For Wrath, page 3
"Really?" Morgan scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Because I thought you didn't trust me. I spent ten years in prison, remember? And then there was my recent suspension."
"Look," Mueller said, spreading his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "I know what I said before, and I also know you're a damn fine agent who produces results. This crime is too twisted to ignore, and we need the best on it."
Morgan stared down at her hands, the ghost of her past still haunting her thoughts. She fought the urge to storm out of his office, knowing that it wouldn't help her situation, but the bitterness was hard to swallow. Still, this was probably the closest thing to an apology she’d ever get from Mueller.
"Fine," she relented quietly, her jaw tight. "I'll take the case." But as she looked up into Mueller's eyes, she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. "But I'm doing this for the victims, not for you or the Bureau."
"Understood," Mueller replied, his gaze never wavering. "Now, I suggest you get to the crime scene. Time is of the essence."
With one last piercing look, Morgan stood and walked towards the door. She knew this case wouldn't be easy; nothing ever was in her line of work.
But if there was even a chance that she could bring the monster responsible for Sheryl's death to justice, it was a risk she was willing to take.
CHAPTER THREE
Morgan stepped out of her car and onto the gravel driveway of the sprawling mansion. The bright sunlight illuminated its beige brick, casting crisp shadows from the nearby trees across the manicured lawn. Morgan squinted at the afternoon sun, feeling its heat on her skin as she stepped out of her car. She tugged at the collar of her shirt, already feeling the oppressive Dallas heat.
"Special Agent Cross," one of the officers greeted her as she approached. "You got here quick."
"Time is of the essence, Officer," Morgan replied curtly, her eyes scanning the scene for any possible clues. Ten years behind bars had hardened her, but she'd worked a few cases now and was starting to get back into the swing of being an FBI agent. "What do we have here?" Morgan asked.
"Victim is Sheryl Stewart, age forty-five," the officer began, leading her toward the entrance of the mansion. "No sign of forced entry."
"Any known enemies? Or a motive?" Morgan asked, her mind racing with possibilities.
"None that we're aware of right now," the officer admitted. "But she wasn't exactly a nobody, Special Agent Cross."
The grand foyer of the mansion spoke for itself – elegant marble flooring, a crystal chandelier hanging above, and priceless works of art adorning the walls. It was clear that Sheryl Stewart lived a life of luxury, and sometimes, wealth bred envy.
"Who found her?" Morgan questioned, taking in her opulent surroundings. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at this life she'd never know; it was people like Sheryl who lived in mansions while she had spent a decade rotting in a cell for a crime she didn't commit. She cursed herself for even having the thought. She was sure Sheryl would trade places with Morgan in an instant if it meant she'd still be alive, and Morgan chastised herself for being so jaded.
"Her housekeeper discovered the body this morning," the officer informed her, his voice wavering slightly. "You'll want to brace yourself, Agent Cross. It's... not pretty."
"Few crime scenes ever are." Morgan's words were cold, detached. She'd seen things that would make most crumble, but she had long learned to steel herself against the horrors of her job.
As Morgan followed the officer deeper into the house, she couldn't help but wonder what dark secrets lay hidden beneath the surface of Sheryl Stewart's seemingly perfect life. Luxury and wealth could only mask the truth for so long, and Morgan was determined to uncover it, no matter how ugly it might be.
The living room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. While the rest of the mansion exuded elegance and sophistication, this room was marred by the grotesque scene that greeted Morgan as she entered.
Sheryl Stewart's body sat upright on the pristine white couch, her face mutilated beyond recognition.
The sight sent a shudder down Morgan's spine. Mueller hadn't been kidding. Morgan had imagined the scene, but what she'd envisioned had nothing on the real thing. This was something else.
"Jesus Christ," Morgan muttered under her breath, forcing herself to maintain her composure. The sight was horrifying, but she couldn't afford to let it faze her. Not now. There was work to be done.
"Whoever did this had a sick sense of humor," one of the medics commented, his voice shaking slightly. "Her face... it's like they tried to give her a makeshift facelift."
Morgan's eyes were drawn to the swollen, distorted features of the victim. It was as if the killer wanted to make a statement, to mock the woman's vanity, even in death. "Do you think she was killed here?" Morgan asked, trying to piece together the events that led up to this grisly discovery.
"Actually, no," another medic chimed in, looking up from where he was crouched beside the body. "There's not enough blood at the scene and the way her body is positioned... it's likely she was moved here after being killed elsewhere."
"Someone went through the trouble of bringing her back here just for this sick display?" Morgan mused aloud, anger bubbling within her. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. The injustice of it all threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
"Seems that way," the medic confirmed, his expression grim. "We'll know more after we've completed the autopsy, of course."
"Keep me informed," Morgan said, her voice tight with barely suppressed rage. As she surveyed the room one last time, she vowed to herself that she would bring Sheryl's killer to justice – no matter what it took.
She couldn't change the past or erase the years she'd lost, but she could make damn sure that Sheryl Stewart's murderer paid for their crimes. As many issues as Morgan had with the FBI, this was the part of the job that kept her here. It wasn't about whatever corruption might lie beneath the FBI's surface--it was about saving lives and getting madmen off the streets.
