And it was late now. Chances were, the lawyer wouldn't come until the morning, which left them spinning their wheels until then. As she walked down the hall with Derik, she felt like the walls were closing in on her. All those thoughts she'd had earlier, about how much of her life she'd missed, came flooding back, filling her with panic. It didn't seem fair that people like Jim Alba could live in the world and get what they want, while she was locked away for so long when she was completely innocent.

  "Cross, you sure you're okay?" Derik asked.

  "No, I'm not okay," she snapped, turning away as the darkening sky growled above, and more rain fell on them.

  "Cross—"

  "No!" Morgan snapped, emotion hitting her like a whip. She could admit that part of her did resent Derik. "Why did you stop fighting for me?”

  "What?" Confusion flickered all over his face.

  "When I went to jail," Morgan said, knowing she was being out of line, but unable to stop it. "I know it wasn’t your job, but—we were friends. No, we were more than friends.” She wasn’t even talking about the stupid kiss they’d shared. She didn’t even want to bring that up. But they had been partners, above all else.

  Derik looked taken aback by Morgan's outburst. "You know I did everything I could," he said softly. "But the evidence was stacked against you, and there was only so much I could do. I told you, I’m sorry for giving up.”

  Morgan turned to face him, her eyes filled with anger and hurt. "That's not good enough," she said. "You were supposed to be my friend, my partner. You were supposed to fight for me, no matter what."

  "I did fight for you," Derik insisted. "But sometimes, the system just isn't fair. You of all people should know that. As the years went on, I went through my own shit, and I just … I didn’t know what else to do for you.”

  Morgan shook her head, feeling a rage building inside her. It wasn’t at Derik anymore, but at the world. She felt bad for exploding on him, that he was in her line of fire, but she couldn’t help it. "You don't get it," she said. "You don't know what it's like to be behind bars, to be treated like a criminal when you know you're innocent. You don't know what it's like to lose everything you ever cared about."

  "Morgan, I—"

  "No," she cut him off. She didn't want to hear it. She just wanted to be alone.

  Without another thought, Morgan took off. She needed to clear her head.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Back at home, Morgan buried herself in case files to distract herself from her earlier embarrassment. She shouldn't have snapped at Derik like that. It was unfounded and unprofessional. But something about the whole situation had made her snap.

  She sighed, leaning back on her couch. Her table lamp was on, filling the living room with a soft, warm glow. Beside her, Skunk wagged his tail and looked up at her with milky eyes. When Morgan had first got the Pitbull, before she went to prison, he'd been just a puppy. She hoped Derik could understand why she'd snapped, how hard it was for her to have gone to jail at thirty and been released at forty, ten years later. She was more muscular, hardened, jaded, but deep inside, she was still her. The more time she spent out of prison, the more she remembered that.

  But the memories also brought back the pain, the trauma, the fear. The fear of being locked up again, of being accused of a crime she didn't commit. She couldn't afford to make any more mistakes, any more missteps. She needed to stay focused, to keep digging until she found the answers she was looking for.

  Skunk whined and nosed at her hand, and Morgan absently petted his head. It was getting late—night had settled over the town, and Jim Alba was being detained for the night. They'd question him properly tomorrow, once he had his lawyer secured, but Morgan was just grateful they'd caught the bastard, and he was behind bars, which meant more women were safe. Still, she needed to build as strong of a case against him as she could.

  She just hoped Jim Alba was the right guy. Either way, he was the best lead they had.

  Try as she might, her mind kept going back to Derik's face when she'd snapped earlier, and her face burned with embarrassment. She needed a break from the case, from the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She needed to clear her head.

  She grabbed her keys and put on her coat, Skunk following closely behind her. As she threw on her jacket, she knelt down and rubbed her dog's head. "I'll be back soon, boy. Just need to get out of here for a bit."

  Skunk whined but then went over to his bed like a good boy. Morgan smiled before she headed out into the night.

