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Morgan's boots clicked a steady rhythm on the polished floors of the FBI headquarters as she and Derik approached Assistant Director Mueller's office. The tension knotted in her shoulders, a familiar weight when dealing with Mueller, but necessary. She needed this case.

She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before her knuckles could make contact. Assistant Director Mueller stood framed in the doorway, his imposing figure taking up space like a storm cloud ready to burst.

"Cross, Greene," he greeted in his gravelly tone, stepping aside to let them enter.

"AD Mueller," Morgan acknowledged with a nod, stepping into his meticulously organized office. She scanned the room quickly, noting the strategic placement of accolades and commendations—a silent declaration of power. "Sir, we believe we've got a serial on our hands," Morgan began, wasting no time. She pulled out the files from her leather bag, laying them on his desk with precision. "Two victims in little over a week — both female defense attorneys who recently acquitted men charged with violent crimes. Gina Bellwood, strangled with a noose. Elaine Harrows, blunt force trauma."

Mueller's eyes remained impassive as he glanced at the evidence laid out before him. "And you think this is our jurisdiction because?"

"Because these aren't random acts of violence," Morgan stated. "These women were targeted, methodically chosen. It’s calculated, which suggests premeditation and possibly a deeper motive. We need to get ahead of this before another attorney ends up dead."

"Interesting theory," Mueller said flatly, though his fingers tapped against the desk—a telltale sign of interest Morgan had come to recognize.

"More than a theory," she insisted. "We can link these cases, given the chance. This killer is meticulous, leaving breadcrumbs that scream for attention. We can track him down with the right resources."

Mueller regarded her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. Then, without a word, he scooped up the files and sank into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he began to read.

Morgan exchanged a brief glance with Derik, whose expression echoed her own resolve. They watched as Mueller's eyes narrowed, tracing lines of text, absorbing the grim details of their plea for jurisdiction. The clock ticked audibly in the background, each second a tiny hammer against Morgan's patience.

"Defense attorneys," Mueller mumbled, almost to himself. "Interesting choice of prey."

"It's a pattern," Morgan pressed. "And it's our job to understand why. To stop it."

Mueller folded his arms, a skeptical arch to his brow. "Or it's two separate incidents. You know as well as I do, Morgan, coincidence is more common than conspiracy."

"Too easy," Morgan shot back. "These women, their profiles were public, searchable. A killer could've found them with a few keystrokes. It's targeted, Mueller. Someone's picking off defense attorneys."

"Based on what? Your gut?" Mueller challenged, leaning back in his chair, the leather groaning in protest.

"Experience," she retorted. "Patterns emerge if you're willing to connect the dots. And these dots..." Morgan paused, letting the gravity of her statement sink in, "...they form a line straight to a predator."

Mueller's eyes narrowed, assessing. She knew that look—it was the calculating gaze of a man who had spent a lifetime sifting truth from lies. Morgan held her ground, her resolve a steel beam through the heart of her argument.

"Convince me," he finally said, his words clipped.

"Defense attorneys," Morgan began, ticking off each point like a metronome set to a sprinter's pace. "They stand between the law and those who fear its grip. They're champions to some, villains to others. Anyone with a grudge against the system, against perceived injustice..."

She stood up, pacing the room now, her mind racing, her tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves like silent witnesses to her intensity. "Think about it—vigilantes, fanatics, individuals burned by plea deals gone wrong. The list goes on. Men and women who've watched someone walk free when they believed they should've been locked away."

"Speculation isn't evidence," Mueller cut in.

"True." Morgan stopped pacing, fixing him with a stare that bore all her years of chasing shadows. "But speculation founded on logical patterns has led us to killers before. If we wait for concrete proof, it might be too late for the next victim. We need to get ahead of this, and that means considering every angle, no matter how much it challenges our assumptions."

"Your argument is compelling, Agent Cross," Mueller admitted, his voice betraying a hint of respect that was as rare as it was fleeting. "But compelling isn't synonymous with conclusive. We have two victims, two different methods of execution. That doesn’t scream serial killer—it whispers coincidence."

Morgan tensed, the muscles in her jaw tightening. She knew better than to let frustration seep into her tone. "Understood, sir. But if we consider the killer's psychological profile—"

"Profiles are built on evidence, not suppositions," he interrupted. His gray eyes were sharp, dissecting. "However," he continued, lifting a hand to stall her rebuttal, "the fact that both women were defense attorneys and their online presence made them accessible... it could merit further investigation. I will consider your request to transfer jurisdiction over to the Bureau."

"Thank you, sir." The words were succinct, as much an acknowledgment of Mueller's concession as they were a verbal handshake sealing an unspoken agreement.

Mueller stood, towering over the desk that served as his command center. "I’ll make some calls. See what strings can be pulled without drawing too much attention. We do this quietly until there’s something concrete."

"Understood." Morgan rose, her posture rigid with purpose. Every cell in her body was alert, ready. "I'll await your instructions."

"Good. Don't get ahead of yourself, Cross." Mueller's gaze held hers for a moment longer before he turned away, dismissing her with the finality of a closing door. "You'll hear from me soon."

As Morgan exited the office, the sense of urgency that had crackled in the air settled into a simmering determination. The game was on, and she wasn't just a player—she was the hunter. With Derik at her side, matching her stride for stride, she felt the old, familiar thrill of the chase. They had a narrow window, and she intended to shatter it wide open.

***

Morgan's office was a chamber of restless energy, the air charged with the static of anticipation. She remained seated, her eyes darting across the computer screen where secrets waited to be unearthed. Although s he was anxious to hear if they’d been given the attorney case, Morgan took some time to follow up on the other lead she needed to chase: Richard Cordell.

The glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows on her face, accentuating the lines of determination etched into her skin. Years in prison had honed her instincts, sharpened her senses, and now she wielded them like weapons against the invisible adversary who haunted the edges of her life.

She found it, an article headlined with Cordell's name, accompanied by a grainy photograph that captured his confident smile. His career sprawled before her in black and white—the celebrated cases, the commendations for bravery, promotions rising like stepping stones to power. He'd been a titan within the Bureau.

The scrolling continued, past accolades and official portraits, until she landed on an article about his retirement event. It was a gala affair, the pageantry of law enforcement's elite bidding farewell to one of their most revered figures. In the sea of faces, Morgan's gaze snagged on one in particular—Mueller, looking younger, his hair less gray, but no less imposing.

He was there, amidst the high ranks, a part of the world that had once been Cordell's domain. And while they had celebrated, she had been confined behind bars, her name tarnished, her life unraveled by the very institution she had sworn to serve.

A bitter taste curled at the back of her throat, a reminder of betrayal's sting. Each revelation was a foothold, a piece of the puzzle she was determined to solve. The connection between Mueller and Cordell was tenuous, perhaps nothing more than the obligatory attendance of bureau politics—but she filed it away. Every detail mattered. Mueller had known her father too, as John Christopher, but Morgan still didn’t know if he had any idea that Morgan was his daughter.

Just then, a knock at the door. Mueller’s wide frame filled the space, and she exited the article.

"Cross. You're on the case."

Morgan's pulse quickened. All her instincts as an agent surged to the forefront, ready for the hunt. Recognition of the gravity of their assignment washed over her.

"Two days," Mueller continued, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "That's all you've got to link these murders before it reverts back to local jurisdiction."

"Understood, sir," Morgan replied, rising from her chair. “Thank you.”

The Assistant Director gave a brief nod in return before turning on his heel and departing, leaving behind a silence that throbbed with unspoken urgency.

Morgan allowed herself a moment, a fleeting pause for breath. Then she reached for the phone.

"Derik," she said as soon as Derik picked up, "We're on. Two days to link the cases."

In the background, she heard the faint rustle of paper and the hurried shuffle of movement. After being her partner for years, Derik had learned to match her pace.

"Two days?" She could hear the strain in his voice, mirrored by her own tension. "That's not a lot of time, Morgan."

"No, it isn't," she admitted, “but we can do it.”

“If they even are related, Morgan.”

“We’re going to find out if they are. First thing we should do is go to Gina’s crime scene. I want to see it for myself now, in the daylight. Be ready to go in five.”

“Got it,” Derik said.

Morgan ended the call, her gaze lingering on the dark screen. She looked out the office window at the sprawling cityscape beyond, her keen eyes picking out the surreal landscape beneath the morning sun. She had two days to dig for answers, to expose a killer's hidden truth beneath the glaring light of justice.

***

The suburb Morgan had been in last night looked different in the fresh light of day without the swarms of police officers around it. On a corner of the sidewalk, crime scene tape created a barricade; there were still some officers there, guarding the scene, when Morgan drove her car up to the curb with Derik in the passenger seat.

“So this is where it happened?” Derik asked.

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I saw here there, last night… Gina.”

“What are you hoping to find here now?” Derik asked. “The cops have already done a sweep of the area.”

“I know, and we’ll go see what they have too. But I want to see it for myself. They could’ve missed something.”

Derik sighed, the sound tinged with resignation and a hint of admiration. "Right. Lead the way, Cross."

Exiting the car, Morgan took a moment to analyze the scene before her. The quaint suburban house projected an air of innocence that belied the horror that had taken place within. The lawn was neatly trimmed, flowers blooming in a riot of colors by the porch — a stark contrast to the somberness of death that hung in the air.

"Let's do this," she said, striding toward the sidewalk where Gina Bellwood had been found dead. A uniformed officer met them halfway, his eyebrows furrowing in recognition upon seeing them. Morgan flashed her badge, her face set in a stone-cold mask as she introduced herself.

"I'm Agent Morgan Cross, and this is my partner, Derik Greene. We've been assigned to review this case."

The officer, a young man with a smudge of dirt on his uniform, eyed them warily before giving a curt nod. "Everything's pretty much the same as last night. Crime scene guys didn't find anything new this morning."

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, her eyes immediately began surveying the area. Derik stayed on her heels, his own gaze scanning their surroundings.

"Want to share your thoughts?" he asked.

Morgan chewed on her lower lip, a rare sign of uncertainty. "I'm not sure yet." She knelt down, studying the ground and running a gloved finger across the cement where traces of dried blood still lingered. The rope had strangled Gina, but the roughness of it had caused some bleeding too. The brutal reality of Gina Bellwood's end. "But we're going to find out."

She moved to the grassy patch next to the sidewalk, crouched low, and squinted at something there.

"Derik," she called, never taking her eyes off the ground. When he approached, she pointed at a small object nestled amongst blades of grass—a piece of fabric. It was black and almost blended with the shadowy patches on the lawn.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Fabric," she replied curtly, retrieving a plastic bag from her pocket. With careful precision, she picked up the tiny scrap using tweezers and placed it in the bag. "We need to get this back to forensics."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You think this is related?”

“I don’t know yet,” Morgan said as she stood. “But anything could be the smoking gun here. I want to get this to forensics, then see what the police have on their end.”

"Agreed," Derik said, a note of admiration in his voice. "Let's get to it, then."