CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morgan's boots clicked rhythmically against the polished floors of the FBI headquarters, her mind as sharp and unyielding as the steel in her gaze. The day's grim discoveries clung to her like a second skin, an oppressive weight that demanded resolution. Beside her, Derik matched her pace, his presence a silent pillar of support she'd grown to reluctantly lean on.

"Cross, Greene," called out a voice, slicing through the ambient buzz of the busy corridor. It was Sanders, young but with eyes that had already seen too much. She stood at the entrance to the briefing room, a file clasped in her hands as if it held the key to Pandora's Box.

"We've got something big," Sanders said, urgency thrumming beneath her words. Morgan's heart kicked up a notch, adrenaline already coursing through her veins in anticipation.

They hurried into the cramped confines of the briefing room, an air of expectancy settling over the team gathered there. Monitors lined the walls, displaying maps and crime scene photos in a macabre tapestry of their current case.

Sanders didn't waste time on pleasantries, cutting straight to the chase as she brandished the file. "The letter sent to Derik—it's written on a type of stationery no longer in production."

Morgan arched an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Go on."

"Only one buyer stocked up before it was discontinued," Sanders continued, her finger tapping against a printed receipt within the file. "Dependence News, a small-time paper downtown. They bought enough to last a decade."

"Dependence News..." Morgan repeated, rolling the name around in her mind like a puzzle piece waiting to fit. It was a lead, a tangible thread in a case woven from shadows and whispers.

Morgan's eyes darted across the sea of faces on the screen as Agent Sanders handed over a freshly printed list. Fifteen names, fifteen possible keys to unlocking this twisted puzzle. "You've done good, Sanders," Morgan said with a curt nod, acknowledging the younger agent's diligence. "Do you have a list of the employees?"

"Thank you, Agent Cross," Sanders replied, her posture straightening under the praise. “And yes, I have the list.”

As Morgan scanned the list, one name snagged her attention like a fishhook—Henry Caldwell. Her gut tightened; instincts honed from years of chasing shadows whispered that this was more than coincidence. She tapped his name into the database, pulling up everything they had on him.

"Thirty-eight," Morgan murmured, reading the profile. "No priors." The screen displayed a man with an average build and forgettable features, someone who could vanish into a crowd without a second glance. But it wasn’t his clean record that intrigued her—it was the byline connected to articles about Gina Bellwood and Elaine Harrows. Two victims from their case, two lives snuffed out by a vendetta steeped in irony.

"Derik," she called over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Caldwell wrote about both Bellwood and Harrows."

"Connection or coincidence?" Derik asked, approaching with the lean grace of a predator, every step calculated.

"Let’s find out." Morgan clicked through Caldwell's public records, searching for anything out of place.

"Looks like your ordinary guy," Derik observed, peering over her shoulder. His presence was both comforting and disarming—a juxtaposition that often left Morgan grappling with her feelings towards him.

"Ordinary is exactly what he wants us to think," Morgan countered. She shut her laptop with a decisive snap. "But we're going to peel back those layers."

"Expose the truth," Derik finished her thought, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Exactly," Morgan affirmed, her voice steely with resolve. They stood side by side, united in purpose, ready to dive headfirst into the murky waters of human deceit.

Morgan’s fingers danced over the keyboard, the clicks punctuated by a ticking clock in the silent room. She navigated through Henry Caldwell's social media with the precision of a seasoned agent, her eyes scanning for any telltale signs that might connect him to their case. Posts railing against injustice and corruption filled his timeline, each one a testament to his obsession with exposing the flawed system.

"Look at this," Morgan murmured to Derik, pointing to a particularly fervent post where Caldwell decried a recent court decision. "He's got motive written all over him."

Derik leaned in, his curiosity piqued as he read over her shoulder. "That's almost verbatim to the phrasing in the letter."

"Exactly." Morgan's gut churned. The writing style, the thematic consistency—it was too close to be coincidence. Her fingers hovered over the mouse, hesitating just a moment before she clicked on the profile picture—a smiling man, unassuming. But Morgan knew better than to trust appearances.

"Children?" Derik asked, his voice low.

"None." Morgan's brows furrowed. "Which means our theory..."

"Could be off." Derik finished the thought, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"Or maybe it's a metaphorical child," Morgan pondered aloud, the wheels in her mind turning. "Something or someone he's lost that he equates to a child."

