CHAPTER ONE

Morgan's grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, each turn through Dallas's night-cloaked streets a sharp jab in the direction of her reckoning. Streetlights streaked overhead, fleeting guardians in the darkness that swathed the city. The engine's steady hum was a mantra, urging her forward to meet Thomas—an adversary turned dubious ally.

She hadn't whispered a word to Derik about this clandestine journey. Guilt gnawed at her as she envisioned him still tangled in the bed sheets, blissfully oblivious to her departure. They had crossed a threshold last night, one she'd fortified against him for so long. But as his breathing steadied in sleep, the insistent buzz of her phone severed the brief spell of intimacy. Thomas's voice on the line, urgent yet cryptic, had propelled her into the night.

Morgan could still feel Derik's touch lingering on her skin, a reminder of what she'd left behind. Their shared warmth contrasted with the chill that now seeped through her car's vents. This quest, though—this unearthing of truth—was a path Morgan knew she must tread alone. Each mile brought her closer to answers that had eluded her for over a decade.

The men who framed her for murder had remained in the shadows, their identities shrouded in enigma. Their motives, however, were crystallizing with every piece of the puzzle she painstakingly assembled. It all circled back to her father, Christopher Cross—or John Christopher, as she had come to know his true identity. The former FBI agent, her father, had harbored secrets dense enough to suffocate the carefree image she held of him.

Her hands tightened further as she replayed memories of her father—their hikes in the woods, his laughter echoing around the cabin they called home. Had his eyes ever betrayed the weight of his past? Or had she been too enamored with the facade to notice? The revelation of his double life had shaken the foundations of her world, leaving her to question the man she thought she knew.

Morgan's dark hair whipped around her face as she rolled down her window, inviting the cool air to clear her mind. She needed to focus, to prepare for whatever game Thomas was playing. The road stretched out before her like a dark serpent, coiling through the city's underbelly. She drove with the determined precision of a woman on the edge of unraveling a decade-long lie. The dashboard clock's neon glow marked each minute with an eerie insistence, syncing with the palpitations that drummed against her chest. She was close now, so tantalizingly close to the answers that had evaded her for ten torturous years.

Morgan's thoughts were a maelstrom, each one colliding with the next as she grappled with the knowledge of her father's tragic mistake—the death of Mary Price at his hands. An accident that spiraled into an unfathomable cover-up. Thomas's mother. The thought festered in her mind like a wound refusing to heal. It explained the vitriol behind Thomas's eyes—hatred born of grief. Yet, it wasn't just her father who had buried the truth; other men lurked in the shadows of that secret, their identities elusive, their hands just as bloodstained.

She could almost hear her father's voice, feel his presence beside her, urging her to dig deeper, to expose the rot beneath the surface. But would understanding his sins change anything? Would it absolve her of the years stolen from her life? No, but it might offer a semblance of peace—a chance to reclaim the remnants of her fractured existence.

As the industrial skeletons of the warehouse district loomed closer, Morgan's focus narrowed. She parked near the water's edge, the last stop before the precipice of truth. The night air was tangy with the scent of brine and metal. The undulating waves whispered secrets in a sibilant hush, but none as damning as what awaited her within the cold embrace of the warehouse.

Are you walking into another trap, Morgan? she asked herself, her voice barely audible above the lapping water. But the question hung unanswered in the void. With nothing left to lose, fear had become a luxury she couldn't afford. Her hand found the door handle, and with a resolute push, she stepped out into the night. The chill of the breeze embraced her, but it was the chill of anticipation that caused her skin to prickle with goosebumps.

She didn't allow herself the comfort of hesitation, knowing full well that hesitation was a luxury reserved for those who had something to spare. Morgan had been robbed of everything except her resolve. And so she moved towards the looming warehouse, its gaping entrance a maw ready to swallow her whole—or perhaps, to finally spit out the truth.

