CHAPTER FOUR

Derik’s black sedan pulled up to the curb, the engine purring gently before he cut it off. The vehicle coasted to a stop in front of a small suburban house, its white picket fence and meticulously trimmed hedges exuding a sense of normalcy that Derik knew was only surface deep. According to their research, this was where Debby Keen lived alone, her husband Daniel recently ejected from the picture.

He surveyed the well-maintained exterior, eyes lingering on a collection of garden gnomes that stood guard among colorful flower beds. They were whimsical, out of place with the gravity of his visit. It was a stark reminder that behind every front door, there could be stories untold, lives unraveling silently.

As he sat behind the wheel, Derik's thoughts drifted to Morgan. She had taken a different path this morning—straight towards confrontation with Daniel Keen. Alone. A knot tightened in his gut. What if Keen was their guy? What if she gets hurt? The scenarios played out in his mind like a series of grotesque still frames.

"Trust her," he muttered under his breath. It was their creed, the foundation on which they built not just their partnership but something more. Trust wasn't just given; it was chosen—again and again.

Derik's fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the rearview mirror where the road behind him stretched empty. It echoed the hollow feeling in his gut—something wasn't adding up. Morgan had always been an enigma, but her actions last night were out of character, even for her. A midnight drive alone? Stumbling upon a crime scene like some rookie beat cop?

His instincts buzzed with suspicion. He knew better than to ignore that nagging voice in the back of his head—the one that usually led to breakthroughs or, at the very least, kept him alive.

He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. Morgan was more than capable, yet the thought of her confronting Daniel Keen solo, the man potentially at the center of their investigation, sent a shiver down his spine. Keen had motive, opportunity, and now, thanks to a slip of paper detailing a purchase of rope, a tangible link to the killings.

With a deep breath, Derik pushed open the door, his feet hitting the pavement with determined thuds. The suburban air filled his lungs, crisp and clean, yet it did nothing to clear the fog of doubt clouding his judgment. He shook off the unease clinging to him like a second skin and started toward Debby Keen's front door.

Answers, he promised himself. That's what he needed—that's what he would get. Each step was a silent pact between him and the unknown; each stride a commitment to the truth, whatever form it might take. With every move, he left behind a trail of trust for Morgan, like breadcrumbs leading back to the faith they had in each other.

Derik raised his hand and rapped on the door, his knuckles sharp against the wood. It swung open swiftly, revealing Debby Keen. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face free of the strain that often marked those entangled in marital discord. She wore a simple T-shirt and jeans, an armor of normalcy amidst the chaos of her crumbling marriage.

"Mrs. Keen? I'm Agent Derik Greene with the FBI." His voice held the practiced calm of countless interviews, but his eyes searched hers for signs of distress.

“Oh, hello,” Debby said. “Can I help you with something?”

"Can we talk about your husband, Daniel?" he asked, treading carefully. The question hung between them, a delicate thread ready to snap.

"Of course," she replied, stepping aside to let him in. "Please, call me Debby."

Her living room was a study in contrasts; cozy furnishings clashed with the stark reality that the man of the house was now just a ghost of accusations and legal paperwork. Derik took note of the neatly arranged space, a testament to Debby's attempt to maintain order in a life disrupted.

"Do you know where Daniel was last night?" he inquired, observing her closely. If she was surprised by the suddenness of the question, she didn't show it.

"No idea," Debby said, a hint of bitterness seeping through her composed facade. "I kicked him out. I think he's staying at some motel. God knows which one."

There was a finality in her tone that suggested a woman who had reached the end of her tether with a spouse who had drowned their vows in alcohol.

"I don't care where he is," she continued, her gaze steady on Derik's. "He's a drunk, Agent Greene, and I'm done with him."

The words were a punctuation mark on the life they once shared. They spoke of late nights waiting up, of arguments fueled by liquor, of love that had soured into something unrecognizable.

