Page 16

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the cluttered desks. Morgan's eyes burned as she stared at the evidence board, willing it to reveal something—anything—they might have missed. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second a reminder of their failure.

She glanced at Derik, slumped in his chair, his usually immaculate hair disheveled from running his hands through it in frustration. The shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than ever, a testament to the toll this case was taking on him. On both of them.

The radio crackled to life, and Morgan's heart leapt. But it was just static, followed by a terse "All clear" from one of the patrols at Gregory's house. She exhaled sharply, her jaw clenching.

"Dammit," she muttered, her tattooed fingers curling into fists. "We should be out there. Not sitting here twiddling our thumbs while that bastard's on the loose."

Derik looked up, his green eyes clouded with exhaustion. "Morgan, we've been over this. We can't be everywhere at once. The patrols—"

"The patrols aren't us," she snapped, then immediately regretted her tone. She softened her voice. "Sorry. I just... I can't shake this feeling that we're missing something crucial."

He nodded, understanding in his gaze. "I know. But we've gone over everything a dozen times. The witness statements, the crime scene photos, the old case files..."

Morgan started pacing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The weight of her past pressed down on her—the years stolen by prison, the betrayal that led her there. She couldn't fail again. Not when lives were at stake.

"Something isn't right," she said, more to herself than to Derik. "The killer was supposed to act tonight. I know it in my gut."

Derik leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Maybe we've spooked him. Increased patrols, warning the witnesses—"

"No," Morgan cut him off, shaking her head. "That's not it. This guy... he's methodical. Calculated. He wouldn't let our presence deter him if he had a plan."

She stopped in front of the evidence board, her eyes scanning the photos of the victims—past and present. The similarities were undeniable, but there was something else. Something just out of reach.

"What if..." she started, her mind racing. "What if we've been looking in the wrong place?"

Derik stood, moving to stand beside her. "What do you mean?"

Morgan's fingers traced the outline of the crime scene photos, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We've been so focused on protecting the witnesses, on figuring out who the killer might target next. But what if that's not his game at all?"

She turned to Derik, seeing the concern in his eyes. He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm as if unsure whether to touch her. "Morgan, talk to me. What are you thinking?"

She took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts. "I don't know yet. But something about this... it feels like we're missing the forest for the trees."

The radio crackled again, another "All clear" cutting through the tension in the room. Morgan's frustration bubbled over, and she slammed her palm against the desk.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed. "We're wasting time. People are dying, and we're just... just sitting here!"

Derik stepped closer, his voice low and soothing. "Hey, hey. We're doing everything we can. You need to take a breath, okay?"

Morgan's eyes darted across the evidence board, her gaze feverish as she traced the red string connecting the victims' photos. The faces of the dead stared back at her, their silent pleas echoing in her mind. Suddenly, she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the crime scene photos. "How did we miss this?"

Derik looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowed. "What is it?"

Morgan spun around, her eyes blazing with newfound certainty. "It's not about the witnesses, Derik. It's the locations.” She pointed to each photo in turn, her voice gaining urgency. "The parking garage, the park, the church lot. He's recreating the original crime scenes. It's not just about who dies, but where they're found."

A cold shiver ran down her spine as the full implications hit her. They'd wasted an entire day watching the wrong places, the wrong people.

"We're in the wrong place," she said suddenly, grabbing her coat. The weight of their mistake pressed down on her, urging her into action.

Derik stood, confusion evident on his tired face. "What do you mean?"

Morgan was already heading for the door, her mind racing ahead. "He's not hunting the witnesses. He's returning to the scenes. That's where he's leaving them."

She paused at the threshold, turning back to face Derik. His green eyes met hers, filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Despite everything they'd been through, the betrayal and the forgiveness, she knew he'd follow her anywhere.

"Are you coming?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Without hesitation, Derik grabbed his jacket and followed her out. As they rushed down the hallway, Morgan's thoughts whirled. She'd been so focused on protecting potential victims that she'd overlooked the killer's true pattern. It was a rookie mistake and one that might have cost lives.

"We need to check all the original crime scenes," she said as they reached the elevator. "Starting with the most recent recreations."

Derik nodded, his jaw set with determination. "I'll call for backup to meet us there."

As the elevator doors closed, Morgan felt a surge of adrenaline course through her. They might be behind, but they weren't out of the game yet. And this time, she wouldn't let the killer slip away. Not again. Not when they were so close to unraveling the truth that had eluded them for twenty years.

***

The neon sign of "The Rusty Nail" flickered overhead, casting an eerie red and blue glow across the damp pavement. Morgan's eyes darted across the scene, her body tense as she stepped out of the car. The bar where Lucas Hayes had been found two decades ago looked much the same—a dingy facade with peeling paint and windows clouded by years of cigarette smoke.

A small group of late-night drinkers huddled near the entrance, their laughter sharp and jarring in the quiet night air. Morgan's hand instinctively moved towards her holster as she approached, but she forced herself to relax. These were just ordinary people, not the killer they sought.

"Doesn't look like much has changed," Derik muttered beside her, his voice low.

