Page 16 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

The soft glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across Morgan's living room, illuminating the stacks of case files spread across her coffee table like miniature skyscrapers of manila and white.

Morgan's eyes burned, her vision blurring as she stared at the documents before her.

The weight of exhaustion pressed against her like a physical force, but she stubbornly refused to give in to sleep.

"Just a little longer," she muttered to herself, rubbing her temples. "There has to be something here I'm missing."

Morgan shifted, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the hardwood floor. Beside her, Skunk's rhythmic breathing was the only steady sound in the otherwise silent house. The big dog's presence was comforting, a warm, solid weight against her thigh.

She glanced across the room to where Derik lay sprawled on her couch, one arm draped over his face. His chest rose and fell in the slow cadence of deep sleep. A pang of guilt twisted in Morgan's gut. She should have sent him home hours ago, but a selfish part of her had wanted him to stay.

"Some partner I am," she whispered, careful not to wake him. "Making you pull an all-nighter on a case that's going nowhere."

Morgan's gaze drifted back to the files, her mind churning. She reached for her coffee mug, grimacing at the cold dregs within. The bitter taste did little to clear the fog from her mind. Morgan set the mug down with a soft clink, her fingers trailing over the handle.

"Dad," she breathed, the word barely audible. "What would you do?"

The memory of John Christopher's face flashed in her mind—alive, after all these years. The revelation still felt surreal, like a dream she might wake from at any moment. She closed her eyes, picturing the determination in his gaze as he'd explained everything to her in that hidden shack.

"Focus on what you know," she could almost hear him say. "Build from there."

Morgan's eyes snapped open. She reached for a notepad, scribbling furiously as her thoughts coalesced.

A soft whine from Skunk pulled her from her reverie. The dog's tail thumped gently against the floor as he lifted his head, dark eyes fixed on her with concern.

Morgan managed a tired smile, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. "I'm okay, boy," she assured him. "Just trying to put the pieces together."

Skunk huffed, unconvinced, and rested his chin on her knee. Morgan's smile softened as she stroked his fur, grateful for the companionship.

"What do you think, Skunk?" she asked quietly. "Any insights into our mystery killer?"

The dog's only response was to snuffle and press closer against her side. Morgan chuckled softly, her gaze drifting back to the sleeping form of her partner.

"At least one of us is getting some rest," she mused.

With a sigh, Morgan turned back to her notes. Sleep could wait. She had a killer to catch.

Morgan's eyes burned as she sifted through the sea of documents before her.

Hawthorne's cases blurred into an indistinguishable mass of legal jargon and dates.

She blinked hard, trying to focus on the details that mattered.

Sentences handed down, lives irrevocably altered by the stroke of Hawthorne's pen.

There had to be something here, some thread connecting the judge's death to this elaborate staging.

"Dammit," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "What am I missing?"

Skunk's ears perked up at the sound of her voice, but he remained nestled against her side, a warm, comforting presence. Across the room, Derik stirred slightly in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into silence.

Morgan's gaze fell on a familiar name: Sarah Reeves. The young law clerk's file lay open atop a stack of papers, her smiling face staring up from an old employee ID photo. Morgan reached for it, her fingers tracing the edge of the photograph.

"Why you?" she whispered. "What's your connection to all this?"

She scanned the report again, searching for any detail she might have overlooked. Depression. Deteriorating mental state. Suicide. The words were clinical, detached, reducing a vibrant young woman to a tragic statistic.

Morgan closed her eyes, trying to picture Sarah as she must have been – ambitious, driven, working long hours under Hawthorne's exacting standards. What had pushed her over the edge? Was it really just the pressure of the job, or was there something more?

"There has to be more to your story, Sarah," Morgan murmured. "What aren't these reports telling me?"

She flipped through the pages, looking for anything out of place. Witness statements, medical records, all painting a picture of a woman spiraling into despair. But something nagged at Morgan, a persistent feeling that she was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

"If you were connected to Hawthorne's death," she reasoned aloud, "why wait a year?”

