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A cold, wet nose pressed against Morgan's arm, jolting her from the depths of sleep. She groaned, her eyelids heavy as lead as she forced them open. Skunk's expectant face greeted her, his tail wagging with barely contained excitement.

"Alright, alright," Morgan mumbled, her voice thick with exhaustion. "I hear you, buddy."

The pit bull let out a low whine, his brown eyes pleading. Morgan couldn't help but smile, despite the bone-deep weariness that clung to her like a second skin. Skunk had been her constant through it all—before prison, after, and now. His loyalty was unwavering, even if his timing left something to be desired.

"You know," she muttered, reaching out to scratch behind his ears, "some dogs let their owners sleep in once in a while."

Skunk's only response was to nudge her arm again, more insistently this time.

Next to her, Derik stirred, his face buried in the pillow as he mumbled something unintelligible. Morgan glanced at him, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. She'd been shutting him out lately, too focused on her own quest for justice to let him in. But he was still here, by her side, weathering the storm with her.

The sheets were warm, a stark contrast to the cool air of the bedroom. For a moment, Morgan allowed herself to sink back into the comfort, her eyes drifting closed. Just five more minutes...

But Skunk wasn't having it. His cold nose pressed firmly against her cheek, accompanied by a huff of warm breath that made her wrinkle her nose.

"Jesus, Skunk," Morgan grumbled, finally pushing herself upright. "Your breath could wake the dead."

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, the exhaustion hit her full force. Every muscle ached, a reminder of yesterday's relentless pace. The weight of it all—the case, her past, the looming specter of corruption within the FBI—settled on her shoulders like a physical presence.

"You okay?" Derik's sleep-roughened voice came from behind her.

Morgan turned, meeting his concerned gaze. The worry in his green eyes made her chest tighten. "Yeah," she lied, forcing a small smile. "Just tired. Skunk's impatient for breakfast."

Derik nodded, but Morgan could see he wasn't convinced. She stood, stretching her arms above her head, wincing as her joints popped. The motion caused her shirt to ride up, revealing the edge of a tattoo on her hip—a reminder of her time behind bars, of the years stolen from her.

"I've been thinking," Derik said, sitting up and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "About the case. The witnesses changing their stories... it feels like there's more to it."

Morgan nodded, her mind already racing. "I know. It's like they're all hiding something. But what?"

"Maybe it's not what they're hiding," Derik suggested. "Maybe it's who they're protecting."

The implication hung in the air between them. Morgan's eyes narrowed as she considered the possibility. "You think they knew the killer?"

Before Derik could respond, Skunk let out another impatient whine, reminding them of his presence. Morgan couldn't help but chuckle, the sound breaking the tension in the room.

"Alright, drama queen," she said, patting Skunk's head. "Let's get you fed before you waste away to nothing."

As she made her way to the kitchen, Morgan's mind whirred with possibilities. Witnesses changing stories, a killer mimicking old crimes, the specter of Andrew Keller looming over it all. And beneath it all, the constant undercurrent of her own quest for justice.

She glanced back at Derik, still sitting on the bed, his brow furrowed in thought. Maybe it was time to let him in, to share the burden she'd been carrying alone for so long.

But first, breakfast for Skunk. One step at a time.

Morgan opened the cabinet, the familiar creak of the hinges punctuating the morning silence. As she reached for Skunk's food, her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the canister, and a sudden wave of déjà vu washed over her. How many mornings had she performed this exact ritual? Before prison, after prison, and now—in the midst of a case that seemed to be spiraling in complexity with each passing hour.

"You know," Derik's voice drifted in from the bedroom, "I've been thinking about Keller."

Morgan poured the kibble into Skunk's bowl, the clatter of dry food hitting metal a stark contrast to the heaviness settling in her chest. "What about him?"

Derik appeared in the doorway, his lean frame silhouetted against the dim light. "If he wasn't the killer, why did Sarah Winters seem so convinced it was him?"

Morgan's hand paused mid-pour. "Good question. Maybe she saw something that night that made her believe it was him, even if it wasn't."

