Page 3 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

"I don't like this," she whispered to Skunk, who looked up at her with attentive eyes. "It feels... wrong. Like we're walking into something we can't undo."

The pitbull's only response was a soft whine, but it was enough to keep Morgan moving forward. Her free hand absently stroked his broad head as they picked their way through the underbrush.

"What if it's really him, Skunk?" Morgan's voice cracked slightly. "What if he's been alive all this time? How do I even begin to process that?"

The trees seemed to lean in, as if listening to her doubts. Morgan pushed on, her mind racing with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. What could have driven her father into hiding? What danger was so great that he'd let his own daughter believe he was dead?

After what felt like an eternity of trekking through the dense forest, Morgan reached a familiar clearing. Her breath caught in her throat as recognition washed over her. This was the spot where she had fallen all those years ago, where her childhood innocence had shattered along with her ankle.

She stopped, her flashlight beam sweeping the area. The world around her fell silent, save for the rhythmic sound of Skunk's breathing beside her. Morgan strained her ears, listening for any sign of her father's presence.

"Dad?" she called out softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you here?"

The forest remained stubbornly quiet, offering no answers to her plea. Morgan's grip tightened on her flashlight, her other hand hovering near her holstered weapon. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by Skunk's steady panting and the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

Then—

A flicker of light caught Morgan's eye, drawing her attention to the far edge of the clearing. Her heart leapt into her throat as she saw a flashlight beam dancing between the trees, growing steadily brighter. Someone was approaching.

"Dad?" she called out again, louder this time, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and apprehension.

The light swung in her direction, momentarily blinding her. Morgan shielded her eyes, squinting against the glare. As the beam lowered, a figure emerged from the shadows, and Morgan's breath caught in her chest.

There he stood, barely ten feet away—her father, a man she'd believed dead.

Morgan's flashlight beam settled on his face, illuminating features both familiar and foreign.

It was him, undoubtedly, but time had left its mark.

His once-dark hair was now streaked with gray, and a thick, unruly beard covered the lower half of his face.

Deep lines etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes, speaking of years of hardship and worry.

"Morgan," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She stared at him, frozen in place, her mind reeling. He looked leaner, almost gaunt, his clothes worn and ill-fitting. This was not the strong, confident man from her memories, but rather someone who seemed to have been running for a very long time.

"Is it really you?" Morgan managed to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper. She wanted to rush forward, to touch him, to make sure he was real and not some cruel apparition conjured by her desperate mind. But caution held her back. "How... how is this possible?"

Her father took a hesitant step forward, his hands raised slightly as if to show he meant no harm. "I know you must have a thousand questions, Morgan. I promise I'll explain everything. But we can't stay here.”

Morgan's restraint crumbled. In three swift strides, she closed the distance between them and threw her arms around her father.

The familiar scent of pine and leather enveloped her, triggering a flood of childhood memories.

She clung to him, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of his jacket, as if afraid he might disappear again if she let go.

"Dad," she choked out, her voice muffled against his chest. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision. The reality of his presence overwhelmed her senses. He was here, alive, his heart beating steadily against her cheek.

John's arms wrapped around her, hesitant at first, then tightening as he pulled her close. "I'm sorry, Morgan," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry."

For a moment, Morgan allowed herself to be that little girl again, safe in her father's embrace. But as the initial shock began to wear off, a simmering anger rose within her. She pulled back, her hands still gripping his arms, and searched his weathered face.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice quavering with a mix of fury and hurt. "Why did you let me believe you were dead? Do you have any idea what I've been through?"

John's eyes, so like her own, were filled with pain and regret. "Morgan, I--"

"No," she cut him off, her voice rising. "I mourned you. And all this time..." She released him abruptly, taking a step back. Her hand unconsciously moved to her holstered weapon, a habit born from years of distrust. "Why now? Why reach out after all this time?"

Her father's gaze flickered to her hand, noting the gesture. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "It's complicated, Morgan. There are things you don't know, dangers I've been trying to protect you from."

Morgan barked out a harsh laugh. "I know more now, Dad. I know about Cordell. I know about Thomas Grady.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with years of unspoken pain and resentment. Morgan tried to reconcile the man before her with the father she thought she'd lost. She wanted answers, needed them desperately, but a part of her was terrified of what those answers might reveal.

John's eyes darted around the clearing, his posture tense. "We can't talk here," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Come back to my cabin. I'll explain everything once we're safe."

Morgan's jaw clenched, frustration bubbling up inside her. She'd waited too long for answers, and now he wanted her to wait even longer. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the weathered lines of his face, the haunted look in his eyes. This man was both familiar and a stranger.

"Safe from what?" she pressed.

John shook his head, glancing over his shoulder. "Please, Morgan. I promise I'll tell you everything, but not here."

She hesitated, searching his face for any hint of deception. The tightness around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands – these were signs of genuine fear, not the tells of a liar. Still, after everything she'd been through, trust didn't come easily.

"How do I know this isn't some elaborate trap?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "How do I know you're really... you?"

A sad smile flickered across John's face. "You were wearing your lucky Rangers cap the day you broke your ankle. You insisted I carry you all the way back to the truck, even though I offered to go get help. You said, 'Cross women don't need to be rescued.'"

The memory hit Morgan like a physical blow. She could almost feel the weight of that cap on her head, smell the crisp autumn air. It was a detail so specific, so personal, that it couldn't have been faked.

She swallowed hard, her resolve wavering.

Every instinct honed by years in the Bureau screamed at her to be cautious, to demand more information before agreeing to anything.

But the part of her that was still that stubborn little girl in the woods, the part that had never stopped missing her father, made the decision for her.

"Okay," Morgan said finally, giving a small nod. "Lead the way."

As they started moving through the darkened forest, Morgan's mind raced. What had her father gotten himself into? How did it connect to her own framing and imprisonment? And most importantly, could she trust the man walking beside her, or was she walking into yet another betrayal?