"Wouldn't be the first time we've seen something like that." Derik's voice held a note of weary experience.

"True." Morgan took a deep breath, steeling herself. The profile on her screen was no longer just a collection of digital information—it represented a potential key to unlocking the violence that had taken three lives.

"Let's go confront him," Morgan decided, her tone brooking no argument. "Time to see if Henry Caldwell is just a loudmouth with a keyboard or if there's blood on his hands."

"Lead the way," Derik said, standing up.

***

The glass doors of Dependence News whispered shut behind Morgan and Derik, sealing them inside the news hub's hive of activity. It was that liminal hour when daylight began to concede to night, and with it, the frenetic pace of the office tempered as employees prepared to escape into the evening.

"Can I help you?" A young man in a crisply tailored suit intercepted their path, his brown eyes flickering curiously over the badges they had pre-emptively displayed.

"Is Henry Caldwell here?" Morgan kept her voice level, her gaze piercing through the formality of the encounter to anchor itself on the intent behind the question.

"Uh, yes," the suited man hesitated, thrown by her directness. "He's still in his office."

"Thank you." She dismissed him with a curt nod, her strides long and purposeful as she led Derik through the maze of cubicles.

Caldwell's nameplate glinted dully beside an oak door partially ajar, spilling muted voices into the corridor. Without hesitation, she rapped sharply against the wood, pushing the door open wider. Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward them as they entered—a man and a woman seated across from Caldwell, who stood at the head of the table, papers in hand.

"Mr. Caldwell?" Morgan didn't wait for an invitation. "FBI. We need you to come with us."

His reaction was immediate, brows knitting together in a mix of confusion and irritation. "What is this about?"

"Questions we need answers to. Not here," she stated, eyes locked onto his.

"Look, I'm in the middle of something important," Caldwell protested, his voice edged with annoyance. "Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't," Morgan replied firmly, her posture leaving no room for debate. The atmosphere tensed, the air thickening with unspoken implications as Derik flanked her, his presence an unspoken backing to her authority.

Morgan watched as Henry Caldwell's face shifted from annoyance to anger. His hand tightened around the stack of papers, knuckles whitening. "I know my rights," he snapped, his voice rising. "You can't just barge in here and demand—"

"Mr. Caldwell," Derik interjected, his tone even but firm, "we're not here to trample on your rights. We need to talk, and frankly, it's not optional."

"Talk about what?" Caldwell demanded. His gaze darted between Morgan and Derik, a flicker of unease betraying his composed fa?ade. "And if you think I don’t see through this system —"

"Save it," Morgan cut in sharply. She had no patience for diatribes or conspiracy theories. The direct approach was better. "We can have a civil conversation at the office, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice."

"Hard way? Are you threatening me?" Caldwell’s eyes narrowed, a vein pulsing at his temple.

"Consider it a strong suggestion," Derik said, his voice laced with an undercurrent of something that wasn't quite a threat but held enough weight to make it clear they weren't asking for permission.

Caldwell threw a glance at the other meeting attendees, who sat silent, eyes wide. They were spectators to a standoff they didn’t sign up for. With a huff, Caldwell set the papers down, his chest heaving with restrained fury. "This is harassment. You’re persecuting a journalist for digging up the dirt you people want buried!"

"Then let’s clear your name," Morgan stated, locking her jaw. "Unless there's something you need to bury."

Caldwell's lips twisted into a sneer, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed. He dropped into his chair, the leather creaking under the sudden shift of weight. "Fine," he spat out the word like it left a sour taste. "Let’s go."

The walk back through the office was tense, the air practically vibrating with Caldwell’s indignation. Employees peeked over their cubicle walls, curiosity mingling with concern as the procession passed. The click of Morgan’s heels against the linoleum floor marked time like a metronome, steady and unyielding. Derik followed in step beside her, silent but watchful, his presence a reminder that they were a united front.

They reached the lobby, and Caldwell stopped short, turning to face them. “I’ll cooperate,” he said begrudgingly, "but remember, I have a platform. People will hear about this."

"Looking forward to reading all about it," Morgan replied coolly, holding open the door as she gestured for him to exit first. "After you, Mr. Caldwell."

As they stepped out into the waning light of day, Morgan felt the knot of tension in her stomach tighten. This was far from over, and every fiber in her being told her they were onto something big. But the road ahead was murky, fraught with unknowns. What secrets did Henry Caldwell hold? And would they be enough to catch a killer?