailed off, leaving the unsaid to hang heavy between them.

"Scary," Derik finished for her, his tone sympathetic.

"Right," she whispered, nodding.

"Thank you, Tina. You've been very helpful." Morgan's gratitude was genuine, but her mind was already racing ahead, piecing together a profile of a man who seemed all too comfortable with conflict.

"Stay safe," Derik added, casting a concerned glance at the girl before leading the way out.

As they stepped outside, Morgan felt the weight of the bright morning press against her. They were close, she could feel it in her bones. But closeness mattered little without capture, and Theodore Nash was still just a shadow they were chasing. She squared her shoulders, ready to bring that shadow into the light.

Morgan’s gaze swept over the pier as she walked alongside Derik, both scanning for Theodore Nash. The boardwalk creaked under their brisk steps, the sounds mingling with the slap of water against moored boats. The morning sun cast long shadows and glinted off polished hulls, but the scene's tranquility felt deceptive.

"Every victim connected to the courthouse, and this guy works there," Morgan mused aloud, her voice carrying an edge sharp enough to cut through the mild air. "He lost a daughter, has access to marine rope, and now we find he's not just a hothead but potentially dangerous."

Derik nodded, his eyes narrowed in thought. "And the teddy bear parts... could be something a grieving father would hold onto."

"Exactly." There was a grim set to Morgan’s mouth. "If it's not him, he's still someone we can't ignore."

They continued in silence until they reached the section of the pier where Tina had directed them. The boat named "Serenity" stood out among the others, its sleek lines bearing the mark of frequent and meticulous care. And there, on the dock, was a tall figure moving about with deliberate, almost defensive motions—Theodore Nash.

"Mr. Nash?" Derik called out first, holding up his badge as they approached. "FBI. We need a moment of your time."

Nash didn’t bother looking up from his work. “I’m busy,” he replied curtly, dismissing them without a glance.

"Important FBI business, Mr. Nash," Morgan pressed, stepping closer to the edge of the dock. Her presence commanded attention, yet Nash seemed intent on ignoring them as he coiled a line with practiced hands.

"Can't it wait?" Nash’s tone was laced with impatience, though he finally deigned to give them a fleeting, irritated look.

“No, it can’t.” Morgan locked eyes with Nash, her stare unyielding. “We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

"Fine," Nash grudgingly conceded, setting down the rope. He straightened his tall frame, turning to face them fully. His blue eyes were cold, his expression one of annoyance rather than concern. "Make it quick."

Morgan squared her shoulders, the bright Dallas sun doing little to dispel the chill of suspicion that clung to her. "We need to talk about Mariana Torres," she began, voice sharp as a scalpel, "Gina Bellwood, and Elaine Harrows."

The names hung in the air between them, like bait cast into still waters. Nash's previously dismissive demeanor faltered, his gaze sharpening on Morgan as if seeing her for the first time. The line of his jaw tensed, a muscle ticking beneath the gaunt pallor of his cheek.

"Those women," he said slowly, almost cautiously, "they were killed, weren't they?" There was a flicker in his blue eyes, something that might have been knowledge—or fear.

"Murdered," Derik corrected, his tone softer than Morgan's, but laced with an undercurrent of steely resolve. It was a dance they had mastered over time; Morgan's hard edge complemented by Derik's more empathetic approach.

Nash looked out across the water for a moment, as if searching for an escape. "I heard about it. The courthouse talks." His voice was flat, betraying nothing.

"Talks about what, exactly?" Morgan pressed, taking a step closer. She could feel the weight of her badge against her chest, a symbol of the justice she pursued with relentless determination.

"Tragedies," Nash answered vaguely, his attention drifting back to his boat, as though he could will away their presence.

"Let's not play games, Mr. Nash," Morgan insisted, her patience waning like the morning tide. "You work at the courthouse. Your path crossed with theirs."

Nash's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So? That doesn't mean anything. I'm a janitor, for Christ's sake."

"Which gives you access," Morgan argued, her gaze unrelenting. "You hear things, see things... and you have a history, don't you?"

His blue eyes ignited with a spark of anger. "What are you implying?"

"Your custody battle," she continued, unfazed by his rising temper. "It didn't go well, did it? Those women—"

"Enough!" Nash snapped, the word cutting through the air like a sail catching a gust of wind. "That has nothing to do with anything. My personal life is none of your goddamn business!"

"Except when your personal grievances turn into a pattern that ends in death," Morgan retorted, each word deliberate, probing for the cracks in his facade.