Morgan's boots echoed off the concrete floor, each step a drumbeat in the cavernous space. Shadows played tricks on her eyes, but she was no stranger to darkness—both literal and metaphorical. Her hand rested on the butt of her gun, a weighty promise against her hip.

A rustle. A shift in the shadows ahead. Morgan's instincts flared, and in an instant, the gun was in her hand, pointed at the emerging figure. Thomas stepped out from his hiding place, hands raised in mock surrender.

"Easy there, tiger," he drawled, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement. "We're friends now, remember?"

"Friends don't kidnap each other's dogs," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The sight of him—a ghost from both past and present—set her teeth on edge.

"Ah, but they do share secrets," Thomas countered, his eyes glinting with that same perverse delight she had come to abhor. He took a step closer, and Morgan tightened her grip on the weapon.

"Stop right there," she commanded. Her heart thumped in her chest, a war drum signaling battle.

Thomas halted, smiling as though they were merely old colleagues catching up after work. "Come on, Agent Cross. You didn't come all this way to shoot me. Not when I have what you want."

He was right, damn him. Morgan hesitated for a millisecond before she slowly lowered her gun, her distrust a palpable entity between them. "Talk," she said tersely. "I'm done with your games, Thomas."

"Games?" His eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. "No more games, Morgan. I promise."

The promise hung in the air, fragile as a spider's web. She wanted to believe him, to grasp at the slender thread of hope that he might lead her to the answers she craved. But trust was a commodity she'd learned to ration.

"Then start talking." Her hand stayed close to her sidearm, ready to draw again at the slightest provocation. "Who framed me? And why?"

Thomas's expression softened, the manic energy that usually surrounded him dissipating as he realized the gravity of the moment. "It's time you knew everything," he said, and for once, Morgan thought she saw something akin to sincerity in his gaze.

“A name, Thomas. Give me a name.”

"Richard Cordell," he said, his tone a mixture of reverence and disdain.

The name hammered in Morgan's mind, a distant bell tolling in a fog-shrouded memory. Richard Cordell. She knew of him—an untouchable echelon within the Bureau, a name whispered with both respect and fear. Retired or not, Cordell was FBI royalty, a king in a kingdom of shadows and lies.

“He’s retired,” Morgan said. “He must be in his seventies by now.”

"Retirement is just a curtain," Thomas continued, stepping closer, his voice a serrated edge cutting through the silence. "Cordell still has his hands on the strings. He's the puppeteer, Morgan. And your life? It's been one of his performances."

She felt the sting of betrayal anew, the wound of injustice burning hotter than ever. To be framed, to lose ten years behind bars—it was all a play orchestrated by someone she might have saluted in another life, under different stars.

"Your father," Thomas said, the words hanging heavy in the air, "was merely an actor on Cordell's stage when he shot Mary Price. And they've been scrambling ever since to keep the final act from unraveling because she was pregnant. That... adds another layer to the tragedy, doesn't it?"

Morgan's stomach churned. Pregnant. An innocent life extinguished before it had even begun, a casualty in a game of power and control. She gripped the edge of a rusted metal shelf to steady herself. Her father, John Christopher—or rather, Christopher Cross—had kept his sins buried deep beneath his love for the wild and simple cabin life. But those sins had roots entangled with men like Cordell.

"Does he know you're telling me this?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tempest inside her.

Thomas shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Let's just say I'm not following the script anymore."

She studied him, the man who'd once held her dog, Skunk, hostage, the man who'd haunted her footsteps and now presented himself as an ally. Could she believe a word that slithered from his mouth? But what choice did she have? She needed the truth.

"Where does this leave us?" Morgan demanded, every muscle taut, ready for whatever came next.

Thomas's eyes flickered with something that might have been admiration or perhaps anticipation. "We're at the crossroads, Agent Cross," he said. "It's time to decide how far you're willing to go to set the record straight."

The revelation left Morgan reeling, the stale air of the warehouse suddenly constricting around her. "How do you know it's Cordell?" she asked, her words slicing through the tension.