Morgan leaned against the counter, her tattooed arms crossed over her chest. The weight of yesterday's discoveries pressed down on her, mingling with the ever-present burden of her own past.

"So we could be dealing with someone who's trying to finish what they started twenty years ago,” she said.

"Or someone who's trying to expose the truth," Derik added softly.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Either way, we need to dig deeper into Keller's life. Find out who might have had a reason to frame him—or who might have been close enough to know the details of these crimes."

As she spoke, Skunk padded over to his bowl, his nails clicking against the linoleum. The normalcy of the sound struck a discordant note with the gravity of their conversation.

"Morgan," Derik said, his voice gentle but probing, "I know you've been dealing with a lot lately. With Thomas, and the letter from your father..."

She tensed, feeling the familiar urge to deflect, to keep her walls up. But as she looked at Derik, at the concern etched in his features, she felt a flicker of something else. Trust. Hope, maybe.

"I'm fine," she said automatically, then sighed. "No, that's not true. I'm not fine. But I can't let that distract me from this case. These victims, these families—they deserve answers."

Derik stepped closer, his hand reaching out to rest on her arm. "We'll find those answers. Together."

Morgan leaned against the kitchen counter, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. The bitter aroma filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the heaviness that seemed to permeate the air. She took a long sip, willing the caffeine to chase away the fog of exhaustion that clung to her mind.

With a deep breath, she pulled out her phone and dialed the number of the officer stationed outside Sarah Winters' house. The line rang twice before a crisp voice answered.

"Officer Chen here."

"Chen, it's Agent Cross. Any updates on Sarah Winters?"

There was a brief pause before Chen replied, "Yes, ma'am. Ms. Winters decided to leave town for a few days. Said she needed some space after your visit last night."

Morgan felt a wave of relief wash over her. "Good," she murmured, more to herself than to Chen. "That's good. We have no reason to think the killer would follow her out of town."

As she ended the call, her mind raced. Sarah's decision to leave was smart—if the killer was indeed targeting witnesses, distance was her best defense. But it also meant one less potential source of information.

Turning to Derik, who was leaning against the opposite counter, she saw her own weariness mirrored in his green eyes. "We need to dig deeper into Keller," she said, her voice low and determined. "Maybe if we can find out more about his life, we can figure out who might want to copy him."

Derik nodded, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Makes sense. If Keller was the original killer, someone who knew him might be carrying on his work. And if he wasn't..."

"Then maybe this copycat is trying to reveal the real killer's identity," Morgan finished, her mind already racing with possibilities.

She set her mug down with a soft thud, her tattoo-covered arms tensing as she gripped the edge of the counter. The weight of the case pressed down on her, mingling with the ever-present burden of her own past—the years lost in prison, the betrayal that put her there, the recent loss of Thomas.

"Either way," she continued, her voice tight with determination, "the key to our current killer could be buried in Keller's past. We need to start there."

Derik moved closer, his presence a comforting warmth at her side. "I'll make some calls, see if we can get access to any personal records or interviews from back then."

Morgan nodded, grateful for his support, even as a part of her wanted to push him away, to protect him from the darkness that seemed to follow her. But she couldn't deny the strength she drew from their partnership, both professional and personal.

"We should also keep an eye on Gregory Phillips," she added, remembering the man's stubborn refusal of protection. "He might have turned down our offer, but that doesn't mean the killer isn't watching him."

As they began to plan their next moves, Morgan felt a familiar mix of dread and determination settle in her gut. This case was stirring up ghosts—not just for the victims and witnesses, but for her as well. Each step forward seemed to unearth another piece of a past she'd rather forget.

But she couldn't stop. Not now. Not when lives were at stake and justice hung in the balance. Whatever connections lay hidden in Andrew Keller's past, she was determined to uncover them, no matter where they might lead.

***

The faded brick of Graceway Baptist Church loomed before Morgan, its stained-glass windows glinting in the morning light like watchful eyes. She felt Derik's presence beside her as they approached the entrance, the weight of their shared purpose hanging heavy in the air.

