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The shadows from the single lamp in the corner carved deep lines into his face, highlighting the imperious arch of his eyebrows and the cruel set of his mouth.

Former FBI Assistant Director Richard Cordell.

The man who had stolen ten years of her life.

The man who had destroyed her father. The man whose reach extended into every dark corner of the Bureau despite his so-called retirement.

How long has he been watching me? The thought slithered through Morgan's mind, cold and nauseating. Has he been laughing at my attempts to find him, to expose him? Has he known every move before I made it?

Cordell sat comfortably in her armchair, as if he owned it.

As if he owned her home. His silver hair was impeccable, not a strand out of place.

His charcoal suit looked freshly pressed, the expensive fabric catching the light as he shifted slightly.

His posture remained ramrod straight despite his age, a reminder of his military background before the FBI.

His eyes—cold and calculating, the pale blue of winter ice—never left hers.

Most disturbing of all was Skunk. Her loyal pitbull lay at Cordell's feet, unnervingly calm, as if the greatest threat Morgan had ever faced was nothing more than a welcome guest. Skunk, who normally growled at strangers, who had taken months to trust even Derik, seemed completely at ease with Cordell's presence.

Did he drug my dog? The thought sparked fury in her chest. Or does pure evil just smell like something dogs trust?

"How did you get in?" Morgan asked, her finger resting alongside the trigger guard of her weapon.

The tattoos covering her arms—accumulated during those ten long years behind bars—seemed to pulse with her heightened awareness.

Each one a memory, a scar, a promise. The most prominent, running down her right forearm: VERITAS.

Truth. The thing Cordell had stolen from her, along with everything else.

Cordell's lips curled into the faintest smile, a barely perceptible movement that never reached his eyes. "Does it matter?"

Her mind raced through scenarios, each more unsettling than the last. Had he picked her locks?

Did he have a key? Was it possible someone had made a copy during the renovations last spring?

Was someone else in the house right now, hiding in the shadows of her bedroom or bathroom?

Where were his men? How many snipers had rifles trained on her windows at this very moment?

Most importantly, how had he gotten past her security system?

A chill ran down her spine, raising goosebumps along her flesh.

She'd upgraded everything after Thomas's murder.

Motion sensors. Silent alarms. Cameras with facial recognition.

The best money could buy, installed personally by an ex-NSA tech she'd helped in a previous case.

Yet Cordell sat before her as comfortably as if she'd invited him for dinner.

He's always one step ahead. Always. The realization burned like acid in her stomach. I've been playing checkers while he's been playing three-dimensional chess.

"What do you want?" Morgan's voice remained steady despite the thundering of her heart. Years of interrogation rooms—on both sides of the table—had taught her how to maintain a facade of calm even as her insides twisted with rage and fear.

"After all this time, I thought we might have a civil conversation." Cordell's tone was pleasant, conversational, like a distant relative catching up at a family reunion. It made her skin crawl, the artificial normalcy of it, the pretense that they were anything but mortal enemies.

"There's nothing civil between us." Morgan raised her gun, aiming directly at his chest, precisely where his heart would be if he possessed one. "Give me one reason I shouldn't pull this trigger right now and end this."

The weight of the decision pressed against her.

One movement of her finger. Less than five pounds of pressure.

That's all it would take to send a 9mm round tearing through Cordell's expensive suit, through flesh and bone, ending the threat he posed forever.

Prison had taught her many things, chief among them that some problems could only be solved permanently.

Do it, a dark voice whispered inside her. Even if they send you back to prison, it would be worth it. Ten more years would be worth it to watch him bleed out on your living room floor.

Cordell chuckled—actually chuckled—as if she'd told a mildly amusing joke at a cocktail party. He reached into his jacket pocket, moving slowly, deliberately.

Morgan tensed, her finger now flush against the trigger, the safety already disengaged. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready to fire or dive for cover.

"Easy," he said, withdrawing a phone. He turned it toward her, showing a live video feed.

Her blood ran cold, an ice-water flush that started at the crown of her head and cascaded down to her toes.

The camera showed Derik's house, viewed from outside his living room window.

He moved around his kitchen in a faded Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, making what appeared to be a sandwich, completely unaware of the danger.

A laser sight's red dot danced across his back as he reached for something in a cabinet.

One word from Cordell and Derik would fall, just like Thomas.

The image of Thomas Grady falling on that pier, the sniper's bullet tearing through him, flashed through Morgan's mind with such vivid clarity that she could smell the salt water and gunpowder all over again. See him fall into that water. At that time, she hadn’t known he was her half-brother. But now she knew it to be true.

Not Derik. Please, not Derik too. The thought was a prayer to a God she'd stopped believing in years ago.

She lowered the gun slightly, the muscles in her arm trembling with the effort of restraint. "You've gone to a lot of trouble just to talk."

"I'm a man who appreciates directness after so much... shadow play." Cordell's voice took on an almost wistful quality. "We've been dancing around each other for months, haven't we? You chasing ghosts and whispers, me watching you stumble in the dark."

Morgan's tattoos seemed to burn beneath her skin, each one a reminder of the years stolen from her. Ten years in prison. Ten years of her life stolen. A decade of violence, survival, and transformation, her body and soul reshaped by concrete walls and steel bars. All because of this man's vendetta.

The rage inside her was a living thing, clawing at her ribcage, demanding release. She wanted nothing more than to lunge across the coffee table and press the barrel of her gun against Cordell's forehead, to watch fear replace the smug confidence in his eyes before she pulled the trigger.

But Derik's life hung in the balance. And Cordell never bluffed.

"What do you want?" she repeated, voice like gravel, scraped raw with suppressed fury.

"One thing." Cordell leaned forward, the movement causing Skunk to glance up momentarily before settling back down. His expensive cologne—subtle notes of sandalwood and something citrusy—drifted across the space between them. "Your father."

Morgan maintained her expression, a mask of indifference sliding into place, years of interrogation serving her well. Inside, alarm bells clanged like cathedral chimes. He knows. He's always known.

"My father is dead," she said flatly, the lie practiced and familiar on her tongue.

"No, Morgan. John Christopher is very much alive, as you well know." Cordell's voice was soft but laced with absolute certainty. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about your little rendezvous in the woods? The touching father-daughter reunion where you broke your ankle as a child?"

The sound of her father's real name from Cordell's lips made her want to vomit.

Bile rose in her throat, sharp and acrid.

The specific mention of where she broke her ankle as a child sent ice through her veins.

That was the meeting place referenced in the letter—a place only her father would know about.

Had Cordell been watching that closely? Had he intercepted communications somehow?

The thought of his eyes on her most private moments made her flesh crawl.

He's been following me, tracking me, always just out of sight, gathering information, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The realization settled over her like a shroud. There are no secrets from him. No safe places. No moves he hasn't anticipated.

"My father is dead," Morgan stated firmly, her face a mask of practiced indifference. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but John Christopher died years ago."

Cordell sighed, like a disappointed teacher facing a stubborn student.

"Let's not waste time with denials. I'm offering you a simple exchange.

Give me your father, and I disappear from your life forever.

" He spread his hands, the gesture almost magnanimous.

"You, Derik, your remaining friends at the Bureau—all left in peace. A clean slate."

Morgan fought to keep her breathing even, to maintain the mask of professional detachment, even as her mind whirled with implications.

The offer was tempting—so tempting it terrified her.

How easy it would be to end this nightmare, to secure safety for herself and Derik, to finally be free of Cordell's shadow.

All it would cost was her father's life.

Is that who I am now? she wondered, disgust rising like gorge in her throat. Someone who would sacrifice her own father for a chance at peace?

"And if I refuse?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.