Morgan nodded, her eyes scanning the area. "That's what worries me. If the killer's sticking to the original scenes, this place is perfect."

She moved towards the alley beside the bar, where Lucas's body had been discovered twenty years ago. The familiar chill of anticipation crept up her spine, but as she peered into the shadows, she found... nothing. No signs of a struggle, no fresh blood staining the cracked concrete.

"Dammit," she hissed, frustration bubbling up inside her. "We're too late. Or too early."

Derik joined her, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. "Or maybe we were wrong about this place?"

Morgan shook her head, her mind racing. "No, it fits the pattern. But something's off." She turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail. The overflowing dumpster, the stack of empty kegs, the faded graffiti on the brick walls. It all looked so ordinary, so unthreatening.

But appearances could be deceiving. Morgan knew that better than anyone.

"What if we're not seeing it?" she mused aloud. "What if the killer's not just recreating the scenes, but improving on them?"

Derik raised an eyebrow. "Improving how?"

Morgan's gaze drifted upward to the fire escape clinging to the side of the building. "By being smarter. More precise." She pointed. "Lucas was found down here, but what if our killer decided to take things up a level? Literally?"

***

Morgan's gut twisted with a mixture of dread and certainty as she gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white against the leather. The headlights cut through the night, illuminating the empty streets as they sped towards their next destination. She could feel Derik's eyes on her, concern etched across his face.

As they pulled into the church parking lot, Morgan's heart rate spiked. The place where Sadie Winters was found all those years ago loomed before them, shrouded in shadows. She killed the engine, and for a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. There shouldn’t have been anyone here at night—night Morgan squinted her eyes and made out what appeared to be a man standing.

Standing over… someone else.

Morgan's eyes strained in the darkness, her heart pounding as she leaned forward in her seat. The silhouette by the church steps began to take shape, resolving into a tall, broad-shouldered figure looming over something on the ground. No, not something—someone.

"Derik," she whispered, her voice tight with urgency. "Look."

He followed her gaze, his sharp intake of breath confirming what she saw. Without a word, they both reached for their weapons, the familiar weight of the gun a cold comfort in Morgan's hand.

She eased the car door open, wincing at the soft creak that seemed to echo in the still night air. The figure by the church didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe. Morgan's tattooed fingers tightened on her gun as she stepped out, every sense on high alert.

The gravel crunched under her feet as she moved forward, Derik a reassuring presence at her back. The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves filled her nostrils, mingling with something else—something metallic and sickeningly familiar.

Blood.

As they drew closer, details emerged from the shadows. The man—

The church's shadow loomed over the parking lot, its spire a dark finger pointing accusingly at the sky. Morgan's eyes locked onto the figure standing over the woman’s body, and her breath caught in her throat. James Whitaker's face was half-obscured by shadow, but there was no mistaking him.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze. The world narrowed to this moment, this impossible scene. Morgan's mind raced, struggling to reconcile the respected detective she'd met earlier with the man now standing over a fresh corpse.

Shock jolted through her system, igniting a cocktail of confusion and anger. Whitaker. The retired detective who'd worked this case twenty years ago. The man who'd handed them his files, who'd seemed so haunted by his failure to catch the killer. What the hell was he doing here?

Before Morgan could voice the questions burning on her tongue, Derik sprung into action beside her. His movement snapped her back to reality.

"Step back! Hands where I can see them!" Derik's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. His gun was already drawn, aimed steadily at Whitaker's chest.

Morgan's hand instinctively went to her own weapon, but she hesitated. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal, a reminder of all the times she'd been on the wrong end of an accusation. She knew too well how quickly situations like this could spiral out of control.

"Whitaker," she called out, her voice rough with tension. "What's going on here?"

She took a cautious step forward, positioning herself slightly to Derik's left. Her eyes darted between Whitaker and the woman’s prone form, searching for any sign of life, any clue to unravel this twisted scenario.

Whitaker slowly lifted his hands, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the church parking lot. "I know what this looks like," he said evenly, his voice betraying no hint of fear or guilt.

Morgan barely heard him. Her focus had shifted entirely to the woman’s motionless form. Who was she? Sarah Winters? No, Sarah had brown hair, but this was a redhead. Morgan carefully dropped to her knees beside the body, her heart pounding as she pressed two fingers to the woman’s neck. No pulse. The skin was still warm beneath her touch, but there was no mistaking the stillness of death.

Too late, Morgan thought bitterly. We were too damn late.

And the red hair…

She swallowed hard, fighting back the wave of anger and frustration that threatened to overwhelm her. This was supposed to be their breakthrough, their chance to get ahead of the killer. Instead, they'd walked right into another crime scene.

"What are you doing here?" Morgan demanded, her voice sharp as she looked up at Whitaker. The retired detective kept his hands raised, but he didn't flinch under her piercing gaze.

"Same as you," Whitaker replied, his tone maddeningly calm. "I had a feeling. That the killer would come back to the crime scene. I came here to check." He nodded towards the body, a flicker of what might have been regret crossing his face. "When I got here... she was already dead. Agents, this is Vanessa Shaw."