Morgan's gaze fixed on the modest wooden cross near the door. Its simplicity felt like a mockery, given the horrors that had unfolded here two decades ago. She clenched her jaw, pushing back the memories of her own unjust imprisonment. Focus on the now, she reminded herself.

As they stepped inside, the scent of old wood and candle wax enveloped them. Morgan's eyes swept the empty sanctuary, settling on a lone figure near the altar. An older man with silver-streaked hair was straightening hymnals, his movements methodical and practiced.

"Pastor Ellis Carter," Morgan murmured to Derik. "Current leader of the congregation."

They approached, their footsteps echoing in the quiet space. The pastor looked up, kind but weary eyes meeting theirs.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Morgan flashed her badge. "FBI. We're here about Andrew Keller."

She watched closely, noting the slight tightening around Pastor Ellis's eyes at the mention of Keller's name. It was subtle, but years of interrogations had honed her ability to read micro-expressions.

"I see," Ellis said, his tone carefully neutral. "It's been many years since Andrew was with us. What would you like to know?"

Morgan's mind raced, weighing how much to reveal. "We're investigating a series of crimes that may be connected to cases from Keller's time here. Any information you could provide about him would be helpful."

Ellis's gaze flickered between them, a mix of wariness and resignation settling over his features. "Perhaps we should speak in my office," he suggested, gesturing towards a door off to the side.

As they followed him, Morgan caught Derik's eye. The silent communication between them was clear: tread carefully, but don't let anything slip by. Whatever secrets this church held, they were determined to uncover them, no matter how deeply they might be buried in the past.

The office was small, its walls lined with bookshelves crammed with well-worn theological texts. Ellis settled behind a sturdy oak desk, his hands folded in front of him. Morgan took the chair opposite, while Derik leaned against the wall, his presence a silent support.

"What kind of man was Andrew Keller?" Morgan asked, her voice steady, revealing none of the tension coiled within her.

Ellis exhaled deeply, his gaze drifting to a framed photo on his desk. Morgan caught a glimpse of a younger Ellis standing next to a dark-haired man she assumed was Keller.

"Andrew was..." Ellis paused, seeming to search for the right words. "He was a complex man. Quiet, deeply private. His faith was unwavering, but there was always something... burdening him."

Morgan leaned forward slightly, her tattoo-covered arms resting on the desk. "How so?"

Ellis's eyes met hers, a flicker of unease passing through them. "He was well-liked, respected by the congregation. But he never truly let anyone in. It was as if he was constantly battling something within himself."

The words struck a chord with Morgan. She knew all too well what it was like to carry inner demons, to feel isolated even among people who claimed to care.

"Did he ever confide in you about what was troubling him?" she pressed.

Ellis shook his head slowly. "No, he kept those struggles to himself. But there were times... times when I'd catch a look in his eyes. It was haunted, almost desperate."

Morgan's mind raced, connecting dots. Could Keller's inner turmoil have been guilt over the murders? Or was he battling against urges he ultimately succumbed to?

Morgan watched Pastor Ellis carefully, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers drummed lightly on the desk. There was an uneasiness in the way he spoke about Keller—fondness, yes, but also something heavier. She leaned forward, her tattooed arms resting on her knees.

"Pastor Ellis," she said, her voice low and steady, "I need to ask you something difficult. Do you truly believe Andrew Keller could have been a killer?"

Ellis hesitated, his eyes darting away for a moment before meeting Morgan's gaze again. He exhaled slowly, the sound filling the small office. "Agent Cross, I... I want to say no. I want to believe in the man I knew." He paused, clasping his hands together. "But the truth is, no one can ever truly know a man's heart."

That answer lingered in the air, neither confirmation nor denial. Morgan felt a familiar tightness in her chest, memories of her own wrongful conviction threatening to surface. She pushed them down, focusing on the present.

"I understand," she said, her voice tinged with a hard-won empathy. "Sometimes the people closest to us can surprise us in the worst ways."

Ellis nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face at her understanding.

Morgan pressed further, leaning back in her chair. "Tell me, did Keller have any close friends, family, or people who might have been particularly influenced by him?"

