Page 4

Morgan's fingers drummed on the wooden surface of the conference table, a disquiet rhythm that mirrored her thoughts. She sat opposite Derik in the FBI briefing room, where silence hung heavy save for the mechanical whirr and click of the old projector. Shadows danced on the walls as it sputtered to life, casting an eerie glow on the two agents held captive by the unfolding scene.

The dust-speckled light from the projector cut through the dimness, revealing a timestamp in the corner of the grainy footage: twenty years ago. On the wall, the video displayed a younger Rachel Martinez, the woman whose recent murder had reopened wounds on a case that went cold a long time ago. The interrogation room was small, the kind of place that felt less like a space for seeking truth and more like a cell designed to squeeze confessions out of those who sat within its confines.

Rachel hunched over the metal table, her body language a silent symphony of discomfort. Her fingers twisted in her lap, betraying an inner turmoil that words could never fully capture. The camera did her no favors, positioned in such a way that shadows seemed to claw at her features, accentuating the stark fear etched into her face. She avoided looking directly at the interviewer as if direct eye contact might somehow make her reality more bearable.

"God, she looks like she's about to bolt," Morgan murmured, her voice barely above a whisper yet slicing through the stillness with ease. The tension rolled off her in waves, a tangible force that Derik, sitting beside her, could almost feel pressing against his skin.

The footage continued to play out, Rachel's image frozen in time. Her hair, dark and unkempt, was yanked back into a ponytail, strands escaping to frame her weary face. The blue scrubs she wore, meant to be a uniform of care and healing, were wrinkled and stained, a testament to what must have been countless hours of labor before this moment of involuntary confession.

As she began to speak, a faint tremor laced her words, causing them to quiver in the air before dissipating into nothingness. "I saw a man," she stammered, her gaze fixated on some unseen point beneath the table. "He was standing over Maria's body... in the parking garage."

Morgan leaned forward, her eyes never leaving the ghost of Rachel flickering before them. The past clung to the nurse like a second skin, one she couldn't shed despite the years that had passed. It was a look Morgan recognized all too well—the haunted stare of someone who had glimpsed the abyss and found it staring back.

"Standing over Maria Santos's body..." Morgan repeated under her breath, the details of the cold case aligning like grim constellations in her mind. The memory of Rachel's death, so meticulously staged to echo Maria's, sent a shiver down her spine. Whoever had snuffed out Rachel's life had done so with a message in mind—a message written in blood and left for the FBI to decipher.

Derik shifted in his chair, his green eyes reflecting the flicker of the video. He looked as tired as Morgan felt, the lines around his eyes deepening with each revelation. They both knew what it was like to have the past come knocking, unbidden and unwelcome. But this—this was an echo of violence that demanded their attention, a puzzle that only they could piece together.

"Twenty years," Derik said, his voice low. "And now she ends up dead, just like Maria." His gaze met Morgan's, a silent question passing between them. Who would want Rachel dead after all this time? And why?

The hush of the briefing room clung to Morgan like a second skin as she watched the interrogation video unfold. Rachel Martinez's voice, wavering and fragmented, filled the space between them and the past. "He was... tall," Rachel stammered, her eyes downcast, flitting up only for fleeting moments. "Around six feet." She paused, collecting her thoughts as though they were scattered pieces of glass. "Not too thin. Not bulky..." Her fingers continued their nervous dance.

Morgan could feel the young woman's exhaustion mirrored in her own limbs. The late nights spent chasing specters had taken their toll on her, leaving behind a feeling not unlike the fatigue that poured from Rachel's every word. "He had dark hair," Rachel continued, "short, and he wore a leather jacket." The details emerged like hesitant ghosts, reluctant to fully reveal themselves.

"Leather jackets" were dime a dozen, but Morgan knew it was these faint sketches that sometimes led to a portrait of guilt. She could sense Rachel's struggle to paint the picture, to dredge up the memory from where it hid, shrouded in the mist of fear and time.

Rachel hesitated again, pressing her lips together as if bracing against the tide of recollection. "I... I didn't really see him until he looked at me." Her voice quivered like a violin string stretched too tight. "Our eyes met." There was an unmistakable note of horror in her tone, an echo of a trauma imprinted on her soul. "His eyes were... intense. Angry, maybe."

