Page 17

The city stirred awake, bathed in the pale light of dawn, but there was no peace to be found in the breaking day. Instead, the air thrummed with tension, thick enough to choke on. Squad cars streaked through the streets, their sirens wailing a discordant symphony. Plainclothes officers prowled every corner, eyes scanning faces, hands hovering near concealed weapons. The hunt for James Whitaker was on, and Dallas had become a city under siege.

Morgan stood outside the precinct, her tattooed fingers wrapped around a paper cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. She hadn't taken a single sip. The bitter aroma wafted up, reminding her of late nights poring over case files, of stakeouts that stretched into the early hours. Of a time before prison walls and the weight of betrayal had reshaped her world.

She should have seen it coming. The realization hit her like a physical blow, twisting her gut and leaving her breathless. Whitaker had played them all, herself included. He'd woven a tapestry of lies so intricate, so believable, that they'd willingly followed the path he'd laid out for them.

"Damn it," she muttered, her voice rough with frustration and lack of sleep. She crushed the cup in her hand, coffee spilling over her fingers. The sting of the hot liquid barely registered.

Derik appeared at her side, his presence a familiar comfort even in the midst of chaos. "Any word?" he asked, his eyes scanning her face with concern.

Morgan shook her head. "Nothing. It's like he's vanished into thin air." She paused, her jaw clenching. "He knew exactly what he was doing, Derik. Every step of the way."

Derik nodded, his expression grim. "We'll find him, Morgan. We have to."

"Do we?" Morgan's laugh was harsh, bitter. "We didn't even know who we were looking for until last night. He's had twenty years to perfect his game, to cover his tracks." She ran a hand through her dark hair, disheveled from hours of restless pacing. "How did we miss this?"

"Because he was one of us," Derik replied softly. "Because sometimes the monsters wear badges too."

Morgan's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and determination. "Well, this monster's time is up. I don't care if I have to tear this city apart brick by brick. We're going to find him, and we're going to make him pay for every life he's taken."

She turned back to face the precinct, her mind racing. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place now, a picture so clear it was almost blinding. Whitaker had guided them toward the old cases, each nudge carefully calculated. He'd known exactly which strings to pull, which doubts to plant.

"Keller was never the killer," Morgan said, more to herself than to Derik. "It was Whitaker all along."

Derik's hand found her shoulder, a gentle squeeze offering silent support. "We'll get him, Morgan. We've got every available officer on this."

Morgan nodded, but her thoughts were already racing ahead. She'd been framed once before, sent to prison for a crime she didn't commit. She knew firsthand how the system could be manipulated, how easily the truth could be buried beneath layers of lies and misdirection.

"He won't make it easy," she said, her voice low and determined. "But neither will we. I've spent ten years fighting to clear my name, to find the truth. I'm not about to let another killer slip through our fingers."

With a deep breath, Morgan straightened her shoulders and turned back toward the precinct. The weight of her past, the scars both visible and hidden, seemed to press down on her. But there was steel in her spine, forged in the fires of injustice and tempered by her unwavering pursuit of the truth.

"Let's get back in there," she said to Derik. "We should talk to the other two witnesses.”

Inside the precinct, Morgan strode purposefully towards the interview room, her boots echoing in the sterile hallway. She paused at the door, taking a deep breath to center herself. The weight of her prison years, the betrayal by her own agency, threatened to crush her. But she pushed it down, locking it away. There would be time for that later.

She entered the room, her gaze immediately falling on Gregory Phillips and Sarah Winters. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across their faces, emphasizing the fear and exhaustion etched into their features.

Phillips sat hunched forward, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. His expression was a mask of stoic indifference, but Morgan caught the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted nervously around the room.

"Mr. Phillips," Morgan said, her voice low and controlled. "I need you to think back. Is there anything, anything at all, that you remember about Whitaker from the original investigation?"

Phillips' forehead creased deeply, like a man grappling with a particularly challenging puzzle. "I... I don't know," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the table. "It was so long ago. I was drunk that night, like I told you before."

