Page 25 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

Morgan leaned forward in the stiff-backed chair of the FBI briefing room, her fingers splayed across countless crime scene photographs and witness statements.

The clock on the wall ticked away, indifferent to the urgency that thrummed through her veins.

It was late afternoon, and shadows began to creep over the piles of evidence that had become the landscape of her obsession.

She'd been here for hours, the same questions circling like vultures in her mind.

With a hand calloused from years of bearing the weight of her own past, she shuffled through the papers once more, seeking the elusive thread that would unravel the mystery.

Then, amidst the sea of facts and conjecture, it surged forth—a stark realization so potent it struck her with the force of a physical blow.

Darren Reeves. How had she missed it? His eyes had held sorrow, yes, but behind that veil of grief, there must have been something darker, something she'd failed to see.

In every meeting, Darren had played the part of the bereft sibling to perfection.

His voice had cracked with emotion as he recounted Sarah's tragic end; his body had seemed to sag under the weight of loss.

Not once had Morgan considered him capable of orchestrating the horrors that unfolded since.

But now, hindsight sharpened her vision, and she saw the performance for what it was—a mask.

Her stomach churned, the bile of realization rising in her throat.

He hadn't appeared vengeful or methodical—hadn't fit the profile of someone driven by rage to meticulously plan and execute such chilling retribution.

Yet here she was, staring at the connection she should have made days ago.

It was all there in front of her: Richard Hawthorne and Michelle Knox, both guilty of turning a blind eye when it mattered most, both punished with poetic cruelty.

And who knew that pain better than Darren?

Morgan rose from her chair, her movements robotic as she gathered the files.

Every fiber of her being screamed that time was slipping away, that Darren Reeves was out there, weaving his web of judgment around the next victim.

She felt sick, the sickness of one who knows they've unwittingly allowed a monster to walk free, disguised as a victim.

Her dark brown hair, usually a shield of professionalism, hung limply around her tattoo-covered arms, a testament to the weariness that had settled deep within her bones.

The air in the briefing room felt thick, suffocating.

She needed to act, to move—to chase down the truth she'd so narrowly brushed past. But for just a moment, she stood still, allowing the gravity of her oversight to sink in fully before she set out to make it right.

Darren Reeves was no longer just a grieving brother; he was the key to a door Morgan had never thought to open.

And beyond that door lay a darkness she was now compelled to confront.

Morgan's heart hammered against her ribcage, an erratic drumline that echoed the blare of sirens as she and Derik raced through the streets of Dallas.

The midday heat was oppressive, a thick blanket smothering the city, but inside the car, a chill had settled over Morgan.

It was a cold realization, one that should have been obvious from the start: Darren Reeves, the trauma nurse.

A man intimately acquainted with life and death, who knew how to keep someone alive just as well as he knew how to watch them die.

She thought of Carl Worth’s brother, collapsing in the lobby, a life slipping away amidst the indifference of passersby—indifference personified by Michelle Knox.

Darren Reeves had been there, hands determined and steady, fighting a losing battle against the shroud of death.

And when his efforts weren't enough, when the man's breath faded into nothingness, Michelle Knox had continued on her path, unshaken, unbothered.

It was a moment that seared itself into Darren's soul, a wound that never closed, festering into the vendetta that now consumed him.

"Are you okay?" Derik asked, casting a sidelong glance at her. His green eyes searched for reassurance, but what could she offer? She was chasing ghosts, haunted by the specters of her past and the looming threat of the present.

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice steadier than she felt. "Just focus on driving."

As they turned onto Darren's street, a foreboding silence swallowed the sirens' cries.

Derik killed the lights, coasting the last few yards, their arrival as stealthy as a whisper.

Morgan's fingers tightened around the handle of her gun, the metal cool and familiar in her palm.

She glanced at Derik, seeing the same tension mirrored in his posture, the readiness that came with years of experience.

"Be careful," he murmured, his hand brushing against hers before they stepped out of the car. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath their feet as they approached the house.

The front door loomed before them, a barrier to the truth that lay within. Morgan's mind raced with possibilities, each more grim than the last. What if they were too late? What unspeakable scene awaited them behind the mundane facade of suburbia?

With a nod from Derik, Morgan reached out and rang the doorbell.

The hollow chime felt like a final plea for normalcy, a hope that maybe, just maybe, they were wrong about Darren Reeves.

But the silence that followed spoke volumes, and Morgan's gut twisted with dread.

This was no longer just a race against a killer; it was a descent into the heart of darkness, a journey she knew all too well.

"Ready?" Derik whispered, his hand poised above his weapon.

"Always," Morgan replied, her resolve steeling her nerves.

Together, they prepared to breach the threshold, to confront the darkness that waited on the other side. In that moment, they were not just partners, not just lovers—they were the last line of defense against a madness that sought to judge and execute with merciless precision.

***

Morgan's hand closed around the butt of her gun, a familiar weight settling in her palm as she waited for Derik to give the signal. With no answer at the door of Darren Reeves’s house, they exchanged a look that needed no words.

Both agents were primed for what might face them on the other side. It was time to break in.

Derik stepped back, driving his boot into the lock with practiced force. The door swung open with a violent creak, revealing the dimly lit hallway of Darren Reeves's home. They moved in, clearing corners with swift efficiency, their movements synchronized after countless hours of training together.

The air inside was stale, untouched by human presence for days, perhaps longer.

A chill wrapped around Morgan's spine, not from the temperature, but from the sense of abandonment that clung to the place.

Dust motes danced in the slanting light as they advanced, room by room.