Morgan's fingers traced the edge of Sarah Reeves' file, her mind churning with possibilities. She wanted—needed—there to be a connection between Sarah's death and Hawthorne's murder. But the more she searched, the more elusive that link became.

She closed her eyes, trying to visualize the timeline. Sarah's suicide, a year ago. Hawthorne's murder, just a day ago.

Morgan exhaled heavily, rubbing her temples. The headache that had been threatening all evening was now pounding behind her eyes. "Focus," she commanded herself. "There has to be something I'm missing."

She reached for her coffee mug, grimacing as she swallowed the cold dregs. As she set it down, her gaze fell on a small detail in Sarah's file—a notation about a therapist Sarah had been seeing in the months before her death.

"Dr. Elaine Foster," Morgan read aloud. "Maybe you can shed some light on—"

The shrill ring of her phone cut through the silence like a knife, jolting Skunk from his peaceful slumber. The dog's head snapped up, his ears perked and alert as Morgan snatched her phone from the coffee table. Her eyes widened as she saw the caller ID: Mueller.

A chill ran down her spine. "If he's calling this late, it can't be good," she muttered, her thumb hovering over the answer button for a split second before she swiped to accept the call.

"Mueller, what's going on?" Morgan asked, her voice tight with tension.

There was a pause on the other end, filled only by the sound of Mueller's heavy breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was weary, laden with the weight of bad news. "Morgan, we've got another one. Another crime scene."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Morgan's free hand clenched into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. She'd known, deep down, that the killer would strike again, but she'd never expected it to be so soon. The realization made her stomach churn.

"Where?" she managed to ask, already pushing herself to her feet. Skunk whined softly, sensing her distress.

What would they find this time? Another staged scenario? Another victim who'd been given a chance to escape but hadn't made it? The possibilities made her head spin.

"I'm on my way," she said, ending the call. For a moment, she stood still, trying to gather her thoughts. The fatigue that had been weighing on her moments ago was gone, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and a gnawing sense of dread.

"Damn it," she whispered, running a hand through her hair. "We're always one step behind." The frustration in her voice was palpable, echoing in the quiet room. She glanced at the scattered case files, at Sarah Reeves' photo staring up at her. "What are we missing?"

With a deep breath, Morgan steeled herself for what was to come.

Another crime scene. Another victim. Another piece of the puzzle that she had to fit together before the killer struck again.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her shoulders as she moved to wake Derik, knowing that the long night ahead would only be the beginning.

"Derik, wake up," she urged, her voice tight with urgency.

He groaned, his face scrunching up in protest as he slowly stirred. "Wha...? Morgan?" he mumbled, blinking groggily.

But the moment his eyes focused on her face—the taut lines of worry etched around her mouth, the barely contained panic in her eyes—Derik bolted upright, instantly alert. "What's happened?" he asked, already reaching for his shoes.

"Another body," Morgan said, her words clipped. "We need to go. Now."

Derik nodded, no further explanation needed. As he laced up his shoes, Morgan grabbed her jacket, her mind racing. "I knew he'd strike again," she muttered, more to herself than to Derik. "But this soon? What's his game?"

"We'll figure it out," Derik assured her, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. It was one of the things Morgan appreciated most about him—his ability to remain calm under pressure.

As they hurried out the door, Morgan paused, looking back at Skunk. The dog whined softly, sensing her distress. "Stay, boy," she commanded gently. "We'll be back soon."

The drive to the crime scene was tense, the roads eerily empty in the pre-dawn hours. Morgan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched as she navigated the familiar streets of Dallas.

"What do we know so far?" Derik asked, breaking the heavy silence.

Morgan shook her head. "Not much. Mueller didn't have many details. Just an address and... and confirmation that it's connected to our case."

As they approached their destination, the flashing lights of police cruisers cut through the darkness, a beacon guiding them to the latest horror. Morgan felt her stomach tighten as she pulled up to the curb.

"An abandoned rental space," she murmured, taking in the dilapidated building before them. "Clear across town from the first scene."

Derik's brow furrowed. "He's moving around. Trying to throw us off?"

"Maybe," Morgan replied, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Or maybe location is part of his message." She paused, her hand on the door handle. "You ready for this?"