Morgan leaned forward, her palms flat on the table. "I understand that, but I need you to try. Even the smallest detail could be crucial."

She watched him carefully, noting the way he shifted in his seat, the subtle tightening of his jaw. There was something there, just beneath the surface. Something he wasn't saying.

"Gregory," she said, softening her tone slightly. "I know you're scared. But Whitaker is out there, and he's not going to stop. We need your help to catch him before anyone else gets hurt."

Phillips looked up then, meeting Morgan's gaze for the first time. In his eyes, she saw a flicker of something – recognition, maybe, or a long-buried memory struggling to surface.

"There was... there was something," he said hesitantly. "About his watch. I remember thinking it was odd for a cop to have such an expensive-looking watch."

Morgan's pulse quickened. It wasn't much, but it was a start. "Can you describe it?"

As Phillips began to speak, Morgan allowed herself a moment of grim satisfaction. They were making progress. Slowly, painfully, they were unraveling Whitaker's web of lies. And when they found him – because they would find him – Morgan would make damn sure he paid for every life he'd destroyed.

Including hers.

Sarah Winters slammed her fist on the table, her eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to radiate through the sterile room. "You're wrong! All of you!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "Whitaker isn't the killer. He never was. The real killer is dead. Andrew Keller killed my sister, and now he's burning in hell where he belongs!"

Morgan felt her jaw tighten, the muscles in her neck tensing as she fought to keep her composure. She'd seen this kind of denial before, but never with such raw intensity. Sarah's pain was palpable, hanging in the air like a thick fog.

"Sarah," Morgan began, her voice low and controlled, "I know this is difficult to hear, but—"

"No!" Sarah cut her off, rising from her chair. "This is someone else. Some new threat is trying to finish what was started years ago. Keller was the monster. He took Sadie from me. That's the truth. It has to be."

Morgan didn't argue. Not yet. She understood Sarah's desperation all too well. The weight of a belief held for so long, a truth that had become the very foundation of one's existence. Morgan had lived with her own version of that for ten years in prison, clinging to the certainty of her innocence even as the world branded her a monster.

She watched as Sarah paced the small room, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Twenty years, Morgan thought. Twenty years of building a life around one unshakeable truth. If that crumbled now, what would be left?

"Sarah," Morgan said softly, "please sit down. We're not here to force you to believe anything. We just want to keep you safe."

Sarah's eyes met Morgan's, and for a moment, the anger seemed to falter, replaced by something more vulnerable. Fear, perhaps. Or the first tremors of a world about to shatter.

"I can't..." Sarah's voice wavered. "I can't let go of this. Don't you understand? If Keller wasn't the killer, then... then what have I been fighting for all these years? What's left?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. Morgan felt a familiar ache in her chest, recognizing the desperate need for purpose, for something to hold onto in the face of overwhelming darkness.

"Right now," Morgan said, choosing her words carefully, "what's left is your safety. And finding the truth, whatever that might be. Can you trust us enough to help with that?"

Sarah's shoulders sagged, the fight seeming to drain out of her. She sank back into her chair, her eyes unfocused, staring at some point beyond the room's stark walls.

"I don't know if I can," she whispered.

Morgan nodded, understanding the admission for what it was – not a concession, but a first, tentative step towards an uncertain future. She'd been there herself, standing on the precipice of a truth that threatened to unravel everything. It was a long, painful journey, but one that Sarah would have to make on her own terms.

For now, Morgan's job was to keep her alive long enough to have that chance.

Sarah's shoulders slumped, the fight seeming to drain out of her. She looked small, fragile, like a child lost in a world suddenly too big and frightening to comprehend.

"I don't know," Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just... I don't know anything anymore."

Morgan leaned forward, her tattooed arms resting on the table. The precinct's harsh fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across her face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes.