  The sky had cleared, revealing the stars above. She walked to the nearest bar, a dive that she used to frequent before her arrest. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of alcohol and smoke greeting her. She felt a pang of nostalgia, of regret, as she walked up to the bar.

  The bartender was the same as he'd always been, just older. Gareth, now in his fifties, was just as spry as he'd always been as he poured two beers on tap for a couple and handed it off to them, just as Morgan slid into the barstool. When Gareth noticed her, he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

  "Hey, Gareth," Morgan said.

  "Well, shit," Gareth said. "Morgan Cross, is that you? I thought you'd gone and moved away."

  "I did, sort of," Morgan said, grateful that her fate hadn't exactly spread to the bar. Some of the neighbors knew, but ten years was a long time to go away. She was sure most people in general had forgotten about her.

  Gareth raised an eyebrow. "Sort of?" he asked.

  "I was in prison for ten years," Morgan said, and Gareth's eyes widened in shock. "But I'm out now. Trying to get my life back on track."

  A flicker of recognition on Gareth’s face. “I thought I heard someone talking about some FBI agent who was wrongfully convicted. That you?”

  Sullenly, Morgan nodded.

  Gareth shook his head, sympathy written all over his face. "I had no idea, Morgan. I'm sorry."

  Morgan shrugged, trying to play it off. "It's in the past now. Just trying to move forward, you know?"

  Gareth nodded, then gestured to the beer he'd poured for her. "On the house," he said.

  Morgan gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Gareth."

  As she sipped her beer, she looked around the bar. It was a Monday night, and the place was mostly empty. There were a few regulars scattered around, nursing their drinks and watching the TV screen playing in the corner. Morgan felt a sense of belonging, of familiarity, that she hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the company, but for the first time in a while, she felt like she was home.

  Morgan took it all in, the sights and sounds of the bar, the way the bartender moved with ease. It was a reminder of a past life, of a time before prison, before everything had gone to shit. She missed it—the carefree days of drinking with friends, of not worrying about anything but having a good time when it was off-hours and taking down criminals when she was working.

  But those days were gone, and she couldn't dwell on them. She took a deep breath and downed the rest of her beer, feeling the slight buzz in her head. The more she drank, the more Derik slipped back into her mind.

  She hated how they'd left things off. Tomorrow, they were back at work. She had to make it right. Maybe call him, tell him she was sorry. No—that wouldn't be enough. She'd known Derik Greene for too long, even if they'd been apart for ten years.

  Maybe it was a bad idea, but at that moment, she decided what she'd do.

  ***

  Morgan knocked on Derik's door, having taken a cab across the city. The lights were on inside, telling her he was home. This place was new—different from the apartment he'd lived at the last time she'd been at one of his places. It was a small, modest house, with dark blue paneling in a family neighborhood. She wondered if she was about to get greeted by his wife or girlfriend—or worse, a kid—but when the door opened, it was just Derik on the other side. His plaid pajamas and ruffled dark hair made him look younger than he was, more like how he used to look to her.

  "Morgan?" His blue eyes widened in shock.

  "Hey." With a tight-lipped smile, she held up the bottle of scotch she'd grabbed on the way over. "Apology drink?"

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know, Cross. It's late. We need to work."

  "It'll only take a bit."

  Hesitantly, Derik stepped aside. Morgan breezed into his home and was surprised by how messy the place was, giving off the instant vibe of a bachelor pad. She noticed the diet soda cans piling up on the kitchen counter through the entrance, along with the stack of dishes. And there were a few hoodies lying around the living room, something she was sure a live-in girlfriend would never allow. In a way, it reminded her of her own place, minus Skunk.

  Derik followed her, his frown deepening as she made herself at home on his couch. Derik set down a cup.

  "Where's yours?" Morgan asked.

  "None for me," he said. "I've been sober since the divorce.”

  She never remembered Derik having a drinking problem, but then again, ten years was a long time.

