Page 8 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

The stench of death clung to the photographs spread across the briefing room table.

Morgan's eyes burned from hours of staring at the gruesome images, each one a piece of the twisted puzzle laid out before her.

Judge Richard Hawthorne's lifeless face stared back at her from glossy eight-by-tens, his eyes wide with the terror of his final moments.

She picked up a photo of the mock courtroom, studying the meticulous attention to detail. Cardboard cutouts of a jury. A judge's bench fashioned from plywood. Even a witness stand, complete with a microphone. The killer had recreated every element with chilling precision.

"This wasn't just a murder," Morgan muttered, her voice rough from lack of sleep. "This was a goddamn performance." Morgan's mind raced, piecing together the killer's methodology. "Why go to all this trouble? Why not just put a bullet in his head and be done with it?"

She stood, pacing the length of the room as she spoke her thoughts aloud. "No, this was personal. Whoever did this wanted Hawthorne to suffer. Wanted him to feel trapped, helpless..."

Her voice trailed off as a chill ran down her spine. The sensation was all too familiar—the same helplessness she'd felt when she was framed, when the cell door slammed shut behind her for a crime she didn't commit.

Morgan shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. "Focus, Cross," she chided herself. "This isn't about you. This is about Hawthorne."

But even as she said it, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was more to this case than met the eye. Was it possible that Cordell was involved? The thought made her blood run cold.

She picked up another photo, this one showing the saw that had impaled Hawthorne. The weapon was crude but effective, designed for maximum pain and suffering. Morgan's stomach turned as she imagined Hawthorne's final moments, desperately trying to escape the trap set for him.

"What did you do, Judge?" she whispered to the photo. "Who did you piss off so badly that they'd go to these lengths?"

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she stared at the crime scene photo, her tattooed fingers tracing the outline of the exit door. Something about it didn't sit right with her. She leaned back in her chair, the metal creaking under her weight, and closed her eyes, trying to visualize the scene.

"Why give him an out?" she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. "It doesn't make sense."

She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the briefing room. Her dark brown hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, swung with each step.

If I wanted revenge, Morgan thought, her mind racing, I wouldn't give my target a chance to escape. Unless...

She paused, her gaze fixed on the far wall but seeing something beyond it. "Unless the escape was part of the game."

Morgan returned to the table, rifling through the reports until she found what she was looking for—the coroner's preliminary findings. She scanned the document, her breath catching as she reached a particular detail.

The cruelty of such a scenario wasn't lost on Morgan. She knew all too well the pain of having hope dangled in front of you, only to have it ripped away. Her own experiences in prison, the years of fighting to clear her name, came flooding back.

Morgan's frown deepened as she stared at the crime scene photos spread across the table. Her fingers traced the outline of Judge Hawthorne's body, mere inches from the exit. The frustration gnawed at her.

"What am I not seeing?" she muttered, her dark eyes scanning the images for the hundredth time.

The mock courtroom, the elaborate traps, the carefully orchestrated death—it all spoke of meticulous planning.

But that door... that unlocked, unguarded door.

It was a discordant note in an otherwise perfectly composed symphony of vengeance.

The puzzle pieces were there, but they refused to fit together.

Morgan could feel the answer hovering just out of reach, taunting her.

Her concentration was abruptly shattered as the door swung open. Derik strode in, his green eyes bright with a mix of excitement and fatigue. Morgan's heart did a small flip at the sight of him, a reaction she was still getting used to.

"Morgan," he said, slightly out of breath. "We've got something."

She straightened, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"The landlord of the basement property," Derik explained, coming to stand beside her. "He's agreed to meet with us."

***

The sedan's tires crunched over gravel as Morgan guided it down the neglected street.

Overgrown trees flanked the road, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers.

Houses, once proud, now sagged under the weight of time and neglect.

Morgan's eyes darted from one dilapidated structure to the next, her jaw tightening.

They pulled up to a house that seemed to embody decay. Its paint, once white, had chipped away to reveal weathered wood beneath. The porch sagged precariously, and an ancient pickup truck rusted in the driveway, nature slowly reclaiming it.

"This is it," Derik said, checking the address on his phone.

Morgan killed the engine, her eyes fixed on the house. "Let's hope this guy can give us something useful."

As they approached the front door, Morgan's instincts prickled. Something about this place felt off, like walking into a trap. She'd learned to trust that feeling during her time in prison.

Before they could knock, the door creaked open. A man in his sixties appeared, his face a roadmap of hard years. His eyes, sharp and wary, scanned them both.

"You the feds?" he asked, his voice gravelly.

Morgan nodded, reaching for her badge. "Agent Cross, FBI. This is Agent Greene. We're here about—"

"I know why you're here," the man cut her off. "Name's Greg. Guess you better come in."

As Greg turned to lead them inside, Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik. His slight nod told her he'd picked up on the same unease she felt.

"After you," Morgan said to Derik, allowing him to enter first. It was an old habit from prison—never turn your back on an unknown.

As they crossed the threshold, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into something bigger than a simple landlord interview.

The pieces of the puzzle were there, just out of reach.

And as she followed Greg into the cluttered living room, she couldn't help but wonder if this lead would bring them closer to the truth—or lead them down another dead end in the twisted game they found themselves in.

Morgan's eyes swept the room, taking in every detail.

Stacks of yellowed newspapers teetered precariously on end tables, their headlines long outdated.

The faint aroma of stale coffee mingled with pipe smoke, tickling her nostrils.

A television droned in the background, its volume low but persistent.

"Nice place," Morgan said, her tone neutral. She'd learned long ago that sometimes the best way to get information was to let people fill the silence themselves.

Greg grunted, settling into a worn armchair. "It's home. Now, what exactly do you want to know?"

