Page 6 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

Golden rays pierced through the gaps in the blinds, painting warm streaks across Morgan's bedroom walls. The tantalizing aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon wafted in, tugging at her senses. For a fleeting moment, as her eyes fluttered open, the world felt deceptively ordinary. Normal. Safe.

But reality crashed over her like a tidal wave, drowning that illusion in an instant. Her father was alive. The thought sent a jolt through her body, and she sat up abruptly, her heart pounding against her ribcage.

"Not now," she muttered, running a hand over her face, feeling the rough edges of scars earned during her time behind bars. She pushed the thought away, but it lingered, persistent as the morning light creeping across her skin.

From the kitchen came the familiar sounds of Derik moving about. The clatter of a frying pan against the stove. The low murmur of the morning news from the small TV. It was all so routine, so mundane—as if the earth-shattering revelations of last night had never happened.

But they had. And now, everything had changed.

Morgan swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor. She closed her eyes, trying to center herself, to find some semblance of normalcy in the chaos that had become her life.

"You've faced worse," she reminded herself, her voice barely above a whisper. "Prison. Betrayal. False accusations. This is just another hurdle."

But even as the words left her lips, she knew it was a lie. This was different. This was personal in a way nothing else had been.

She stood, her legs slightly unsteady, and made her way to the bedroom door.

As she reached for the handle, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a far cry from the bright-eyed agent she'd once been.

Now, her dark eyes held a hardness, a wariness that spoke of years spent looking over her shoulder.

"Time to face the music," she murmured, steeling herself for what lay beyond that door. For the conversation she knew was coming with Derik. For the reality of a world where her father—a man she'd mourned, a man she'd believed dead—was suddenly, impossibly alive.

With a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway, the scent of breakfast growing stronger, a mundane anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

Morgan tugged the zipper of her worn FBI Academy hoodie up to her chin as she padded into the kitchen. The familiar aroma of coffee and pancakes wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.

Derik stood at the stove, his broad shoulders tense beneath his white t-shirt as he flipped a pancake with practiced ease. Skunk, ever the opportunist, sat at attention nearby, his brown eyes fixed on Derik's every move, tail thumping hopefully against the linoleum floor.

"Morning," Derik said, his voice low and gravelly. He didn't turn around, didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.

Morgan's throat tightened as she remembered the weight of last night's confession.

How she'd poured out the impossible truth about her father, about Cordell, about the web of lies and danger that now ensnared them both.

She could see it in the rigid set of Derik's jaw as he slid a plate of golden pancakes in front of her, in the way his green eyes, usually so warm, now held a glimmer of worry.

"Thanks," she murmured, settling onto a bar stool. Her fingers curled around the warm mug of coffee he'd already prepared for her, black with two sugars, just the way she liked it. The familiarity of the gesture made her heart ache.

"Sleep okay?" Derik asked, his tone carefully neutral as he leaned against the counter, his own mug cradled in his hands.

Morgan let out a humorless chuckle. "As well as can be expected when your whole world's been turned upside down."

Derik nodded, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "Morgan, about Cordell-"

"I know what you're going to say," she cut him off, her voice low and intense. "That we should go to the Bureau, that we need backup. But we can't. Not yet. Not until we know who we can trust."

She watched as Derik's knuckles whitened around his mug, saw the conflict play out across his face. "He's dangerous, Morgan. You know that better than anyone."

"Yeah, I do," she agreed, her gaze dropping to the syrup slowly spreading across her untouched pancakes. "But so am I. And I'm not about to let him win. Not after everything he's taken from me."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and the ghosts of past betrayals. Morgan knew Derik was worried, knew he was struggling with the desire to protect her and the knowledge that she needed to fight this battle on her own terms.

Finally, Derik sighed, setting his mug down with a soft clink. "Just... promise me you won't shut me out again. Whatever happens, whatever you're planning, I want to be there. We're partners, remember?"

Morgan looked up, meeting his gaze. The concern in his eyes made her chest tighten. She reached out, covering his hand with her own. "I promise," she said softly. "We're in this together."

