CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Morgan's knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel, each turn towards Gavin Merritt's house winding the tension tighter in her chest. The night was a blanket thrown over the world, smothering every hope of light. She could feel Derik's eyes on her, his presence a steady counterbalance to the storm brewing in her mind.

"Plan's simple," Morgan began, breaking the silence with her sharp, no-nonsense tone. "Get in, get answers, get out. We aim for peaceful, but stay ready for anything else."

"Peaceful," Derik echoed, his voice laced with skepticism. "With Gavin? The guy who thinks he's the avenging angel for his dead brother?"

"Hope is not a plan, but it's a start," Morgan shot back, her gaze never leaving the dark road ahead.

They drove on, the engine's hum and the soft whirl of tires against asphalt the only sounds piercing the quiet. It was the calm before the storm, a moment suspended in time where everything still seemed possible—even a resolution without bloodshed.

The car slid into silence again, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them like a heavy fog. Derik shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under him as if it too sensed the gravity of what was to come.

"Morgan," Derik's tone had changed—softer now, hesitant. "Before we do this... I need to know. There's something you're not telling me."

She kept her eyes on the road, focusing on the hypnotic yellow lines that seemed to stretch on forever. Her heart hammered in her chest, a silent admission of truth to his accusation.

"Derik, this isn't the time—"

"No," he interrupted, firm yet gentle. "Whatever it is, whatever you're carrying, you don't have to do it alone. We've been through hell and high water together. Remember?"

A ghost of a smile threatened to break through Morgan's stoic facade. Trust and betrayal, their dance as old as time itself, had woven a complex tapestry between them. He was right; they had seen darkness few others could comprehend. Morgan glanced at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Derik's profile bathed in the intermittent glow of streetlights. "Why bring this up now, Derik?" she asked, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of fatigue from the night's grim parade.

"Because," Derik said, turning to face her with eyes that held an earnestness she'd come to rely on, "if things go south with Gavin, I need you to know you're not alone in this."

"Things have gone south before," Morgan countered, her words clipped like the rounds she’d chambered countless times. "We handled it then. We'll handle it now."

Derik merely nodded, the weight of their shared history pressing down on the silence between them.

As they approached Gavin Merritt’s house, Morgan's keen eyes scanned the surroundings. The building loomed ahead, its dark silhouette a stark contrast against the moonlit sky—ominous and foreboding. It was a husk of memories, the overgrown lawn whispering tales of neglect and a past that had been allowed to wither.

She parked the car a few houses down, the engine's cessation marking the transition from planning to action. She surveyed the dilapidated facade. Morgan felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the kind that sharpened her senses and honed her focus; this was where it would end, one way or another.

The darkness seemed to seep from the windows, voids that promised no welcome. The house, once a symbol of suburban normalcy, now stood as a testament to the decay wrought by tragedy. Gavin had grown up here, played in that yard, unknowing of the future that would claw away his innocence and replace it with rage.

Morgan led Derik across the unkempt lawn, the night air thick with tension. They reached the porch where shadows played tricks on their eyes, and Morgan's hand hovered over her holster, ready for any eventuality. She banged on the door and shouted, “FBI.”

At first, there was only silence. The sound of the wind. Morgan was sure no one would answer, that he was hiding in there like a coward.

But then, the door creaked open, revealing Gavin Merritt. His attempt at casualness was betrayed by the tightness around his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. "Oh, hello," he said, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of anxiety. "What brings you here so late?"

"May we come in?" Morgan asked, her tone measured but assertive.

"Of course," Gavin acquiesced, stepping aside to grant them entry.

The interior of the house felt like a mausoleum, cold and still. The walls were lined with frames, each capturing moments frozen in time—smiling parents, a younger Gavin, and a child with bright eyes, all gone now except for the man who stood before them. The silence hung heavy, filled with the unspoken grief of a family annihilated.

"Nice pictures," Derik commented, though his eyes remained vigilant.

"Thank you," Gavin replied, though his gaze didn't linger on the memories encased in glass.

Morgan cut to the chase. "We need to talk about Lara Quentin," she stated, watching Gavin's face for any flicker of reaction.

His expression tensed subtly, then smoothed into a mask of detachment. "I heard about the accident, a colleague called me. Terrible thing to happen to someone so young… and she was my friend, too. I don’t know how I’ll go on without her, you know?”

"Except Lara isn't dead," Morgan countered sharply, her eyes never leaving his face.

Gavin's facade faltered for a moment before he regained control. "Isn't she? My mistake." His voice was flat, too controlled.

"Curious mistake to make," Morgan pressed, stepping closer. "Why would you think she was dead?"

Gavin's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the first real sign of the fear gnawing at him from within. "Just rumors, I guess. You know how people talk," he deflected, but his body language screamed otherwise.