Just as Morgan was about to ask the medics another question, the front door to the mansion burst open. A distressed young woman with tear-streaked cheeks and wild, desperate eyes pushed her way past the officers stationed at the entrance. They tried to restrain her, but she screamed, "This is my house! That's my mother!"
Morgan's heart twisted. She moved towards the distraught girl. Sheryl's daughter shouldn't have to see her mother like this. Morgan thought of her own father, who had died while she was still in prison. At least the last image she had of him was him alive, visiting her in prison, never giving up on his belief in her innocence. She didn't want this girl to remember her mother that way.
But it was too late. The moment the young woman caught sight of her mother's mutilated face, she froze, her gaze locking onto the horrific scene before her.
"Hey, come on," Morgan gently urged, stepping forward and putting an arm around the girl's shoulders, guiding her away from the living room. Once they were in a quieter part of the house, Morgan led her into a small study and closed the door behind them. She turned to face the girl, who stood there as if in a trance, her eyes glazed over with shock.
"Look at me," Morgan commanded firmly, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders and giving her a slight shake. The contact seemed to snap her out of her catatonic state, and she looked up at Morgan, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Th-thank you," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I... I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here."
"Of course," Morgan said softly. "I'm just doing my job, trying to help." She paused for a moment, considering her next words carefully. "What's your name?"
"Amelia," the girl replied, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. "Amelia Stewart."
"Amelia," Morgan repeated, nodding. "I'm so sorry for what's happened here. But I promise you, we'll find out who did this to your mother."
"Thank you," Amelia whispered again, her eyes flicking back towards the door that separated them from the grisly scene in the living room. "I... I don't know what to do now. How am I supposed to go on without her?"
"First things first," Morgan said gently, squeezing Amelia's shoulders reassuringly. "We need to figure out what happened, and we'll need your help with that. But for now, let's just focus on getting through today, okay?"
"Okay," Amelia agreed, taking a deep breath and wiping away another tear. She looked up at Morgan, her gaze filled with determination. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you find my mom's killer."
Morgan studied Amelia's face, noting the mixture of fear and determination in her tear-filled eyes. She knew that despite her shock, Amelia would do whatever was necessary to help find her mother's killer.
"Amelia," Morgan began, her voice soft but firm. "I know this is incredibly difficult for you, but I need to ask you some questions about last night."
"Of course," Amelia replied, nodding. Her chin quivered slightly as she tried to maintain her composure.
"Where were you last night?" Morgan asked, watching Amelia closely for any reaction.
"I... I went out with my friends," Amelia answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "We went to a movie and then hung out at a friend's house. I didn't come home."
"Did your mom know you were going out?" Morgan inquired, trying to piece together the timeline of events.
"Yes," Amelia said, sniffling. "She told me to have fun and not to worry about coming home too early."
Morgan silently noted the detail, her mind already working on potential theories. Maybe the killer broke into Sheryl's home and grabbed her when she was least expecting it. There were no signs of forced entry, so it was also possible he was known to her.
Morgan studied Amelia's face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes and the way her fingers gripped the edge of the nearby table. "Did your mother have any plans last night?" she asked gently. "Was she expecting visitors or going out?"
Amelia shook her head, her gaze distant as she tried to recall any details that might be relevant. "No, I don't think so," she said slowly. "I thought she was just going to stay home and read all night."
"Any reason you think someone would want to harm her?" Morgan pressed, watching for any flicker of recognition in Amelia's eyes.
"Look," Amelia said, her voice suddenly firm. "You don't need to waste your time looking into other people. I know who did this." Her eyes filled with tears again, but there was a fire in them now, too – a burning determination.
Morgan frowned, taken aback. Her heart pounded in anticipation. "What do you mean?"
"Her ex-husband, Trevor Swanson," Amelia spat, choking on her words as fresh sobs wracked her body. "He's a gold-digger, and he never loved my mom. He’s way younger than her. He runs some personal training business downtown, and he was only after my mom for her money so he could start his stupid business."
Morgan felt a surge of anger at the mention of Trevor's name. She knew the sting of betrayal all too well and could understand Amelia's pain. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to remain focused on the task at hand.
"Tell me more about Trevor," she prompted.
"They had problems," Amelia admitted, her body trembling as she fought to regain control. "I figured he would do anything to get to her money, but I never imagined... I never thought he could do this." The last word came out as a choked sob, and Morgan felt her own eyes burn with unshed tears.
As Amelia cried, Morgan's mind raced. Trevor Swanson was now their prime suspect, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency to bring him in. She knew all too well the pain of having someone you love ripped away from you, and she would do everything in her power to ensure Amelia didn't have to suffer any longer than necessary.
"Amelia, I promise you, I'll find Trevor," Morgan said, her voice filled with determination.
"Thank you," Amelia whispered.
