Page 4 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

The dense canopy of oak and pine cast long shadows across the forest floor, their branches intertwining overhead like gnarled fingers.

Morgan's heart hammered against her ribcage as she followed the ghostly figure of her father through the night-shrouded woods.

Every snap of a twig beneath her boots sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Skunk padded silently beside her, his muscular body taut with tension.

The pit bull's ears were pricked forward, alert to every rustle in the underbrush.

Morgan glanced down at her faithful companion, noting the way his nose twitched rapidly, sampling the air.

She'd never seen him this on edge before, not even during their most dangerous cases with the Bureau.

"What is it, boy?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "What's got you so worked up?"

Skunk's only response was a low whine, his dark eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Morgan's unease deepened, settling like a cold stone in the pit of her stomach.

She'd learned to trust Skunk's instincts over the years, both before her imprisonment and after.

If something had the dog this unsettled, it couldn't be good.

Her father's silhouette moved steadily ahead, weaving between the trees with the ease of long familiarity. Morgan studied his gait, the set of his shoulders. It was him, she was certain of it now. The shock of seeing him alive, after all this time of believing him dead, still hadn't fully sunk in.

"How much further?" she called out, her voice tight with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Her father half-turned, his features still obscured by shadow. "Not far now," he replied, his gruff tone carrying hints of the man she remembered from childhood. "Just over this next rise."

As they crested the small hill, Morgan caught her first glimpse of the cabin.

Nestled in a small clearing, it was barely more than a shack—a dilapidated structure that seemed to sag beneath the weight of time and neglect.

Its weathered boards were gray with age, the small windows clouded and lifeless.

"This is where you've been living?" Morgan asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

Her father grunted in affirmation as he approached the cabin's warped door. "It's not much," he admitted, "but it's kept me hidden. And that's what matters."

As they drew closer, the smell hit her—a potent mixture of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something deeper, mustier. The scent of a life lived in isolation, cut off from the world. Morgan's throat tightened as she took in the stark reality of her father's existence.

The interior of the cabin was no less austere. A single bed occupied one corner, its thin mattress showing the imprint of a solitary sleeper. A rickety table stood nearby, its surface scarred and stained. Against the far wall, a rusting stove hunkered like a forgotten sentinel.

But it was the bookshelf that caught Morgan's eye.

Leaning precariously against the wall, its shelves bowed under the weight of their sparse contents.

A handful of dog-eared novels, their spines cracked and faded.

An old radio, its dial frozen in place. And stacks upon stacks of newspaper clippings, their edges yellowed with age.

This was more than just a hideout. This was a command center of sorts, a place where her father had been... what? Monitoring the outside world? Tracking something? Or someone?

"I know you have questions," her father said, breaking the tense silence. "God knows I owe you answers."

Morgan turned to face him, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The flickering light from the oil lamp he'd lit cast deep shadows across his weathered features. She searched his face, looking for traces of the man she'd known, the father she'd mourned.

"Questions?" she repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.

"That's putting it mildly, don't you think?

I've spent months thinking you were dead.

Months piecing together fragments of the truth.

And now..." She gestured around the cabin, her tattooed arms a stark contrast to the drab surroundings.

"Now I find out you've been here all along.

Hiding. Watching. While I rotted in prison for a crime I didn't commit. "

Her father's eyes, so like her own, filled with a pain that seemed to age him even further. "Morgan," he began, his voice rough with emotion. "I never wanted—"

But Morgan cut him off, unwilling to hear excuses.

Not yet. Not when the wound of betrayal felt so fresh.

"I need answers," she said firmly. "Real answers.

About everything. I know your name isn't Christopher Cross," Morgan said, her voice steady despite the tempest of emotions roiling within her.

"It's John Christopher. And I know you used to be an FBI agent. "

Her father's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schooled them back into careful neutrality. Morgan pressed on, drawing on every ounce of her investigative experience to keep her voice level.

"What I don't know is why. Why the lies? Why did you disappear? Why did you let me believe you were dead all this time?"

John sighed heavily, running a calloused hand over his beard. "It's... complicated, Morgan. There are things I've done, things I was involved in... I thought I was protecting you by staying away."

Morgan felt a surge of anger, hot and familiar. "Protecting me?" she scoffed. "I spent ten years in prison, only for you to ‘die’ just before my release. Do you know how devastated I was"?”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” John's piercing gaze bore into Morgan, his eyes searching her face as if trying to gauge how much she truly knew.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths and long-buried secrets.

"What else do you know?" he finally asked, his voice rough with apprehension.

Morgan met his stare unflinchingly, her jaw set with determination. "I've met Richard Cordell," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her. "I know about Mary Price. And her son."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Morgan watched as her father's weathered face transformed, shock and pain etching deep lines around his eyes. She could almost see the weight of the past settling onto his broad shoulders.

John's expression hardened, a mask slipping into place, but Morgan caught a glimpse of something else beneath it—raw, unguarded anguish. It was a look she recognized all too well, having seen it in her own reflection countless times during her years behind bars.

Pressing her advantage, Morgan continued, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I watched Thomas Grady get shot in front of me. I saw him die on that pier."

The cabin seemed to shrink around them, the shadows deepening in the corners. Morgan's heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the moment she'd witnessed Thomas's life slip away. She could still smell the salt air, still feel the rough wood of the pier beneath her feet.

John's entire body went rigid at the mention of Mary Price. He looked away, jaw clenched, as though he was absorbing a blow he should have seen coming. His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of the past pressing down on him. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

"Then you know who Thomas really was."

It wasn't a question, but Morgan nodded anyway, her throat tight. "He was my half-brother, wasn't he?"

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths and long-buried secrets.

Morgan watched her father intently, noting every micro-expression that flickered across his weathered face.

The tightening around his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands - she cataloged it all, her FBI training kicking in even as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

For a long moment, her father didn't answer. The silence stretched thin, filled only by the soft crackle of the oil lamp and the distant hoot of an owl outside. Finally, he exhaled a long, shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of decades.

"Yes."

That single word, so quietly spoken, hit Morgan like a physical blow. She'd already suspected, had pieced together enough of the puzzle to guess at the truth. But hearing it confirmed, here in this dilapidated cabin with the father she'd thought dead for so long, sent a shiver down her spine.

Morgan replayed every interaction she'd had with Thomas. The initial distrust, the reluctant alliance, the growing sense of connection she'd felt but couldn't explain. It all made a terrible kind of sense now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "All those years, Dad. You could have said something."

John's eyes, when they met hers, were filled with a pain so deep it made her chest ache. "I thought I was protecting you," he said. "I thought... if you never knew, if I could keep that part of my past buried, you'd be safe."

Morgan let out a bitter laugh. "Safe? I spent ten years in prison. I watched my apparent brother die right in front of me. How exactly did your silence keep me safe?"

She saw the flinch, saw how her words cut him to the quick. But the anger that had been simmering inside her for so long wouldn't be contained. Not now, not when she was finally getting the answers she'd sought for so long.

John sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the ancient springs creaking under his weight.

His weathered hands gripped the frayed edges of the threadbare blanket, knuckles white with tension.

Morgan watched as he stared at the worn wooden floor, his eyes unfocused, lost in memories she could only imagine.