Morgan watched Rachel's face on the screen, the stark terror etched into her young features. It was the look of someone who had glimpsed something primal, something that wasn't supposed to be seen by human eyes. The man's gaze had held hers in a vice-like grip, a silent threat passed between them—a promise of danger unspoken but understood.

"Then he ran." The words tumbled out of Rachel all at once. "Just turned around and disappeared into the shadows." Her shoulders sagged, defeated by the weight of what she hadn't done. "I couldn't move. I was too scared."

A chill crept down Morgan's spine, a ghostly finger tracing the line of tattoos hidden beneath her shirt. She knew that paralyzing fear, the sort that rooted you to the spot, even as every instinct screamed to run. Rachel had been a witness frozen in the headlights of fate, and now, maybe, she was dead because of what she'd seen.

As the video sputtered to its end, the air felt heavier, as if the very atmosphere bore the burden of unresolved sins. Morgan's hand unconsciously brushed the letter in her pocket, the one that linked her to a father long believed dead. The words within it, the secrets it hinted at, they too were shadows cast by the past—shadows that now reached out toward her, grasping for attention with cold, desperate fingers.

"Exhaustion can make you doubt what you've seen," Derik murmured beside her, his voice a quiet rumble. He knew better than most how the mind could play tricks, how the bottle could blur reality until truth slipped through your fingers like sand.

Morgan's gaze remained fixated on the grainy image as Rachel Martinez's eyes flickered across the screen, flitting from one corner to another. She was like a cornered animal, her instincts screaming danger while her body remained frozen in place. The interrogation room of the past, with its stark walls and harsh lighting, held the young woman captive in more ways than one. It wasn't just the physical space that trapped her; it was the memory of a killer's cold stare, the terror that had burrowed deep into her soul.

The crisp sound of Morgan's pen tapping against the notepad punctuated the silence between each frame of the video. Her dark brown hair, streaked with strands of experience and trials, cascaded down as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Each tap was a metronome counting down the time they had lost, the minutes ticking away since Rachel's death—and with it, perhaps, their best lead.

"She looks terrified," Morgan whispered, her voice barely breaking through the hum of the projector. The tattoos etched into her skin—a map of her hardships—tightened with her muscles as she clenched her jaw, watching Rachel wrestle with the shadows of her past.

"She probably was," Derik agreed, his arms folded over his chest as if bracing against the chill of the unsolved case that played before them. His green eyes, normally sharp and piercing, softened with empathy. "She was only 28, wasn't she?" He knew the weight of words unspoken, the burden of truths untold. "And the way she talks—it's like she's afraid of saying too much or getting something wrong. That's a lot of pressure for someone her age, especially if she thought she was their only lead."

Morgan nodded, feeling the connection to the young nurse who had found herself at the crosshairs of a murderer all those years ago. She understood what it meant to be alone against an invisible enemy, to carry a secret so heavy it could cost you everything. She had been framed, betrayed, and cast aside by those she trusted, by an institution she had served. Now, she sat here with the ghosts of her own past swirling around her—a reminder that the fight for justice was never truly over.

Morgan watched the grainy footage as the interviewer leaned in, his voice a static-filled echo in the quiet of the briefing room. "Did he say anything to you, Rachel? Any gesture, anything at all that stood out?" The man's words were clinical, but there was an undertone of urgency that resonated with Morgan's own drive for answers.

Rachel, her image frozen in time and circumstance, shook her head—a movement quick and jerky like a startled bird. "No," she stammered, the word barely escaping her lips before she was rushing on, trying to stitch together the fragmented memories. "It was... it was so fast. I'm not even sure—"

"Take your time," the interviewer coaxed, but his patience seemed more a requirement of his role than genuine empathy.

"Everything’s just... blurred," Rachel continued, her hands now clenched into fists upon the table. Her knuckles whitened against the pale skin, betraying the internal struggle between what she recalled and what fear urged her to suppress. "I don't know if I saw him clearly. But he was there, over her body, and then..."

Morgan's eyes traced the line of tension running through Rachel's arms, the stiff set of her shoulders. In that dingy interrogation room, under the harsh scrutiny of the camera and the relentless probe for truth, the young nurse had been drowning in doubt and terror. And now, years later, the ripples of that moment were still expanding, touching lives, ending them.