Derik shifted uneasily, his gaze lingering on the collection of garden gnomes lining the path to Debby's door. He cleared his throat. "Debby, do you know a Gina Bellwood or Elaine Harrows?"

She furrowed her brow, her fingers tracing the edge of her coffee mug. "Those names sound familiar," she mused. "Defense lawyers, right? Daniel’s mentioned them... complained about them. Said they made a fool out of him in court. Not like that was hard to do.”

"Right," Derik affirmed, noting the bitterness lacing her tone. He swallowed hard, the gravity of his next words pressing down on him like a physical weight. "Both of these women were found dead. Murdered."

Shock flitted across Debby's face, her hand tightening around the mug until her knuckles turned white. "Murdered?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"Unfortunately, yes." Derik watched her closely, gauging her reaction for any flicker of knowledge, any sign of complicity.

"Does... does that mean you think Daniel might be involved?" Her question hung between them, charged with implications.

"Is there any reason we should suspect he is?" Derik probed gently but firmly. It was crucial to tread carefully; to push too hard might shut her down completely.

Her lips parted, then closed as if the words fought to stay within. Finally, with a shudder, she confessed, "I filed for divorce because Daniel...he got violent when he drank."

"Violent?" Derik echoed, his pulse quickening. There was a lead here, something tangible amid the haze of speculation.

"Once, after a case he’d lost, he came home drunk and..." Debby trailed off, her eyes darting away. "He's never been good at losing. And after enough whiskey, he'd turn into someone else—someone I didn’t recognize."

"Did he ever threaten you?"

"It wasn’t just threats, Agent Greene." The facade of composure crumbled as she clutched the mug like a lifeline. "One night he...he just lost it. That's when I knew I had to get him out before it was too late. He was never like that when he was sober, but the alcohol…"

"Did he ever mention Gina or Elaine outside of work frustrations?" Derik pushed, his mind racing with the possibilities unfolding before him.

"Only to curse their names after another lost case," she said. "But to kill? Could he...?" Debby shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as if warding off a chill.

"Thank you, Debby," Derik said, his thoughts already on Morgan’s safety. As he stepped back into the sunlight, the pieces of the puzzle began to click together—but the image they formed was dark and unsettling. He needed to find Morgan, and fast.

***

Morgan strode into the lobby of the historical building downtown, its walls echoing with hushed whispers of high-profile cases and confidential conversations. She approached the reception desk, where a polite girl with the nametag Sandra glanced up, her smile practiced and unflinching.

"Daniel Keen," Morgan said, her voice clipped and authoritative. "Where can I find him?"

"Mr. Keen?" Sandra's brow furrowed slightly as she checked her computer. "I'm sorry, he isn't here today."

Before Morgan could press further, the click of leather soles on marble cut through the air. A tall man emerged from the corridor, his presence commanding attention like a conductor before an orchestra. His voice, rich and resonant, filled the space.

"Daniel Keen won’t be coming back at all."

He extended his hand, which Morgan shook firmly, noting the callouses that spoke of someone not afraid to get their hands dirty.

"Roger Oswald," he introduced himself, "the owner of this firm."

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," Morgan replied, her gaze steady. "Daniel Keen. I need to speak with him."

Roger crossed his arms over his fitted suit. "Keen has been...less than cooperative lately. His performance here has suffered—divorce proceedings can unravel even the best of us," he offered, though the statement felt hollow, an afterthought meant for anyone but the seasoned agent before him.

"Problematic how?" Morgan prodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as she registered the calculated neutrality in Roger's tone.

"Let's just say he hasn't been his usual, composed self." Roger's eyes flickered, a telltale sign that he treaded on delicate ground. "Look, Agent Cross, his personal life is not our concern unless it affects this firm's reputation."

Morgan's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Every detail mattered—personal or otherwise. "And where might I find him now?"

"Earlier today, I had to kick him out. He was...disruptive." Roger's lips twisted at the memory, the distaste momentarily breaking through his practiced facade. "If I were to hazard a guess, he's at The Rusted Inn's bar. It's become somewhat of a refuge for him."

