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The early morning sun spilled gold across the endless Texas countryside, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Morgan Cross's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, her knuckles white with tension. The steady hum of the engine and occasional chirp of birds greeting the day were the only sounds breaking the heavy silence inside the car.

Morgan's dark eyes scanned the road ahead, searching for answers in the winding asphalt. Her mind raced with possibilities, hope and fear warring within her. The weight of the letter in her pocket seemed to burn against her skin, a tangible reminder of why they were out here in the middle of nowhere.

Beside her, Derik sat rigid in the passenger seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His brow furrowed deeply, worry etched into every line of his face. Morgan could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, matching her own internal turmoil.

Finally, Derik broke the silence, his voice low but firm. "Are you sure about this, Morgan? It could be a trap."

The words hung in the air between them, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at Morgan since she'd received the letter. She didn't answer immediately, her grip on the wheel tightening further as she wrestled with her thoughts.

Was she sure? No, not entirely. But the alternative - ignoring this chance, potentially missing an opportunity to see her father again after all these years - was unthinkable. The memory of that hunting trip, of her broken ankle, was so vivid, so personal. It had to be him. It had to be.

Morgan glanced at Derik, noting the concern in his green eyes. She sighed, feeling the weight of her decision. "It's him, Derik," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It has to be."

She saw Derik's jaw clench, knew he wanted to argue further. But he remained silent, respecting her choice even if he didn't agree with it. Morgan felt a surge of gratitude for his support, mixed with a twinge of guilt for the worry she was causing him.

And now, this unexpected twist - her father, alive after all this time.

Part of her wanted to be angry, to demand answers for his absence. But another part, a part she'd thought long buried, just yearned to see him again. To understand why he'd let her believe he was dead all these years.

The car bumped slightly as they turned onto a narrower road, the woods growing denser around them. Morgan's heart rate picked up, memories of childhood hunting trips flooding back. They were getting close now. Close to answers, or perhaps to more questions.

As they drove deeper into the forest, Morgan couldn't help but wonder what awaited her at the end of this journey. Would it be the reunion she longed for, or another cruel twist in the ongoing saga of her life? Whatever lay ahead, she knew one thing for certain - she had to see it through, no matter the cost.

Morgan's fingers trembled slightly as she reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out the worn, folded piece of paper. The letter. She unfolded it carefully, her eyes tracing the familiar handwriting that had haunted her dreams for weeks.

"Derik," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "look at this again. Tell me I'm not crazy."

Derik leaned over, his green eyes scanning the page. Morgan watched his face, searching for any sign of doubt.

"That hunting trip," she continued, her voice growing stronger. "I remember where I tripped over a root and broke my ankle. The sound of the stream nearby, the smell of pine needles..." Her voice caught in her throat. "Only my father would know this happened.”

Derik nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. "It's... incredibly specific," he admitted.

Morgan's grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles white against the array of tattoos that covered her arms. "And now, after all this time... after letting me believe he was dead since before I even got out of prison..." She swallowed hard, fighting back the lump in her throat. "He's alive, Derik. He has to be."

The car fell silent for a moment, only the crunch of gravel under the tires breaking the tension. Morgan's mind raced, a storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

"But why now?" she finally burst out, unable to contain the tumult of questions any longer. "Why reach out after all this time? What could he possibly want?"

She glanced at Derik, seeing the concern etched on his face. She knew he was worried about her, about the potential danger of this situation. But she couldn't turn back now. The possibility of seeing her father again, of finally getting answers to the questions that had plagued her for years, was too powerful to ignore.

Morgan's eyes flicked from the road to Derik, then back again. The endless Texas countryside stretched before them, bathed in the soft light of early morning. She could feel the weight of Derik's gaze, heavy with concern.

"I don't even know what I'm feeling, Derik," she admitted, her voice tight with frustration and confusion. The tattoos on her arms seemed to ripple as she flexed her grip on the steering wheel. "It's like... I should be happy, right? He's alive. That's a good thing. But at the same time..." She trailed off, jaw clenching.

The silence hung between them for a moment before she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. "He let me believe he was dead. He lied to me for my whole life. What kind of father does that?"

Morgan's mind raced, memories of her time in prison flooding back. Ten years of her life, gone. Ten years of believing her father was dead, of mourning him. And all that time, he'd been alive. The betrayal stung, sharp and raw.

Derik didn't respond right away. From the corner of her eye, Morgan could see him studying her, his green eyes intense. She knew that look – he was weighing his words carefully, as he always did in tense situations.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "A father with secrets. Big ones." He paused, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "That's what scares me, Morgan. We don't know what he's into or why he's been hiding. And this letter? It could be a setup."