Ellis shook his head, his brow furrowing. "No, not that I'm aware of. Andrew never married, never had children. He kept to himself, really, on a personal level. He was beloved in the community for his work at the church, but he never formed deep personal attachments outside of the church, at least not that I saw."

Morgan's mind raced, cataloging this information. A loner with no close ties made for a difficult trail to follow. She thought of the silver cross necklace Vanessa Shaw had mentioned, a detail that could prove crucial.

"One last thing, Pastor," Morgan said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Did Keller ever wear a silver cross necklace?"

Ellis's eyebrows rose slightly. "A silver cross? I... I'm not sure. It's possible, I suppose. Many of our clergy wear such things, but I can't say I specifically remember Andrew with one."

Morgan nodded, filing away the uncertainty. As she stood to leave, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Andrew Keller's story—and to Pastor Ellis's knowledge of it—than met the eye. The weight of the investigation pressed down on her, a familiar burden she'd carried since her release from prison. But this time, she was determined to uncover the truth, no matter where it led.

Morgan's gaze drifted to the stained-glass windows, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere that had settled over the small office. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest, a mixture of frustration and determination that had become her constant companion since her release from prison.

She turned back to Pastor Ellis, who was watching their exchange with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Pastor, was there anyone in the congregation who seemed particularly... devoted to Keller? Anyone who might have taken his death especially hard?"

Ellis hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "I... I can't think of anyone specific. The congregation has changed a lot since then."

Morgan felt a surge of irritation. It was like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that her time in prison had taught her patience, even if it didn't always feel natural.

"Alright," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her mind. "Thank you for your time, Pastor Ellis. We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."

As they stepped out of the office, Morgan caught Derik's eye. The unspoken communication between them was clear – they were both feeling the same sense of unease. Whether Keller was guilty or not, he was dead. But someone out there knew enough about these old cases to recreate them with chilling accuracy.

Morgan paused at the threshold of the sanctuary, her eyes drawn to the kaleidoscope of colors cascading through the stained-glass windows. The soft hues painted the empty pews in a mosaic of light, creating an illusion of serenity that felt jarringly at odds with the brutality of their case.

"It's almost beautiful," she murmured, more to herself than to Derik.

Her partner stepped closer, his presence a comforting warmth at her side. "Yeah, if you forget what happened here twenty years ago."

Morgan's jaw tightened. "That's the problem, isn't it? Someone hasn't forgotten. Someone's making damn sure we all remember."

She turned to face Derik, noting the dark circles under his eyes that mirrored her own exhaustion. "What do you make of all this? A copycat? A devotee?"

Derik ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, a habit he'd picked up during his struggles with alcoholism. "Could be either.”

Morgan nodded, her mind racing. "We need to consider every angle. But one thing's for sure – whoever this is, they're intimately familiar with the original cases."

As they stepped outside, the crisp morning air hit Morgan like a slap to the face, sharpening her senses. She inhaled deeply, tasting the hint of autumn on her tongue. But even the fresh air couldn't dispel the heaviness that had settled in her chest.

"If Keller had a follower," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "someone who watched, learned, and waited... they could be reliving his work as some twisted act of devotion."

Derik stepped closer, his hand brushing against hers in a subtle gesture of support. "It's a solid theory. But it doesn't explain why they'd wait so long to start killing again."

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she gazed out at the quiet street. "Maybe they needed time to prepare. To study. To make sure they got every detail right." She turned back to Derik, her expression grim. "Or maybe something triggered them. Something that made them decide now was the time to bring these old ghosts back to life."

As they walked to their car, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial. The pieces were there, scattered before them like a macabre puzzle, but the picture they formed was still frustratingly unclear.

"We need to dive deeper into Keller's past," she said as they climbed into the vehicle. "And we need to keep a close eye on the remaining witnesses. If this killer is working through some sort of list..."

She left the thought unfinished, but Derik nodded in understanding. The weight of their task pressed down on them both, as heavy as the secrets buried in this quiet church's past.