"Thank you." Morgan's response was curt, her mind already racing ahead. She turned swiftly and strode toward the exit, the click of her boots resuming their rhythmic report.

Outside, the city hummed with the buzz of mid-morning activity. Morgan navigated through the throng of pedestrians, her path clear and unerring. The Rusted Inn loomed ahead, its vintage sign a beacon amidst the modernity surrounding it. Daniel Keen's choice of sanctuary seemed an apt metaphor—a once shiny coin now tarnished by time and circumstance.

She reached the threshold of the bar, the muted clinks and murmurs from within leaking onto the street like wisps of tobacco smoke. Through the smudged pane of glass by the entrance, Morgan spotted him—a hunched figure nursing a drink, the lines of his suit hanging off him like a shroud, his posture defeated. It was the unmistakable slump of Daniel Keen, the man who had lost too much and perhaps taken even more.

Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the disheveled prosecutor, when her phone vibrated against her hip. Morgan stepped aside, into the shade of an alcove, and answered, "Cross."

"Cross, I’ve got news," Derik's voice came through, carrying an undercurrent of concern that stirred something within her. "The wife, Debby, says he's been violent with her. He's unstable, Morgan."

The words etched themselves into the back of her mind, painting Keen in a more dangerous light. "Understood," she replied, her voice low but firm. "I have eyes on him, Derik. I'm going in."

"Back-up is on the way, just—"

But Morgan had already ended the call; there was no time for hesitation. She knew the stakes. Two women dead, their lives snuffed out callously, brutally. If Keen was their connection, if he was the one who held the answers, then Morgan had to know. She owed it to the victims to brave whatever darkness lay ahead.

Tucking her phone away, Morgan steeled herself against the surge of adrenaline that threatened to quicken her pulse. Without another moment of hesitation, she went inside the bar.

Morgan's shadow fell across the gleaming bar top as she advanced toward Daniel Keen. His reflection in the mirror was marred by bottles of liquor, a man fragmented by his vices. She cleared her throat, asserting her presence.

"Daniel Keen?" Her voice was the crack of a whip in the silence.

He swiveled sluggishly on his stool, his gaze clouded with alcohol but sharp with resentment. "What do you want?"

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI." The badge flashed briefly before she slipped it back into her coat. "I need you to come with me to answer some questions."

"Questions?" Keen sneered, his words slurring. "You gonna ask about my bitch wife? Is that why you're here?"

"Let's keep this civil, Mr. Keen," Morgan cautioned, her tone even but firm. She could see the vitriol churning beneath his demeanor, the embittered fury of a man watching his world unravel thread by thread.

"Nothing civil about that woman," he spat, bitterness seeping through every syllable. "Accusing me... Making my life hell..."

"Stand up, Mr. Keen," Morgan insisted, unwilling to wade through the mire of his marital woes.

"Make me!" Keen shouted, and with a sudden, reckless motion, he hurled his beer glass in her direction.

Instinctively, Morgan sidestepped, the projectile shattering against the wall behind her. Glass shards rained down like crystalline raindrops, catching the light with their brief, violent lives. The bar patrons gasped, turning their heads towards the commotion.

"Dammit, Keen," Morgan muttered under her breath. She lunged forward as Keen staggered from his stool, attempting to bolt for the door.

But Morgan was quicker, her honed reflexes snapping into action as she closed the distance, gripping his arm in an iron-tight hold. Keen squirmed and cursed, his face a mottled red as he struggled to break free.

"Let me go!" he spat, his eyes wide with fear. But there was something else there, too—a desperate glint that spoke of dark secrets and hopeless corners.

"I need you to calm down," Morgan ordered, maintaining her grip despite his thrashing. “Throwing a glass at a federal agent is assault, Keen—you’re under arrest.”

"Get off me!" His voice wavered on the edge of panic, attracting a crowd of onlookers from the bar patrons. But as Morgan read him his rights and snapped the cuffs on his wrist, she knew she’d won this time.