"Look," she said, her voice low and steady, "I know this is a lot to process. But right now, we need to focus on your safety. Both of you." Her gaze shifted between Sarah and Gregory. "The precinct is secure. We've got officers on-site, cameras, locked doors. I want you to stay here, just for a night or two. Long enough for us to find Whitaker."

Sarah's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Stay here? Like prisoners? I don't think so. I've told you everything I know. I want to go home."

Morgan felt a flicker of frustration, but she pushed it down. She understood Sarah's resistance. After all, Morgan had spent ten years behind bars herself. The thought of being confined, even for her own protection, made her skin crawl.

"It's not a prison, Sarah," Morgan said softly. "It's protection. We can't risk—"

"I said no," Sarah interrupted, her voice rising. "You can't keep me here against my will. I have rights!"

Morgan's gaze shifted to Gregory Phillips. He hadn't said a word since she'd made the suggestion, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. As she watched, something flickered in his eyes—a hesitation, maybe, or something darker. He was shaken, that much was clear.

"Mr. Phillips?" Morgan prompted gently. "What are your thoughts on this?"

Gregory looked up slowly, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He swallowed hard before speaking. "I... I think maybe we should stay." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Sarah whirled on him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Gregory, you can't be serious! We don't need to—"

"Sarah," he cut her off, his voice firmer now. "Agent Cross is right. It's not safe out there. Not with... not with everything that's happening. Even I can admit that now.”

Morgan watched the exchange closely, noting the way Gregory's hands trembled slightly as he spoke. There was more going on here than simple fear, she was sure of it. But now wasn't the time to push.

"Just for a night or two," Morgan reiterated, keeping her voice calm and reassuring. "We'll make sure you're comfortable. And as soon as we have Whitaker in custody, you can go home. I promise."

Gregory gave a slow, begrudging nod. Sarah opened her mouth as if to argue further, but then seemed to deflate. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched.

"Fine," she bit out. "But I want it on record that I'm doing this under protest."

Morgan nodded, relief washing over her. "Noted. Thank you both. I know this isn't easy, but it's the right call. I'll have an officer show you to the rooms we've set up."

As she stood to leave, Morgan couldn't shake the nagging feeling in her gut. Gregory's reaction, Sarah's vehement denial of Whitaker's guilt—there were too many pieces that didn't quite fit. And in her experience, that usually meant there was more to the story than met the eye.

She'd keep them safe for now. But tomorrow, she'd start digging deeper. Because if there was one thing Morgan Cross had learned in her years with the FBI, it was that the truth always came out eventually. No matter how deeply it was buried.

Morgan stepped out of the room, her shoulders sagging as she pressed her palms against the cool surface of the hallway wall. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her in the moment. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

The precinct buzzed with activity around her, a constant hum of ringing phones and hurried footsteps. The manhunt for Whitaker was in full swing, but Morgan knew better than to be optimistic. She pushed off the wall, her tattoos stark against her pale skin as she rolled up her sleeves.

"Any updates?" she asked, approaching a nearby officer.

He shook his head. "Nothing yet. But we've got every available unit out there."

Morgan nodded, her jaw tightening. "He knows our playbook," she said, more to herself than the officer. "Every procedure, every tactic. He's been on our side of the fence for years."

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Whitaker wasn't just a cop—he was a detective who had spent his career outsmarting criminals. Now, he was using that knowledge against them.

"Christ," she breathed, running a hand through her dark hair. "We're not just chasing a killer. We're chasing one of our own."

The officer shifted uncomfortably. "Agent Cross, do you think—"

"I think we need to change our approach," Morgan cut him off, her mind racing. "He's anticipating our moves. We need to do something he won't expect."

She turned on her heel, heading for the command center. As she walked, her thoughts drifted to Derik. She wished he was here, his steady presence a balm to her frayed nerves. But he was out there, leading one of the search teams.

Morgan's fists clenched at her sides. If they didn't find Whitaker soon, more people would die. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on her, threatening to suffocate her. She couldn't let that happen. Not again. Not after everything she'd been through.