Thomas shifted, his gaze flickering in the dim light. "I was working under Cordell's associates," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper against the vast emptiness. "They tasked me to watch you, to... handle you if necessary."

"Handle me?" Morgan's hand tightened on her gun, though she kept it pointed at the ground. Thomas was a specter of treachery, his motivations as elusive as shadows.

He nodded, solemnity etched into his features. "I never knew why they wanted you gone. I just followed orders until—" He paused, swallowing hard. "Until I learned about my mother."

"And that changed everything?" Morgan's skepticism bled into her tone. She knew the weight of familial ties all too well—their power to bind or unravel a soul.

"It did." His eyes were unwavering. "They don’t know I've gone rogue."

Morgan processed his words with caution. Thomas had betrayed her once; his sudden turn of heart could easily be another ruse. But the enemy of her enemy could also be her key to unlocking a decade of lies.

"Rogue," she echoed, her mind racing.

He stepped closer, and Morgan instinctively tensed, but he halted, maintaining a respectful distance. His gaze softened, and something akin to warmth flickered there—a stark contrast to the cold steel of the warehouse.

"I want you to know," he said quietly, "I really would have loved to take you on a real date."

The confession struck Morgan like an unexpected blow, vile and out of place. Disgust churned within her, a storm cloud threatening to burst. She bit back a scathing retort, knowing that any emotional slip could give him the upper hand.

"Is that supposed to make me trust you?" she asked, coolly masking her revulsion.

Thomas's expression faltered, the sincerity in his eyes now tinged with regret—or perhaps another layer of his deceit. "No," he said softly. "But it’s the truth."

Morgan held his gaze, searching for any sign of duplicity. It was possible that even in his twisted way, Thomas had felt something genuine. But now was not the time for vulnerable hearts; it was the time for hard truths.

"Your truth doesn't change our situation," she stated flatly.

"Perhaps not," Thomas conceded, "but it's all I have to offer."

Morgan's resolve hardened like the concrete beneath her feet. She had been betrayed by those closest to her before, and she wouldn't allow history to repeat itself. Not with so much at stake.

"Save your affections, Grady," she said with icy detachment. "I'm here for answers, not romance. What's our next move?”

Thomas contemplated her question with an intensity that seemed to draw the darkness closer around him. "We'll have to play this strategically," he murmured. "Cordell... he's not just a name you can strike off a list. He's a fortress."

Morgan's gaze narrowed, her mind racing. She knew all about fortresses—she'd been locked within the stone-cold walls of one for ten years, after all. "And?"

He stepped forward, his figure momentarily illuminated by the faint glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through a grimy window. "For now, dig into Cordell. Find out everything. We reconvene when you do. Planning takes precision." His voice, though low, carried the weight of urgency.

"Precision," Morgan echoed, a bitter edge to the word. Precision had been her life’s mantra—the kind that had kept her alive in prison, that had fine-tuned her instincts to razor-sharp acuity. Yet now, it felt like a cruel joke when pitted against the nebulous specter of conspiracy.

"Taking down someone like Cordell..." Thomas trailed off, as if the gravity of their undertaking suddenly loomed over him. "It won't be easy. It’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done."

Morgan's lips pressed into a thin line. The hardest thing? No, nothing could compare to the cold steel of handcuffs and the slam of a cell door, marking the end of her freedom and the beginning of her nightmare. She’d spent ten years in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, framed by the very institution she’d dedicated her life to. She’d gone behind bars at thirty, emerged at forty, having lost ten crucial years of her life.

Nothing could be harder than that.

She could handle anything now.

"Understood," she said tersely. "Anything else, or can I get started on unraveling this mess?"

"That's all I have—for now." There was a hint of something unspoken lingering in his tone, a note of finality that told her the conversation was over. “I’ll be doing my part to find out more information, but you need to do yours too. I’m not in your branch anymore. But you can find out who else in your department might be working with Cordell.”