As if sensing the tension, Skunk chose that moment to let out a low whine, his nose nudging Derik's leg. Despite everything, Morgan felt a small smile tug at her lips. "I think someone's feeling left out of the pancake party."

Derik chuckled, the sound warming Morgan more than any cup of coffee could. "Alright, alright," he said, tossing a small piece of pancake to the eager dog. "But don't tell Morgan I'm spoiling you."

For a brief moment, as Skunk happily munched his treat and Derik's hand remained warm beneath her own, Morgan allowed herself to believe that they might just make it through this. That together, they could face whatever Cordell threw their way.

But deep down, she knew the calm wouldn't last. Cordell was out there, waiting, planning. And she had to be ready.

The harsh buzz of her phone shattered the fragile peace, vibrating against the kitchen table with an urgency that made Morgan's stomach clench. She glanced at the caller ID, her jaw tightening. Mueller.

Morgan's hand hovered over the device, her mind racing. Mueller had been an ally, true, but the revelation about her father changed everything. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, not with Cordell's shadow looming over them.

She caught Derik's eye, saw the question there, and gave a slight nod. Only he could know the truth. Only he could be trusted completely.

"Cross," she answered, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

"Morgan." Mueller's gravelly tone came through, tinged with something she rarely heard from him – urgency. "We've got a situation."

She straightened, instantly on alert. "What kind of situation?"

"Murder," Mueller said bluntly. "High-profile. A federal judge, Richard Hawthorne."

Morgan's breath caught. A judge. This wasn't some run-of-the-mill homicide. This was big.

"How bad?" she asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"Bad enough that they called us in immediately," Mueller replied. "The crime scene... it's unlike anything I've seen. We need you here."

Morgan exhaled slowly, her gaze falling on the untouched plate before her. So much for breakfast. "Text me the address. I'll be there in twenty."

She ended the call, looking up to find Derik already moving, grabbing his jacket. His green eyes met hers, filled with determination and a hint of worry. "I heard enough," he said. "Let's go."

As they headed for the door, Morgan's mind raced. A federal judge murdered, a bizarre crime scene – was this Cordell's work? Or was she seeing ghosts in every shadow now? Either way, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something much bigger, much darker.

And as they stepped out into the crisp morning air, Morgan steeled herself for whatever horrors awaited them. The game had changed, the stakes raised. But she was ready. She had to be.

***

The stench of decay and neglect assaulted Morgan's senses as she and Derik descended the crumbling concrete steps into the basement. Flickering fluorescent lights cast an eerie, sickly glow on the peeling walls, creating dancing shadows that seemed to mock their presence.

"Jesus," Derik muttered, his hand instinctively moving to the small of his back where his weapon rested. "This place looks like it hasn't seen a living soul in decades."

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene. "Perfect spot for a murder, though. Isolated, forgotten..." She trailed off, her mind already racing ahead, piecing together the killer's possible motivations.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Morgan paused, her nostrils flaring slightly. Beneath the musty odor of mildew and rot, there was something else. Something metallic. Blood.

"You smell that?" she asked Derik, her voice low.

He nodded grimly.

They pushed through a set of rusted double doors, and Morgan felt her breath catch in her throat. The scene before her was so incongruous, so utterly bizarre, that for a moment she wondered if she'd stepped into some twisted funhouse mirror version of reality.

"What the hell?" Derik breathed beside her.

Before them stood a meticulously crafted facsimile of a courtroom. The judge's bench loomed at the far end, flanked by a jury box and witness stand. But this was no place of justice. This was a mockery, a cruel parody built from plywood and cheap veneer.

Morgan tried to process the scene. Why here? Why like this? The symbolism was obvious, almost heavy-handed. But what was the killer trying to say?

"It's like a stage set," she murmured, taking a cautious step forward. Her eyes swept over every detail, cataloging, analyzing. "But who was the audience supposed to be?"

Derik moved beside her, his posture tense. "Just the judge, maybe? Some kind of sick game?"