Morgan leaned against the wall, her posture casual but her mind razor-sharp. "Tell me about the person who rented your basement space."

The old man's face tightened, his eyes darting to the side. "Not much to tell," Greg said, shrugging. "Never met 'em in person."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "That's unusual, isn't it? Renting to someone you've never seen?"

Greg's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. "Look, they paid cash. Left it in unmarked envelopes. Rented for three months, no questions asked. That's all there was to it."

This setup was too perfect, too convenient. It reeked of premeditation, of someone who knew exactly how to cover their tracks. Her jaw clenched as she thought of Judge Hawthorne, of the elaborate death trap he'd been subjected to.

"And you never thought to meet them? To verify who they were?" Morgan pressed, her voice harder now.

Greg's eyes narrowed. "Like I said, they paid. That's all that mattered."

Morgan felt a surge of frustration. She'd been on both sides of an interrogation, and she knew when someone was holding back. But pushing too hard now might shut Greg down completely.

"How did you communicate with them?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.

"Email," Greg replied. "That's it. Just emails about the rent and such."

Morgan nodded slowly, her mind already formulating the next steps. They'd need to trace those emails to see if their killer had left any digital breadcrumbs. But something about this felt off. It was too neat, too easy.

As she opened her mouth to ask another question, a chill ran down her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a sensation she'd learned to trust both in prison and as an agent. Something wasn't right here. The room suddenly felt too small, too confined.

Her eyes met Derik's, and she saw the same unease reflected there. They needed to wrap this up, to get out and process what they'd learned. Because Morgan had a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning—and that whoever had orchestrated Judge Hawthorne's murder was far from done.

Greg shifted in his seat, his weathered hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of his plaid shirt. Morgan's keen eyes caught the nervous twitch, the way his gaze darted away from hers.

"Look," he said, his voice gruff with discomfort, "I ain't exactly been rolling in dough lately.

Bills keep coming, and the roof ain't gonna fix itself.

" He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, where water stains spread like dark continents.

"When someone offers cash, no questions asked.

.. well, a man in my position don't have the luxury of being picky. "

Morgan nodded, her face a mask of understanding. She'd been desperate before, knew the weight of choices made when backed into a corner. But desperation could be exploited, and their killer had known exactly how to take advantage.

"I get it," she said, her voice low and steady. "You needed the money. But those emails might be our only lead. Is there any chance you still have them?"

Greg hesitated, his rheumy eyes flickering towards an ancient desktop computer tucked in the corner of the room. Morgan's pulse quickened. If their perpetrator had been careless, even for a moment...

"I suppose I could pull them up," Greg mumbled, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. "Don't delete much. Never know when you might need something."

As he shuffled towards the computer, Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik. Her partner's expression mirrored her own cautious hope. They'd been chasing shadows for days, and now, finally, a tangible lead.

Greg lowered himself into the creaking office chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Morgan moved closer, careful not to crowd him. The ancient machine whirred to life, the fan kicking up dust that danced in the dim light filtering through grimy windows.

'Come on,' Morgan thought, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of a tattoo on her wrist – a reminder of her time behind bars, of the patience she'd learned the hard way. 'Give us something, anything.'

As Greg navigated through his cluttered inbox, Morgan's mind raced ahead. What would they find? A carelessly used personal email? An IP address that could be traced? Or another dead end, another piece in a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex with each passing hour?

She thought of Judge Hawthorne, of the grotesque scene they'd discovered.

Of Thomas, gunned down on that pier. Of her father, hidden away in the woods, a ghost from a past she was still trying to unravel.

Somewhere in this twisted web of lies and vendettas was the truth – and Morgan was determined to drag it into the light, no matter the cost.

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she scanned the email exchange Greg had pulled up. A flicker of excitement coursed through her veins, but it was quickly tempered by years of hard-earned skepticism. This lead felt... convenient. Too convenient.

"There," Greg pointed, his weathered finger tapping the screen. "That's the address they used."

Morgan leaned in, studying the string of seemingly random letters and numbers. "[email protected]," she muttered, committing it to memory.

Straightening up, she ran a hand through her dark hair, the familiar weight of her gun at her hip a comforting presence. "Mind if I take a picture of this?" she asked Greg, already reaching for her phone.

He shrugged. "Go ahead. Not like I got anything to hide."

Morgan snapped a few photos. This email could be the key to unraveling the whole case, but something nagged at her.

"Derik," she called over her shoulder, "what do you make of this?"

Her partner appeared at her side, his presence a steadying force. "It's something," he agreed, his voice low. "But..."

"But it feels too easy," Morgan finished, meeting his eyes. She saw her own wariness reflected there.

Turning back to Greg, she asked, "Was there anything else unusual about this rental? Any requests, specifications?"

The old man scratched his chin, thinking. "Not really. Just wanted the basement, paid on time. Quiet tenants, never had any complaints."

Morgan nodded, her jaw tightening. Whoever had orchestrated Hawthorne's murder was meticulous, calculated. They wouldn't leave such an obvious trail unless...

"They're not done," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "This is just the beginning."

Derik touched her arm gently. "Morgan?"

She shook her head, pushing aside the growing dread. "We need to get this to the tech team, see if they can trace it. But I've got a feeling we're being led down a very specific path."

As they thanked Greg and headed for the door, Morgan couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. She scanned the overgrown yard, the quiet street beyond. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet...

"What are you thinking?" Derik asked as they climbed into their car.

Morgan's hand hovered over the ignition. "I'm thinking Hawthorne was just the opening act. And whoever's behind this? They're playing a long game."

She started the engine, her mind already racing ahead to their next move. But beneath the determination, a cold certainty settled in her gut. This case was far from over, and the true horror was yet to come.