"Is that what this is?" Nash scoffed, but the scorn sounded hollow. "You think because some judge screwed me over, I'm out for blood?"

"Are you?" Morgan asked, her voice steady, her mind racing with the implications of Nash's reactions—each one a piece of the puzzle clicking into place. She watched him, ready for the slightest slip, the smallest confession.

Nash's face contorted with rage, his composure fracturing. "The system is broken! It takes from men like me and—"

"Does it take enough to kill for?" Morgan cut in, her question like a knife poised at the thread of his self-control.

"Get out of here," Nash growled, his body rigid with fury. "Get off my dock and leave me the hell alone."

Morgan's gaze locked onto Nash, noting the twitch in his jaw, the slightest tremor of his hands. "Your daughter," she began, voice even, a scalpel slicing through the tension, "did she have a favorite toy? A teddy bear or stuffed animal she was particularly attached to?"

Nash's gaunt face reddened, veins bulging like cords on his neck. "Of course she did!" he spat, his voice laced with incredulity and anger. "She had plenty of toys. What sick game are you playing? What does that have to do with women being murdered?"

"Details matter, Mr. Nash," Morgan replied, unflinching. She watched as the question clawed at his composure, revealing raw edges beneath.

"Are you implying I took some damn toy and— No!" Nash's denial boomed over the water, an echo of desperation. "You're out of your mind!"

Morgan observed him closely, each reaction a note in the growing symphony of his guilt. His defensiveness, the way rage clouded his judgment—it all told a story. And she intended to read every page.

"Is my daughter hurt?" Nash's tone shifted from fury to fear, a rapid pivot that caught Morgan's attention. "Is that why you're here?"

"No, Mr. Nash," Derik interjected, his voice steady. "Your daughter is not the one who's hurt."

"Then why are you here?" Nash demanded, his hands clenched into fists. Confusion danced across his features—a mask slipping off to reveal the panic-stricken man underneath.

"Because there's a pattern," Morgan said, her eyes never leaving his. "And you fit it."

"Pattern?" Nash's voice cracked. "I don't know what you're talking about! This is insane!"

Derik stepped forward, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "Mr. Nash," Derik said. "I understand this is confusing, but let's just talk this through, okay?"

Nash's chest heaved, and his eyes, sharp as shards of ice, darted from Derik to Morgan. It was clear that words were ricocheting off him, unable to penetrate the shield of panic and anger he had thrown up. Morgan's muscles tensed, readying for what was to come. She knew the look of a man cornered by his own guilt—she'd seen it too many times before.

"You have no right!" Nash spat out, his voice cracking under the strain. He took an aggressive step toward Derik, his posture rigid with defiance.

"Take it easy, Theodore," Derik continued, the kindness in his tone stark against the harsh backdrop of suspicion. "We're not accusing you of anything. We just need some information."

But Nash wasn't listening. With a grunt of frustration, he lunged, shoving Derik hard in the chest. Derik stumbled backward, catching himself before he could fall. Morgan's heart raced, her training kicking in. This was the moment—the line crossed.

"Assaulting a federal agent, Nash?" Morgan's voice sliced through the tension. "Bad move."

In one swift motion, she reached for her handcuffs, the metal glinting in the sunlight. Derik regained his footing, his kind eyes now steel traps, the previous warmth extinguished.

"Turn around," Morgan commanded. Her voice was devoid of emotion, but inside, the cogs of justice were turning, fueled by adrenaline and the relentless pursuit of truth.

Nash's shoulders slumped as realization sunk in, yet he was still bristling with indignation. "You can't do this to me," he growled, but the fight was leaving his voice, replaced by the hollow sound of defeat.

"Actually, we can," Derik chimed in, grabbing Nash's arm and twisting it behind his back. Nash winced at the sudden movement, his resistance crumbling like the facade of innocence he tried to maintain.

The click of the cuffs echoed off the water, a grim punctuation to the ordeal. Morgan watched as Nash's face contorted—a mix of rage, fear, and something else she couldn't quite place.

"Let's go," she said, her voice cutting through the morning calm that had been shattered by their arrival. They began to lead Nash away from the dock, the clatter of footsteps on weathered wood marking their exit.

As they moved, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they had just peeled back the first layer of a deeply disturbing narrative. But for now, they had a suspect in custody—and a new set of questions that begged to be answered.

The pier faded behind them, the sounds of the harbor swallowing up the echoes of confrontation. Ahead, the path wound on, twisting into the unknown.