Morgan shook her head, her resolve hardening. "I know it's risky," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I have to know the truth. If there's even the smallest chance it's really him..." Her voice trailed off, but her determination was clear in the set of her jaw, the steel in her eyes.

She thought of Richard Cordell, of the corruption that ran deep in the FBI. Of Thomas Grady, her apparent half-brother, gunned down on that pier. Of all the lies and betrayals that had shaped her life. But this – this was different. This was her father.

"I've come too far to back down now," Morgan said, more to herself than to Derik. The road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, leading her towards answers she both craved and feared.

The car lurched as Morgan steered it off the main road, the sudden transition to the rough dirt path jarring her from her thoughts. The dense woods closed in around them, branches scraping against the sides of the vehicle like grasping fingers. Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating a shifting mosaic on the forest floor.

Morgan's knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel tighter, her heart rate picking up. This place was achingly familiar, yet alien after so many years. She could almost hear the echoes of her bygone’s laughter, see the ghostly image of her father walking beside her on the trail.

As they entered a small clearing, Morgan cut the engine. The abrupt silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. She turned to Derik, her hand already on the door handle.

"I'm going alone from here," she said, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions roiling inside her.

Derik's reaction was immediate and fierce. "The hell you are," he snapped, his green eyes flashing with concern and frustration. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Morgan. What if something happens? Reception could be crap out here—"

"I can handle it," Morgan interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. She understood his worry, appreciated it even, but this was something she needed to do on her own. "I'm an FBI agent, remember? I've got my gun. If it's a trap, I'll deal with it. But I need to do this alone."

As she spoke, Morgan's free hand unconsciously traced the outline of her gun beneath her jacket. The weight of it was reassuring, grounding her in the present even as memories of the past threatened to overwhelm her.

She looked at Derik, really looked at him, taking in the worry lines etched around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. A pang of guilt shot through her. How many times had she shut him out like this? But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew she couldn't change course now.

"This is about more than just meeting my father," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's about facing my past, all of it. The good and the bad. I need to do this on my own terms, Derik. Can you understand that?"

Derik's green eyes locked with hers, a storm of emotions swirling within them. He exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging in reluctant acceptance. "Fine," he conceded, his voice gruff with concern. "But I'm not going anywhere. I'll wait right here. You call me the second something feels off, got it?"

Morgan's lips curved into a faint smile, warmth blooming in her chest despite the tension of the moment. "Got it," she replied, her voice soft with gratitude.

She stepped out of the truck, the crisp morning air wrapping around her like a chilly embrace. As she shut the door behind her, the woods seemed to close in, both familiar and strange. The weight of her past and the uncertainty of what lay ahead pressed down on her shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, Morgan started down the old trail, her boots crunching softly on the leaf-strewn ground. With each step, memories flooded back, as vivid and visceral as if they'd happened yesterday. The laughter she'd shared with her father echoed in her mind, a bittersweet reminder of simpler times.

"Listen," she could almost hear him say, his voice a ghostly whisper on the breeze. "Hear that? That's a deer moving through the brush."

Morgan paused, closing her eyes and focusing her senses as he'd taught her all those years ago. The forest was alive with subtle sounds – the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the soft scurrying of unseen creatures.

"I remember, Dad," she murmured to herself, a lump forming in her throat. "I remember everything."

As she pressed on, the trail seemed to guide her feet almost of its own accord. It was as if her body remembered the way, even after all these years. But with each familiar landmark, a nagging doubt grew stronger in her mind.

Who were you really, Dad? she thought, her brow furrowing. An FBI agent working under Richard Cordell? The man who shot Mary Price, Thomas’s mother? Your own lover? The father who taught me to track deer and fish for trout? Or something else entirely?

The questions swirled in her mind, mixing with the memories of that fateful hunting trip. She could almost feel the sharp pain in her ankle again, hear her own childish cries echoing through the trees. The memory, once treasured, now felt tainted by the weight of secrets and lies.

Morgan pressed on, her determination growing with each step. Whatever the truth might be, whatever her father's reasons for reaching out now, she was going to face everything head-on. She was no longer that little girl in the woods. She was Morgan Cross, survivor, fighter, and seeker of truth.

The forest enveloped Morgan in its eerie stillness, broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath her sturdy boots and the occasional mournful caw of a distant crow. Her heart raced as her eyes locked onto a familiar sight—a gnarled root jutting out from the earth, its twisted form a stark reminder of childhood pain and newfound uncertainty.

"This is it," Morgan whispered, her breath catching in her throat. She approached the root slowly, each step deliberate, as if the ground might give way beneath her. Her hands trembled slightly as she crouched down, running her fingers along the weathered bark.

Memories flooded back—the searing pain in her ankle, her father's strong arms carrying her through the woods, his gentle voice soothing her tears. But now, those memories were tinged with doubt and betrayal.