Morgan's instincts hummed with alertness, her every sense tuned to the man before her. She'd witnessed enough liars to recognize one standing right in front of her.

"Rumors, huh?" Derik chimed in, his tone skeptical. "Seems like more than just rumors are floating around these days."

Gavin's calm veneer shattered like thin ice under the weight of Morgan's stare. Panic flickered in his eyes, a wild animal caught in a trap, as realization dawned on him. The atmosphere, already tense, became electrified with the charge of imminent danger. Gavin's fear metastasized into desperate aggression, his body coiling like a spring.

"Rumors die hard, don't they, Gavin?" Morgan said, her voice steady but her muscles tight, ready for anything.

He didn't answer; instead, his gaze flicked to a side table, to a ceramic vase atop it. In an instant, his hand shot out, seizing the vase and hurling it towards Morgan's head with unexpected force. She ducked, the vase shattering against the wall where her head had been seconds before.

"Derik!" she shouted, even as Gavin bolted, his footsteps pounding against the worn carpet.

The chase was on, chaotic and violent as Gavin threw obstacles in their path—overturning furniture, ripping down curtains. Morgan and Derik pursued, adrenaline fueling their steps as they navigated the narrow hallways of the dilapidated house. Picture frames crashed to the ground from the walls, the smiling faces of a family long gone splintering beneath their feet.

"Left!" Derik called out as Gavin disappeared around a corner, his breaths coming in harsh pants. Morgan followed, her dark hair whipping behind her as she moved with the practiced ease of someone who knows their body is a weapon.

They plunged through cluttered rooms, dodging decayed toys and stacks of newspapers that spoke of a life stuck in the past. Dust motes danced in the beams of their flashlights, creating a surreal backdrop to the violence unfolding.

"Split up," Morgan commanded as they entered a wider space, a living room that smelled of mildew and regret. She veered right, Derik left, both seeking to cut off Gavin's escape routes.

Through a kitchen littered with dirty dishes and expired dreams, Morgan advanced. A knife clattered to the floor as Gavin swept an arm across a countertop, buying himself precious seconds. Morgan didn't flinch, her focus razor-sharp as she cleared the distance between them.

"Stop, Gavin! It's over!" Her voice was authoritative, commanding, but the young journalist was beyond reason, propelled by a grief-twisted logic only he understood.

A fist collided with Derik's jaw in the semi-darkness, a crunch of bone and sinew that echoed through the narrow corridor. Morgan's head whipped around just in time to see her partner's tall frame crumple to the ground, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

"Derik!" she cried out, her voice a mix of anger and concern. She dropped beside him, her trained fingers quickly checking for a pulse. It was strong, steady—thank God—but there was no time to spare.

"Agent down!" Morgan barked into her radio, the device crackling with her urgency. "I need backup at 5472 Willow Lane. Suspect is on foot, inside the house. Surround the premises!"

With one last glance at Derik's still form, she forced herself up and dashed in the direction Gavin had fled—up the stairs. Adrenaline surged through her veins, sharpening her senses, focusing her mind with the clarity of a predator closing in on its prey.

The chase led her to a door slightly ajar, light spilling onto the hallway's carpet. Morgan nudged it open with the barrel of her gun, peering into a room frozen in another era. Toys lay scattered across the floor, a model airplane hung from the ceiling, and posters of long-forgotten cartoons adorned the walls. This was Frankie's sanctuary, untouched by time or grief.

"Gavin! Come out," Morgan commanded, her tone even but authoritative.

Her eyes darted across the room, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of where he might be hiding. But silence greeted her, the heavy kind that pressed down on the chest and filled the air with unspoken dread.

"Think about what you're doing," she continued, taking measured steps into the room, her weapon leading the way. "This isn't what Frankie would've wanted."

No response came, only the quiet mocking her. The atmosphere felt charged, every corner of the childhood haven now a potential cover for a desperate man with nothing left to lose. Morgan knew the stakes; she had been at this deadly game long enough to understand its cruel twists.

She moved further in, her senses on high alert, knowing full well that Gavin could emerge at any moment, ready to fight with the ferocity of a cornered animal. Each step was calculated, each breath controlled—the hunter's dance performed with lethal grace.

"Come out, Gavin," Morgan repeated, this time her voice softer—a plea wrapped in the guise of an order. "Let's end this without any more bloodshed."

Still, the room remained silent, save for the distant sound of sirens growing ever closer. Backup was on its way, but in this moment, it was just Morgan and the ghost of the boy who once played here, the innocence lost forever in the shadow of tragedy.