With a fluid motion that betrayed no hesitation, Thomas turned and strode toward the engulfing blackness at the back of the warehouse. Morgan watched him go, each step he took echoing like a countdown. Then, with the softest whisper of fabric against concrete, he vanished from sight, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She stood still for a long moment, her hand hovering near her holstered gun, the familiar weight of it both a comfort and a reminder of the line she could never cross again. In the solitude of the warehouse, surrounded by the ghosts of conversations past and the weight of revelations yet to come, Morgan allowed herself a moment to gripe, to feel the full force of frustration and anger at the decade stolen from her.

But moments were all she could spare. With a deep breath, she steeled herself, her resolve crystallizing into focus.

Richard Cordell was now more than a name—he was a target.

The Dallas skyline loomed in the rear-view mirror, a jagged silhouette against the night sky. Morgan gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The meeting with Thomas had left her with a cocktail of emotions—anger, betrayal, and a glimmer of hope. Richard Cordell's name echoed in her mind like a siren's wail. Trusting Thomas felt like playing Russian roulette with a semi-automatic, yet he dangled the key to her vindication just out of reach.

A flash of blue and red lights snapped her from her reverie. A cavalcade of police cars tore past her, sirens blaring. Their urgency was a magnet, pulling at instincts honed over years of FBI service. She followed, her dark sedan a silent shadow amidst the chaos.

They headed toward a suburb not unlike her own—a place where lawns were manicured and secrets grew behind closed doors. Morgan's instincts sharpened as she tailed the flashing lights. The road blurred past, her mind sifting through possible scenarios. She wasn't on duty, but the FBI agent within couldn't ignore the pulse of urgency—the call of the chase that set her nerves alight.

Turning a corner, the stark scene unfolded before her. A female body lay sprawled on the sidewalk, illuminated by the harsh glow of streetlights. Morgan's gaze locked onto the rope circling the woman's neck, a cruel imitation of a necklace. Her throat tightened; this was more than a mere tragedy—it was a message.

Without hesitation, Morgan parked her car. The engine's hum faded into the night's chorus of distant sirens and murmured commands. She approached the barrier of uniformed officers, the air thick with the scent of asphalt and unease.

Morgan's eyes met the man in charge—a stocky figure whose posture commanded the scene. She strode forward, her boots steady on the pavement.

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," she announced, voice firm, badge held out to catch the flashing lights.

"Officer Smith," he replied curtly, scanning her credentials. "This is a local matter."

"Understood," Morgan nodded. "Just passing through. Noticed the commotion."

Smith's stance softened slightly. He glanced back at the grim display—a lifeless form sprawled on the sidewalk, the cruel arc of a rope around her neck.

"Victim's name's still unknown. No ID on her." Officer Smith's tone carried the weight of routine sorrow. "Doesn't look like suicide. Strangulation marks suggest murder."

"Murder..." The word hung between them, a thread of shared understanding in the grim tapestry of their professions.

"Any leads?" Morgan asked, her gaze flicking back to the body. The scene bore a familiar chill, echoing her past. It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and lingered long after you left.

Smith shook his head. "Nothing so far. Seems she was dumped here, or possibly killed right here. Nobody saw anything."

Morgan nodded, a strange unease prickling the back of her neck. Striding past Smith, she approached the victim's body as an officer lifted a photography lamp. The harsh light revealed the woman's face under the twisted play of shadows.

“Agent Cross,” Smith interrupted, “I can tell you’re eager to help, but we can handle it from here. Please, I can’t have anyone tampering with our crime scene.”

"I'm not here to tamper, Officer Smith," Morgan replied, keeping her gaze steady on the body. "Just paying my respects."

Smith followed her gaze, his eyes lingering on the victim. He gave a slight nod, understanding but hesitant. He didn't completely trust her, and she couldn't blame him. After all, they were products of the same system—a system that had left her framed for murder.

"Alright," he finally said. "Be respectful."