Morgan stood, her eyes scanning the surrounding trees. The shadows seemed to shift and dance, playing tricks on her senses. Was that movement just the wind, or something more?

"Dad?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly. "Are you here?"

The only response was the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Morgan's heart sank, but she steeled herself, calling out again, this time with more force.

"Dad! I'm here!" Her voice echoed through the trees. "If this is some kind of joke, it's not funny!"

Silence. No movement. Just the endless, oppressive stillness of the woods.

Morgan's mind raced. Was this all for nothing? Had she been fooled, lured out here on false pretenses? Or was her father watching her right now, weighing whether to reveal himself?

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her nostrils, grounding her. When she opened them again, her gaze was sharp, alert.

"Okay, Dad," she said, her voice low but firm. "If you're out there, listening... I need answers. You owe me that much. Why now? Why bring me back here, to this place?"

Morgan's hand instinctively moved to her hip, where her service weapon rested. The weight of it was reassuring, a reminder of who she was now—not a helpless child, but a trained FBI agent.

"I'm not leaving until I get some answers," she declared to the silent forest. "So either show yourself, or..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish the threat. What could she do, really, against a ghost?

As the seconds ticked by, Morgan felt a mix of emotions churning inside her—hope, fear, anger, longing. She had come so far, risked so much. To leave now empty-handed seemed unthinkable.

"Come on, Dad," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Don't let me down. Not again."

Morgan's fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against her thigh as she paced the small clearing, her eyes darting to every shadow and rustling leaf. The minutes crawled by, each one stretching her nerves tighter. She checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time—still no signal.

"Dammit," she muttered, shoving the useless device back into her pocket.

A pit formed in her stomach as doubt crept in, poisonous and insidious. Was this all just an elaborate hoax? Some sick joke at her expense? Or worse—had she walked right into a trap, leaving herself vulnerable and isolated?

The tattoos on her arms seemed to itch, a reminder of the years stolen from her. She'd been played before, and it had cost her everything. The thought that it might be happening again made her blood boil.

"I swear to God," she growled, kicking at the gnarled root that had once broken her ankle, "if this is some kind of set-up..."

But even as the anger flared, a small, fragile part of her still clung to hope. What if her father really was out there, watching, waiting? What if he had a good reason for all this secrecy?

"Dad," she called out again, her voice cracking slightly. "If you're here, please. Just... talk to me."

Only silence answered.

Morgan ran a hand through her dark hair, frustration mounting. "This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "I'm an FBI agent, for Christ's sake. I should be smarter than this."

She pulled out her phone one last time, ready to admit defeat. To her surprise, a single bar of signal flickered to life. Without hesitation, she dialed Derik's number, her heart pounding as it rang.

"Morgan?" Derik's voice came through, tinny but blessedly familiar. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, relief washing over her. "But he's not here. I think... I think I've been played, Derik."

There was a pause on the other end. When Derik spoke again, his voice was steady, reassuring. "Just get back to the car, Morgan. We'll figure this out together."

Morgan nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'm on my way back."

As she ended the call, Morgan cast one final glance around the clearing. The forest suddenly felt colder, more ominous. Whatever answers she'd hoped to find here, it was clear they weren't forthcoming. At least, not today. Morgan pocketed her phone, her fingers grazing the cool metal of her gun holster. The gesture, once comforting, now felt hollow. What good was a weapon against ghosts and memories?

She took a step forward, leaves crunching beneath her boots. The sound echoed unnaturally in the eerie stillness of the forest. Morgan's eyes darted from tree to tree, her instincts on high alert. Something felt off.

"Get it together, Cross, there’s no one here," she muttered, trying to shake off the creeping sense of unease. But her words sounded flat, unconvincing even to her own ears.

As she walked, her mind raced. Why would her father lure her out here only to stand her up? If he was alive, why the secrecy? And if this was a trap, why hadn't it sprung? The questions swirled in her mind, mixing with memories of her time in prison. The isolation, the constant vigilance, the feeling of being watched. It all came rushing back, making her skin prickle.

A twig snapped somewhere to her left. Morgan froze, her hand instinctively moving to her weapon. She held her breath, straining to hear over the pounding of her heart.

Nothing.

Slowly, she exhaled, forcing herself to relax. Just an animal, she told herself.

As she resumed walking, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. The forest, once familiar and almost comforting, now felt alien and hostile. Shadows seemed to shift at the corners of her vision, and every rustle of leaves sounded like footsteps. Here, in this forest where childhood memories collided with adult fears, she felt more vulnerable than she had in years. The tattoos that had become her armor, the tough exterior she'd cultivated in prison – none of it mattered here.

Something about the stillness felt wrong now, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

But one thing was certain—Morgan’s father wasn’t here. Maybe he was never going to be.