Morgan's mind raced, analyzing Whitaker's words against the evidence before her. It made a twisted kind of sense – she and Derik had come to the same conclusion about the killer's pattern. But the timing... it was too convenient. Too perfect.

"You expect us to believe that?" Morgan challenged, her voice low and dangerous. "A former detective just happens to be at a murder scene, alone, right after the victim dies? Vanessa Shaw lived out of town, how could she—”

She stood slowly, her eyes never leaving Whitaker's face. She was searching for any tell, any sign that might reveal the truth behind his story. But his expression remained frustratingly neutral, giving nothing away.

Morgan watched as Whitaker's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his weathered features. "I didn't kill her," he insisted, his voice strained but steady.

The weight of the situation pressed down on Morgan, her mind a whirlwind of suspicion and analysis. She'd been burned before, trusting the wrong people, and the scars from that betrayal still ran deep. But there was something in Whitaker's eyes – a desperate sincerity that gave her pause.

Derik, ever her steadfast partner, stepped forward. His green eyes were hard, his posture tense as he kept his gun trained on Whitaker. "Turn around," he commanded. "Hands behind your head."

Morgan watched the internal struggle play out on Whitaker's face. For a moment, she saw a flicker of the seasoned detective he once was, weighing options, calculating risks. His eyes darted between her and Derik, and she could almost hear the gears turning in his mind.

*What's your play here, Whitaker?* Morgan thought, her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring into action. *Are you truly innocent, or is this all part of some larger game?*

The air crackled with tension as Whitaker hesitated, his hands still raised. Morgan's instincts screamed at her, warning of impending action. She'd seen that look before – the moment when a suspect decides fight or flight.

"Whitaker," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Don't do anything stupid. We can figure this out, but you need to cooperate."

But even as the words left her mouth, Morgan knew it was too late. She saw the decision crystallize in Whitaker's eyes, a split second before he moved.

In a blur of motion, Whitaker pivoted. His elbow connected with Derik's forearm, sending a shock through the younger agent's body. The gun wavered, its aim thrown off just enough. Morgan's heart leapt into her throat as she watched Derik stumble backward, a curse escaping his lips.

"Dammit!" Derik shouted, regaining his footing.

But Whitaker was already moving, his form melting into the shadows of the church parking lot. Morgan's body reacted before her mind could process, muscle memory from years of training kicking in.

"Shit—go, go!" Derik's voice cut through the night air as he broke into a sprint.

Morgan bolted after them, her feet pounding against the pavement. Adrenaline surged through her veins, sharpening her senses. The cool night air whipped against her face, carrying the faint scent of rain and asphalt.

*How could I have been so blind?* she berated herself as she ran. *Whitaker knew too much and was too conveniently placed. Was he involved all along?*

Ahead, Whitaker's silhouette darted between parked cars and streetlights, weaving through the empty streets with uncanny precision. He moved like a man who knew every nook and cranny of this city, every shortcut and hidden alley.

"He's heading east!" Derik called out, his voice strained with exertion.

Morgan pushed herself harder, her legs burning with effort. But even as she ran, a cold realization settled in her gut. Whitaker was outpacing them, his knowledge of the area giving him a clear advantage.

*This isn't just about escaping,* Morgan thought, her mind racing as fast as her feet. *He's leading us somewhere. But where? And why?*

The tattoos on her arms seemed to burn with each pump of her muscles, a reminder of the years stolen from her, of the betrayals that had shaped her life. Was this another betrayal to add to the list? Or was there more to Whitaker's story than met the eye?

Morgan skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley, her chest heaving as she scanned the shadows. The narrow passage stretched before her, a maze of dumpsters and fire escapes disappearing into darkness. But Whitaker was gone, swallowed by the night as if he'd never been there at all.

Derik stumbled to a stop beside her, bending over with his hands on his knees. "Dammit," he gasped, straightening up and shoving his gun back into its holster with more force than necessary. "How the hell did he move like that at this age?"

Morgan didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the alley, searching for any sign of movement, any clue to where Whitaker might have disappeared. But there was nothing. Just the distant hum of traffic and the faint drip of water from a rusted gutter.

Her mind raced, piecing together the puzzle of the night. Whitaker at the scene, his unexplained presence, his impossible speed. It didn't add up, and yet... something about it felt familiar. An echo of her own past, perhaps.

"He knows something," Morgan said finally, her voice low and tight. "No way he just happened to be there. And no way he runs like that unless he's got a damn good reason to."

Derik nodded, still catching his breath. "You think he's involved? After all this time?"

Morgan's jaw clenched. "I don't know. But I'm sure as hell going to find out."

She turned to face Derik, seeing the concern etched in his tired features. For a moment, she wanted to reach out, to draw strength from the connection they shared. But the weight of her mission, of the truths still hidden, held her back.

"We need to get back to the station," she said instead. "Pull everything we have on Whitaker. His history, his connections, everything. If he's running, it's not just from us. There's something bigger at play here."