Morgan's boots crunched against gravel as she walked towards the corpse, an ominous figure in the harsh lighting. As she moved into the floodlights' glow, the typically invisible tattoos inked across her arms emerged—a testament to her hardened past. Her heart ached at the sight before her—an echo of a life cut short, just like Mary Price.

Kneeling beside the body, she examined the woman's face. Her eyes were still open—wide with fear and shock. Who had she been? Why use a noose as a murder weapon in the middle of a public street? So many questions swam through Morgan’s mind, but she knew this wasn’t her place. She stood up and faced Officer Smith.

“I’m sure you can take it from here,” she said. “Thank you, Officer Smith.”

“If we need the Bureau's resources, you'll be the first to know."

She could hear the unspoken dismissal in his voice, the subtle hint to back off. Morgan recognized when doors were being closed in her face. This was one such time. Despite the itch in her mind, she knew pushing further would only tighten Smith's resolve to keep her at bay.

"Alright," she conceded, masking her frustration. The night air felt cooler as she turned, her boots clicking on the pavement. Each step away from the scene hollowed her out a little more.

Back inside her car, Morgan's hands hovered over the ignition. She should drive home, file away the image of the lifeless woman, and wait for daylight to chase away the shadows. Yet the thought left her feeling stranded, like a ship adrift without a compass. With a sigh, she started the engine, the hum of machinery offering no comfort.

The roads were nearly deserted as she drove, the city's heartbeat muted by the lateness of the hour. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long and distorted shadows like dark omens. The further she drove, the more her surroundings blurred into a monochrome landscape, indistinct yet oppressively real.

There was a connection here; she could feel it in her bones. But without proof, without jurisdiction, she was powerless to act. For now.

***

Morgan's eyes fluttered open to the warmth of her bedroom, a stark contrast to the chill of secrets and death that had engulfed her just hours ago. The savory scent of frying bacon lured her from beneath the blankets, coaxing her into the reality of a new day. As she sat up, the mattress beside her was cold, empty, Skunk’s usual spot by her feet vacant.

Dragging herself out of bed, she padded softly down the hallway, following her nose. In the kitchen, Derik stood at the stove, spatula in hand, deftly flipping bacon slices with an easy grace. Skunk sat dutifully nearby, his warm brown eyes tracking each movement, hopeful for a morsel to drop.

"Morning," Derik said without turning, his voice carrying the melody of routine domesticity.

"Hey," Morgan replied, her tone flat, betraying none of the turmoil that stirred within her. She pulled a chair from the table, the scrape of wood against tile breaking the morning's silence.

It could be any ordinary day, but the shadows of last night lingered, clinging to her like cobwebs. Derik continued cooking, unaware of her midnight excursion, and she decided to keep it that way—at least for now. While he focused on breakfast, Morgan opened her laptop, logging in with swift, practiced keystrokes.

The police report loaded on screen, stark and official. Information about last night’s crime scene. Gina Bellwood, 29, defense attorney—her life reduced to sterile facts and figures. Morgan's gaze fixed on the photo attached to the file: blonde hair, petite frame, eyes that once held ambition now staring emptily back at her from a world beyond.

Derik's shadow fell across the kitchen tiles, elongating as he approached Morgan from behind. She didn't need to look up to know it was him; the gentle clink of a fork against a plate announced his presence just as much as the warmth radiating from his figure.

"Everything okay?" Derik's voice held a note of concern that Morgan felt piercing through the thick air of tension surrounding her. She was keeping a huge secret from him by not telling him about her meeting with Thomas, but she just couldn’t involve him anymore. Derik had already been swept into this before, and it had endangered him and his estranged son, who had to flee the country with his ex-wife to escape the men who’d framed Morgan. Derik was a weakness, and he’d be much safer left in the dark.

"Fine," she muttered, but the tightness in her voice betrayed her. She could feel his eyes on the laptop screen, on the official report and the face of Gina Bellwood staring back at them. "Just saw something last night...drove past an active crime scene.”

He leaned in closer, the smell of cooked bacon mingling with his aftershave. "A midnight drive? And you happened upon a crime scene?" There was a beat before he added, "Why didn't you wake me?"