Each space they entered was methodically searched, but it was clear: He had already moved on.

"Looks like we're too late," Derik's voice was low, tinged with frustration.

"Let's keep looking. There might be something left behind," Morgan replied, her instincts refusing to let go. Her eyes scanned the environment for any sign, any clue that might have been overlooked.

In the last bedroom, the first thing that caught her eye was the wall.

Newspaper clippings were haphazardly pinned and taped across the plaster, forming a macabre collage that chronicled their own case.

Photos of the victims stared back at them, their final moments immortalized by press sensationalism.

Headlines screamed details of the murders, each font larger and more lurid than the last.

"Jesus," Derik muttered beside her, his hands rubbing together in that nervous gesture that belied his calm exterior.

"Confirmation," Morgan said, her voice hollow.

The killer's narrative was laid bare before them, a twisted roadmap of retribution.

But the architect of this horror was absent, a ghost eluding capture.

The realization that he was still out there, possibly enacting the next phase of his plan, sent a shiver down her spine.

"Let's get CSI in here. Maybe he left something else," she suggested, though the sinking feeling in her gut told her that Darren Reeves was far too meticulous to leave anything by accident.

As Derik called it in, Morgan lingered, studying the faces of the dead and the words that sealed their fates.

This wasn't just a man grieving his sister; this was someone who had taken his pain and transformed it into a mission.

A mission that they had to end before anyone else became a headline on a killer's wall.

***

Morgan's fingers flew across the keyboard in a staccato rhythm, her eyes scanning the plethora of tabs open on the computer screen.

Files, records, reports—every shred of Darren Reeves's life sprawled before her as she sat hunched in the FBI headquarters' dimly lit room.

The air was thick with urgency; Derik stood behind her, phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur as he spoke with the hospital where Reeves worked.

"Nothing," he finally said, hanging up and meeting Morgan's gaze. "He hasn't shown up for three days."

"Three days," Morgan echoed, something cold and heavy settling in her stomach.

She felt the weight of each second ticking by, aware that with every moment lost, Reeves could be plotting his next move.

He had been right under their noses, wearing the mask of the bereaved brother so convincingly that she had almost let herself be swayed by his grief.

Almost.

She leaned back, rubbing at the tension knotting her neck and shoulders. Her dark brown hair fell around her face like a curtain, and she pushed it back irritably. Despite the chill of the room, sweat beaded at her temples—the product of adrenaline and a mind racing to connect the dots.

"He's been planning this for months," she murmured, more to herself than Derik.

Her eyes were drawn again to the screen, to the bank statements showing withdrawals, the cash transactions too frequent to be coincidental.

He had rented spaces, always in cash, never leaving a traceable footprint.

Each victim had been chosen with chilling precision, their fates sealed by their past actions—or rather, their inactions.

Darren Reeves wasn't just inflicting pain; he was meting out his own twisted form of justice.

Morgan's thoughts drifted unbidden to her own past, to the years stolen from her, to the betrayal that had landed her in prison.

She understood bitterness, the desire for vengeance.

But where she had fought to clear her name, to bring down those who had wronged her, Reeves had built traps.

He had constructed trials designed to force his victims to face the consequences of their apathy, the same way his sister had faced hers alone.

"Obsessed with justice," she finally broke the silence, her voice tinged with a bitterness born of experience. "Or his version of it."

Derik nodded, lines of strain etched into his face. They both knew what was at stake. They both understood that each revelation brought them closer to the man who had turned grief into a weapon, but also deeper into a maze with no clear exit.

"Let's get a list of all the short-term rentals paid in cash within the last year," Morgan said, standing up and stretching the stiffness from her limbs.

Her movements were methodical, purposeful, mirroring the resolve tightening within her chest. She wouldn't let another tragedy unfold—not on her watch.

As they began to coordinate with local law enforcement, Morgan's mind was ablaze with the grim tableau of Reeves's vengeance. The trap rooms, the meticulously planned scenarios—it was all coming together in a narrative she wished she couldn't comprehend.

Morgan's thoughts turned to the countless preventable deaths Reeves had witnessed as a trauma nurse.

His sister's suicide, a pivotal point of pain that seemed to have set him on this path of righteous fury.

Each victim selected as a symbol, a stand-in for those who had bypassed the chance to intervene, to save a life.

How many more had looked away? How many more scenes had etched themselves into Reeves' memory, fueling his compulsion to force others to face judgment?

She knew they were missing something crucial, a piece of the puzzle that remained obscured by the chaos of the investigation and their own desperate need to stop the killings. There was no telling how many traps were left or who might be the next to fall into his fatal embrace.

As she reached for another pin to add to the board, a phone rang, slicing through the tension. Derik, stationed at a nearby desk, answered it with his usual clipped efficiency. Morgan watched as his posture stiffened, the hand not holding the receiver clenching reflexively into a fist.

"Cross," he called out, voice sharpening with urgency. "A man survived one of Reeves' traps."

She straightened instantly, stepping toward him. "Who?" she demanded, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribs.

"Thomas Bryant," Derik replied, eyes locking with hers. "He's alive but barely conscious. They're rushing him to the ER now."

Morgan felt a surge of adrenaline. A survivor meant a witness, a chance to glean insight from someone who had experienced Reeves' twisted version of justice firsthand.

But it also meant Reeves would be compelled to close that loose end to ensure no one escaped his verdict.

They needed to act fast to protect Bryant and leverage any information he could provide.

"Let's move," she said, already heading for the door, Derik at her heels.