  "I'm sorry about earlier," Morgan said. Derik sat down a full couch cushion away, still looking unsure. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's just been a long day, and I needed to blow off some steam."

  Derik shrugged. "It's fine, Morgan. I get it. This case is getting to all of us."

  Morgan shook her head. "No, it's not just that. I've been thinking a lot about the past. About how much I've lost." She looked away. "And about us."

  Derik's eyebrows shot up. "Us? Morgan, we haven't been partners in ten years. Still, it hurt when you said I didn't fight for you."

  "I know, I know," Morgan said, running her fingers through her hair. "But I just ... I don't know. Working with you today, then seeing how Jim Alba had such a perfect life, thrown away all for nothing ... it brought back a lot of memories. It reminded me of things I used to dream about."

  Derik looked down at his hands. "You never told me what you dreamt about. You were always a closed book."

  Her eyes flashed to his. "Well, I've been locked up for a long time. Maybe I'm sick of being a closed book."

  "So, what am I supposed to say?" Derik said. "I did fight for you, Morgan. Maybe I could've tried harder, but things got complicated in my life too."

  Morgan sipped the scotch, enjoying the warmth in her throat. She wished Derik would have a drink with her like he used to, but if he'd made an effort to stay sober, she had to respect that. She realized then that she never did get caught up on his life.

  "What happened with you?" she asked him.

  He laughed. "That's a big topic."

  Morgan took another sip. "I've got time."

  Derik sighed, leaning back in the couch, and Morgan found herself wishing he was just a bit closer to her. Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but she was finding herself drawn to him.

  "Things just got … so messy between us.”

  Morgan held her breath. She hoped it had nothing to do with that kiss they’d shared all those years ago …

  “It just wasn’t working out,” Derik said. “As you know, things had been rocky for a long time.”

  She remembered. They never would’ve kissed like that if things with his wife had been perfect. She remembered them talking about taking a break before, which was part of how she’d justified the kiss back then, but looking back, it was wrong, no matter what. He’d still been married.

  It was hard to picture Derik's married life after she went to jail. The thought that he'd had one, even if the marriage ended up failing, still made her envious. She never got to have a wedding. A chance to fall in love again. Not while she was locked up.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Don't worry about it," Derik said, a small smile on his face. "I'm happy now. I've found a good balance in my life. Work, friends, and the occasional date."

  Morgan shifted closer to him, feeling the heat of his body. "And what about love?" she asked. "Have you found that too?"

  Derik's eyes met hers, and for a moment, Morgan thought she saw a flicker of something there. Something that made her heart race. But then he looked away, and the moment was gone.

  "Not yet," he said softly. "But I'm not looking for it, either."

  Morgan felt a pang of disappointment. She wondered if she'd read too much into that moment, or if she was just imagining things. But then she remembered something she'd read in a book once in her time in prison. She'd read a lot there. Something about how life was too short to not take risks. Too short to not go after what you wanted.

  But then Derik said, "After everything that happened with Emma, I'm pretty turned off of love and family and all that crap. The idea used to matter to me. I used to want kids, I used to dream about my perfect life with my perfect family. But I thought I had it, then it died in the worst way possible."

  Morgan's heart sank. "What happened?"

  "She cheated on me," Derik said. "A full-blown affair that had been going on for at least a year. We divorced right after I found out."

  "Damn," Morgan said. She felt for Derik. Even with their heat-of-the-moment kiss, they had never engaged in an actual affair. Both were bad, she knew that, but what Emma had done was certainly worse. "Sorry," she added.

  "Yeah, well, it's all good," Derik said. "I started drinking too much after that, but then I turned my life around and got sober. Still, I've pretty much accepted that I'm gonna die alone. Love's not for everyone." He eyed the bottle of scotch but said nothing more.

  "It's not too late for you," Morgan said, eyes lingering on his face. Derik always gave off the impression that he didn't know he was a handsome guy, but he was.