The footage stuttered to its end, the final frame capturing Rachel mid-sentence, lips parted as if she might dispel the shadows with a single, illuminating revelation. But the screen held only silence, a stark tableau of unanswered questions that stretched across the years to the present. In the briefing room, no one moved.

Morgan felt the hush settle over them like a shroud. Derik shifted beside her, his gaze locked on the paused image of Rachel, searching for something in that haunted expression that might lead them to her killer. The air seemed colder suddenly, dense with implications and the suffocating presence of death.

"Damn," Derik muttered, echoing Morgan's thoughts. They both knew the cost of such moments—how they could haunt you, change you.

Morgan's fingers paused, the crisp whisper of paper ceasing as she leaned back in her chair. The case file lay open, a testament to dead-ends and faded leads. Rachel Martinez's eyes, wide with the shock of memory, seemed to gaze up at her from the scattered pages. "So she saw the killer," Morgan said, her voice slicing through the tense silence that had settled in the room. She felt a kinship with Rachel, bound by the ghosts of unresolved cases that lingered like specters.

"Or at least she thought she did. But no one was ever caught." Her eyes moved across the investigators' notes. They had cast a wide net, reeling in suspects who matched the description—tall, donned in leather—but it wasn't enough. Not without something concrete to pin them down. The trail had gone cold, leaving only the ghostly imprint of a suspect who might as well have been a phantom.

Derik shifted, his presence a steady thrum next to her. His chin rested in his palm as he considered the screen where Rachel's testimony had played out moments before. "If she really saw him, then he saw her too," he mused, his voice low and contemplative. "He looked her right in the eye, according to her testimony. So why didn't he come after her back then? Why wait twenty years to kill her now?"

The question hung between them, a puzzle demanding to be solved. Derik's troubled green eyes sought hers, both sets filled with the weariness that came from years of chasing shadows.

Morgan turned to the autopsy photos again, each image a stark reminder of the brutality of their work. Rachel's body, once animated with fear and life, was now just evidence; the blood pooled around her spoke of violence and calculation. The stab wound—a signature left by the killer—was precise, the kind of carefully executed wound that spoke volumes to those who knew how to listen.

"Maybe he didn't see her as a threat back then," Morgan proposed, her dark brown hair falling across her brow as she leaned closer to the images. "She didn't know enough to point directly at him, and without evidence, he probably thought he was safe."

"But something must've changed," Derik interjected, his frown deepening. The lines on his face told of sleepless nights and battles fought, both personal and professional. He hadn't touched alcohol in years, but the struggle was etched into his being, much like the tattoos that adorned Morgan's skin—a tapestry of resilience.

"What could've changed after all this time?" Derik's voice was tinged with frustration. It was a sentiment Morgan shared, her own past a shadowy maze of betrayal and injustice. Once framed for crimes she didn't commit, she had emerged with scars and a resolve tempered like steel.

Morgan studied Rachel's face in the photographs, seeing not just the victim of a long-dormant killer but the echo of her own battles. Those who had conspired against her were still out there, including Cordell, who had haunted her steps like a wraith. The letter from her presumed-dead father had offered a glimmer of hope, only to leave her waiting alone with nothing but the rustle of leaves in the woods. And yet, she persevered, chasing the faintest whispers of truth through the darkest alleys of humanity. This case would be no different. She had to give it her all.

Morgan’s fingers stalled on the glossy surface of the photograph, her gaze locked onto the haunting parallels between past and present. The positioning of Rachel Martinez's body—an eerie mirror to that of Maria Santos two decades earlier—spoke volumes in its silent stillness. The killer had recreated the crime scene with meticulous detail, down to the deliberate stab wound and the cold sprawl of limbs.

"It feels like a message," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely rising above the hum of the projector. She flipped back to another photo of Maria's murder, her pen tracing invisible lines connecting the dots of both scenes. The similarities were too glaring to ignore; it was as if the killer had left breadcrumbs, leading them through a morbid trail of memories. The intent was clear: someone wanted them to tie these strings together, to see the pattern in the chaos.