Morgan shrugged, a defensive gesture she couldn't suppress. "Sometimes I just need to clear my head." It was true, yet not the whole truth, and she hated the necessity of these half-confessions.

"Okay." Derik let out a soft exhale, stepping away to place a plate brimming with bacon and eggs on the table before her. The mundane act seemed so disjointed from the gravity of last night's darkness.

"Thanks," Morgan said, though her appetite had evaporated. She forced herself to pick up the fork, to slice through the sunny-side-up egg and watch the yolk bleed over the plate—a vivid reminder of death under moonlight.

As she chewed mechanically, Morgan's mind wandered back to Gina Bellwood, laid out on the sidewalk, an image superimposed over countless case files she'd studied. There was a sense of déjà vu that she couldn't shake off, a link between this murder and a past case—or perhaps something more personal.

“So what’s the deal with this crime?” Derik asked, sitting beside her at the table with his own plate of food.

“Well, I couldn’t get much information at the scene,” Morgan explained. “It was fresh. Looks like someone strangled a woman with a rope, tied like a noose.”

Derik's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes filled with questions. "Damn. That’s… intense.”

“I know.” Morgan sighed. “And here’s the report. Her name was Gina Bellwood, a defense attorney. There’s something familiar about it…”

Morgan trailed off. She pushed her food aside and opened her laptop. In the police reports, she looked up “defense attorney” and “homicide.”

Right below Gina’s report, there was another report from a little over a week ago.

With her heart in her throat, and Derik watching over her shoulder, Morgan opened it and read the details of the case. Elaine Harrows, thirty-five, another defense attorney. Only, she wasn’t strangled—the cause of death was ruled to be blunt-force trauma, and the investigation was open.

“Two female defense attorneys killed barely within a week,” Morgan muttered.

“But the MOs are different,” Derik pointed out.

“Yes, they are…”

Morgan dug deeper into the report the police had available for Elaine. She had recently acquitted a man named Harold Jones, who had been accused of murder—however, the evidence against him was circumstantial. Morgan read further on the crimes accused of Jones, and apparently, he had been accused of murdering someone by bashing a rock over the back of their head. Blunt-force trauma. The same way Elaine was killed.

Morgan blinked, her gaze shifting over to Derik. "It’s the same. Elaine's murder and the man she managed to get acquitted, it’s the same method—blunt-force trauma.”

Derik's eyebrows furrowed, confusion playing across his face. "So, are you saying Jones killed her? Or someone tried to frame him?"

"I’m not sure yet," Morgan admitted, still sifting through the information available. “Looks like the cops cleared Jones. He had a rock-solid alibi, so it wasn’t him.”

“Hm,” Derik said. “Well, it’s out of our hands, Morgan. These cases belong to the police.”

“I know, but something’s not sitting right.”

She keyed in Gina Bellwood's name and read through her latest cases. There was a controversial one: Gina had a defendant, Christopher Gilmore, accused of domestic abuse against a minor—his own child. Gina had gotten Gilmore out of it.

Morgan’s blood froze over.

Gilmore hadn’t just been accused of domestic abuse—he’d been accused of threatening to strangle his child with a noose.

The pieces clicked together in her mind, the same way one fits the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle with a satisfied sigh. Except there was no satisfaction here, only dread pooling in her gut like acid. The room seemed suddenly colder, the reality of it all descending upon her with an icy blow.

"Gilmore, Christopher," Morgan murmured under her breath. She turned the laptop screen towards Derik, showing him the case file she'd been reading. "Gina Bellwood's defendant. Accused of domestic violence and threatening his child with a noose."

"What?" Derik's brows furrowed again as he leaned closer to read the report.

“Just like how Elaine Harrows was killed in a similar method one of her defendants was accused of.”

“So you think that connects them?” Derik asked, skepticism in his voice.

Morgan nodded, her eyes blazing on Derik’s. “We should bring this to Mueller.”