Morgan scanned the room, her eyes halting on a ripped teddy bear lying under a dusty dresser. The gash across its stomach spilled synthetic fluff onto the wooden floor—a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. She felt the weight of every child's smile that room once hosted, now tainted by the horrors of adulthood.

"Frankie deserved better than this," she said, her voice tinged with empathy and steel as she took another cautious step forward. "You think you're avenging him, Gavin, but revenge is a dark path that only leads to more pain."

Her words seemed to dissolve into the silence that cloaked the room, heavy with the ghosts of innocence lost. Somewhere in the shadows, she knew Gavin was listening, his breaths likely shallow with anxiety and fear.

"Your brother's memory doesn't have to be stained with blood," Morgan continued, her gaze never leaving the corners where darkness lingered. "It's not too late to stop this."

As if summoned by her call to conscience, Gavin erupted from the shadows behind the closet door, his face twisted with desperation and anger. With a guttural cry, he lunged at Morgan, his hands aiming for her throat. Instinctively, she sidestepped, barely avoiding his grasp as adrenaline surged through her veins.

"Damn you, Gavin!" Morgan grunted, as they crashed into a small table, sending childhood trophies clattering to the ground.

Gavin's rage was palpable, his fists swinging wildly, each blow carrying the weight of his anguish. Morgan deflected his attacks with precision, her training taking over, but she could feel the raw emotional energy fueling his assault.

"Stop!" she yelled, dodging a particularly vicious strike. "I understand your pain, but this isn't justice!"

Their struggle was a dance of survival, desperation meeting determination, each move a test of wills. Gavin's eyes burned with undiluted fear, a mirror to the terror his brother must have felt in his final moments. Morgan knew she couldn't let that fear overpower her own resolve; she had to end this before it ended her.

Morgan's fist connected with Gavin's jaw, a satisfying crack splitting the air as he staggered backward. She didn't bask in the moment; there was no time. His back hit the wall with a thud, the impact rattling the framed pictures of a happier past that hung crookedly there. He lunged forward again, but Morgan was ready—years of training and nights filled with the echoes of her prison cell had honed her reflexes to a razor's edge.

"Enough, Gavin," she breathed, ducking beneath his wild swing and driving her elbow into his midsection. The blow forced the air from his lungs, and for a moment, his eyes widened with shock rather than fury. It was all Morgan needed. With a swift move, she swept his legs out from under him, his body thudding against the carpet.

Gavin tried to rise, but Morgan was already upon him, pinning him with her knee pressed against his back, her hands wrenching his arms behind him. Her breath came in ragged gasps, yet her grip was unyielding. "It's over," she declared, the weight of her authority as heavy as the handcuffs she clicked onto his wrists one by one.

Secured, Gavin ceased struggling, his chest heaving against the floor. Morgan stood slowly, her muscles protesting after the fierce battle. The room was silent except for their labored breathing—a stark contrast to the chaos that had reigned just moments before. She stepped back, surveying the man who lay defeated before her. This was the endgame, her chase culminating in this final, bitter victory.

Her eyes flitted around the room, resting on the torn teddy bear, its stuffing spilling out like the innocence lost in this twisted vendetta. Morgan's heart clenched; she could almost hear the echo of children's laughter that once filled this space, now replaced by the ghosts of vengeance.

"Frankie deserved better than this," she whispered, not sure if she was speaking to Gavin or reminding herself of the stakes that had driven them both to this point. "You both did."

“You know nothing,” Gavin said. “Frankie was my brother. My responsibility. And they took him from me!”

His voice echoed through the room, filling it with the raw pain of his loss. But beneath the anguish and grief, there was a hint of something else—regret, perhaps, or guilt.

“The system failed him… it needs to be rewritten. Those people I killed—they were all corrupt.”

"They might have been," Morgan conceded, a bitter edge to her words. "But you're no better than them. You’re much worse, Gavin. You don’t get to decide who lives or dies.”

"Those weren't innocents!" Gavin spat back, a snarl contorting his youthful face. "They were part of a system that destroyed us!"

Morgan sighed heavily, shaking her head. "Being part of a flawed system doesn't make one

evil, Gavin. What about those they left behind? Their families, their children? Just like Frankie, they're victims too." Her voice was steady and clear despite her fatigue. "You had a chance to expose the corruption. Instead, you became part of it."

Gavin craned his neck to look at Morgan, his eyes now devoid of the fiery rage that fuelled him before. The silence between them throbbed with unspoken words. "I did what I had to," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"No," Morgan said, meeting his gaze with an unwavering stare. "You did what you wanted. And now you’re going to jail.”

She turned away from the shattered remnants of a childhood long gone, signaling the officers who rushed in at her call. As they took Gavin into custody, Morgan lingered for a moment longer, the image of the ripped teddy bear imprinting itself in her memory.