With a final glance at the distraught young woman, Morgan steeled herself and left the mansion. She had a job to do, and she wouldn't rest until Sheryl's killer was brought to justice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Morgan sat in the driver's seat of her car, the sun casting angular shadows across the dashboard. The heat of the day had turned the car into a sweltering oven, and she could feel beads of sweat trickling down her forehead as she typed on her laptop. It wasn't the most comfortable situation, but she had learned to adapt during her time in prison. Besides, finding Sheryl Stewart's killer was more important than personal comfort, and she wasn’t about to waste fuel idling.
"Alright, Trevor Swanson, let's see what you're all about," Morgan muttered under her breath as she navigated through the FBI database, pulling up files on the man who had been named a potential suspect by Sheryl's daughter, Amelia. The gruesome image of Sheryl's mutilated face was still fresh in her mind, fueling her determination to get to the bottom of this case.
As she scanned the information on Trevor, one detail immediately caught her eye: he was twenty years younger than Sheryl. "Huh," Morgan mumbled, her brow furrowed in thought. "Gold-digger much?" She continued reading but was surprised to find that Trevor didn't have a criminal record. This certainly complicated things; if he had a history of violence or fraud, it would be easier to pin him as the prime suspect. Still, Amelia’s statement was more than enough to fuel Morgan’s investigation.
It was not uncommon for criminals to keep a clean record strategically, and she knew better than to underestimate anyone – especially after being framed for murder herself.
Morgan leaned back in her seat, rubbing her temples as she contemplated her next move. Her gut told her that there was more to Trevor Swanson than met the eye, and she was determined to uncover it. In the distance, she saw a group of teenagers laughing as they exited an ice cream shop, blissfully unaware of the darker side of life that she had become all too familiar with. For a moment, she envied their innocence.
Focus, Morgan, she chided herself, shaking her head to dispel the distractions. She knew she couldn't afford to waste any more time – Sheryl's killer was still out there, and every second counted. With renewed resolve, she continued digging into Trevor's background, determined to find any shred of evidence that might lead her closer to the truth. Morgan's fingers danced across her laptop's keyboard, searching for Trevor Swanson on various social media platforms.
Well, if there was one thing Trevor liked almost as much as money, it was himself.
"Look at you," Morgan muttered under her breath, scrolling through an endless stream of selfies and gym pictures showcasing his chiseled physique. She couldn't help but feel a pang of disgust at his vanity; the man seemed to have no sense of humility or self-awareness. "All those muscles, but does your brain work just as well?" she wondered aloud, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
In between the photos of him flexing and working out, she found several posts where he vehemently argued with other users about topics ranging from politics to nutrition. It quickly became clear that Trevor was not only vocal but also highly opinionated. Morgan raised an eyebrow, taking note of this new information. A heated temper combined with a bruised ego could be a dangerous cocktail.
She shifted her attention back to the FBI database. As she dug deeper, a startling fact surfaced: Trevor had been married to Sheryl for a mere six months before filing for divorce. And, in a move that screamed gold-digger, he had managed to walk away with a hefty sum of her money – enough to open his own gym.
Six months? Really? Morgan shook her head in disbelief. She could practically hear the gears turning in Trevor's mind when he saw an opportunity to cash in on Sheryl's wealth. But was that enough to make him a murderer?
Short marriage, big payout, and a brand-new gym, Morgan mused, weighing the evidence before her. She knew she'd need more than this to prove Trevor's guilt, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was on the right track. It was time to gather more intel, and she knew just where to start – the gym.
She checked the gym’s hours online. It was currently open and during prime hours at that. She didn't hesitate for a moment, turning on her car and revving the engine. It was time to pay Trevor Swanson a visit.
As she weaved through traffic, Morgan's mind raced with possible scenarios of what she might find at the gym. Would Trevor be there, flexing his muscles and reveling in his newfound wealth? Or would he be cowering in a corner, fearful that someone might uncover his secrets?
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She couldn't let her anger cloud her judgment or compromise the investigation. This needed to be done by the book – no room for error.
***
The Texas sun beat down mercilessly on Morgan as she stood outside Trevor's gym, a sleek, glass-fronted building in the heart of downtown Dallas. This place must have cost a pretty penny to build, and Morgan could easily see Trevor taking advantage of an older, wealthy woman like Sheryl just to achieve his dreams.
The sound of clanging weights and grunts of exertion filtered through the door as a muscular man in a tight tank top walked out, and for a moment, she hesitated. Morgan had spent a lot of time in the gym in prison, but it was a lot different environment than this. It was hardened and cold, but this aspect of gym life seemed to prioritize vanity and shallow pursuits. But now was not the time for judgment. She reminded herself that somewhere inside that gym was a man who might hold the key to solving this grisly murder.
Taking a deep breath, Morgan pushed open the door and stepped into the air-conditioned oasis. Immediately, she was struck by the energy of the place – men and women huffed and puffed on treadmills, their faces contorted with effort, while others grimaced through repetitions of bicep curls and squats. The smell of sweat hung heavy in the air, a testament to the hard work being done. But it was so colorful and bright, whereas the gym Morgan had used in prison had been dark and cold.
_preview.jpg)