"Whoever this is," Morgan continued, feeling the weight of Derik's gaze upon her, "they're not just tying up loose ends—they’re taunting us." Her mind raced, trying to sift through potential meanings, hidden threats, or boasts veiled within the replication of the old crime scene. Had the killer been biding their time all these years only to emerge from the shadows with such a brazen declaration? Twenty years was a long time—he could have moved somewhere else, left the country, built another life. Maybe he went to jail for another crime, served twenty years behind bars, and was now out. There was no way of knowing, not without knowing who he truly was.

Derik leaned back, the creak of his chair slicing through the tense air. His arms crossed over his chest—a protective barrier or perhaps a subconscious bracing against the twisted reality they were facing. "Or it’s a copycat," he said, countering her theory with one of his own. "Someone who wants us running around in circles chasing a case that’s already gone cold. Copycat killers love the attention, especially when they can confuse investigators."

The notion settled into the room, a palpable presence that seemed to challenge Morgan's instincts. It was a possibility, certainly—one that could not be discounted given the penchant for imitators to latch onto infamous crimes. Yet something gnawed at her, a visceral tug that whispered of connections deeper than mere imitation.

"Copycats can be sloppy," she retorted, her brow furrowing as she considered the crisp precision of Rachel's murder scene. "They recreate what they know from reports, but this—" She gestured to the photos spread before them, this is intimate knowledge. It's too accurate, Derik. This person knew the original crime scene personally, or they've had access to information not released to the public."

Morgan's hand hovered over the pause button, her fingers tense as she absorbed the silence that had settled in the room like a foreboding mist. Derik's suggestion of a copycat killer nagged at her, but it was a line of thought riddled with holes, and she knew it. She let out a slow breath, grounding herself in the certainty that Rachel Martinez's death was a deliberate act, not an imitation.

"Either way, we treat this like an active threat," Morgan said, her voice carrying a steel edge. She nodded, conceding to the shadow of doubt that there might be more than one predator lurking in the darkness of their case. "Someone out there wanted Rachel Martinez dead, and they've already shown they’re willing to kill. If we don’t get ahead of them, it’s only a matter of time before they strike again."

She stood up, the chair scraping against the floor, and pulled open the drawer of the metal filing cabinet beside her desk. The sound echoed through the room, a stark reminder of the urgency pressing down on them. Her fingers flipped through folders with methodical precision until she found what she was looking for—the original suspect list from the Santos case, yellowed with age but no less significant.

"We start with these," she declared, pulling the papers free and laying them flat on the table. Her eyes scanned the names of the men who matched Rachel's description of the killer. Tall with short dark hair and a penchant for leather jackets—those were the shadows they needed to chase. She handed a copy to Derik. "We need to figure out where they are now, what they’ve been up to, if any of them slipped up over the years. Maybe we missed something."

As Derik took the papers, his gaze met hers, a silent exchange of determination mingled with the fatigue that came with reopening old wounds. They both knew the drill; suspects could change over the years, their lives taking turns that either pushed them further into darkness or allowed them to blend back into society, unnoticed.

Morgan's thoughts returned unbidden to her father, her heart clenching with the pain of his absence and the betrayal that still stung. Could there be a link between him and this case? Was he trying to reach out to her through these twisted events? It was a theory as wild as it was unlikely, yet it gnawed at her, demanding attention.

Derik shuffled the papers in his hands, breaking her reverie. "We'll have to check current databases and see if any of them have popped up recently," he suggested, his green eyes searching hers as if trying to gauge her thoughts.

Morgan sifted through the stack of faded papers, her fingers brushing over the rough edges as if they might reveal secrets hidden for decades. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of documents and Derik's steady breathing beside her. But inside Morgan's chest, a storm of emotions raged—a mix of determination and fear that knotted her gut.

She glanced at the projector screen, where Rachel’s image was frozen in time. Those wide, terrified eyes seemed to plead for justice, trapped in the amber of old footage. Morgan's heart clenched at the sight, a silent vow forming within her: she would not let Rachel’s death be in vain.

For twenty years, Rachel had lived with the image of a murderer etched into her memory—the same man who had taken Maria Santos's life in cold blood. Now, silence enveloped Rachel's voice, leaving behind a gap that echoed through the years.