  He looked at her, his eyes flicking up and down her face, stopping right at her lips.

  Morgan felt her heart skip a beat. The tension between them was growing, and she couldn't deny the feelings that were stirring inside of her. She wanted Derik. Part of her had always wanted him.

  Without thinking, Morgan leaned in and pressed her lips to Derik's. At first, he was still, his body tense under hers. But then, he relaxed and deepened the kiss, his hands finding their way to her waist. Morgan moaned softly into his mouth, running her fingers through his hair.

  Then, in one quick motion, he pushed her away.

  Morgan jolted back, smacked by the cold sting of rejection. Derik looked at her in shock, and embarrassment coursed through her. Morgan didn't think. She just stood up, grabbing the bottle of scotch as she did.

  "Shit, sorry, Greene," she muttered.

  She stumbled toward the door, scotch in hand, wondering how she could ever face Derik as her partner again.

  She'd just royally messed everything up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Morgan woke up too early the next day, before the sun was even up.

  She took in the dismal landscape of the neighborhood as she walked, Skunk's paws padding the damp sidewalk beside her. Small, rundown houses lined the street, and many of them had boards nailed over their windows, giving them a depressing and eerie look. She could feel the alcohol from last night still buzzing in her veins and making her feel slightly warm, but the phone call she'd received in the early hours of the morning, plus her short hours of sleep, had sobered her right up. The street was empty, and a cold breeze blew, carrying with it the faint smell of garbage and smoke. The dark sky felt oppressive, casting a deep blanket of darkness over the street.

  Up ahead, there was a man in a black hoodie. Just who she needed to see.

  After Morgan had last talked to Samson, he’d floated the idea that Sandra Berryhill—his last victim—had a husband who was out of town, and that husband may have been the person who was there the night Morgan was framed for murder, for being Samson’s accomplice.

  But soon after, with some digging, Morgan found out that the husband truly was out of town. He was innocent. She’d confirmed it with ten-year-old footage of the man’s trip, and he was in Canada at the time.

  That left Morgan more confused, more lost, and so she’d gone back to Samson, played into his little game. He’d been so amused to see her again, to know he’d caught her attention. She’d asked him again who was there that night.

  She’d hated herself for it, but she needed to know who framed her.

  She needed to know why she’d lost ten years of her life.

  He told her that he didn’t know the man’s name, but that he had an associate who could give her a name.

  And now, here she was.

  Skunk growled at the sight of him, but Morgan said, "It's okay, boy," and he calmed down. But the stranger looked at the dog, pausing for a moment. "He won't bite unless I tell him to," Morgan called out.

  The man kept coming toward her. He stepped into the light of a streetlamp, revealing the gaunt face of a twenty-something man.

  "You're Morgan Cross?" he asked.

  "Yeah," she said. "Thanks for calling me back."

  "Well, you have friends in high places," he said. "I've got the name you're looking for."

  Morgan's heart picked up.

  "Eric Domino," the stranger said. "That's the guy you're looking for."

  Morgan gritted her teeth. She'd never heard of this Domino guy. But according to Samson, The Seven Signs Killer, another person had been on the scene the night Morgan had been framed. This person had stepped aside, allowing Samson to kill, and allowing Morgan to be framed for it. It had all ended in her ultimate arrest and ten years of her life gone, all for a misunderstanding. If that Domino guy had been there, he hadn't made it known. He'd disappeared.

  "You're sure?" Morgan asked.

  "I'm sure," he said. "He lives in an apartment building somewhere around here. That's all I can tell you."

  Morgan nodded, feeling a sense of relief. She had a name now. It was a start.

  "Thank you," she said to the stranger, then turned to leave. Skunk followed her, trotting by her side.

  As she walked, Morgan couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. If Eric Domino was the missing piece to her story, then why had he disappeared? And why was he never mentioned in any of the reports or investigations? It seemed odd. There was so much more to this story—to her story—than she knew, and it infuriated her.

 

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