Forever, page 9
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The diner's neon sign cast a warm glow over the sidewalk, beckoning Morgan inside like an old friend. She stepped into the refuge of the familiar establishment, where the scent of frying bacon and percolating coffee enveloped her like a comforting embrace. Finding a booth near the back, she shrugged off her coat and slid onto the worn leather seat, its faint creak a testament to countless conversations held within these walls.
"Long day, huh?" The waitress asked, setting down a steaming mug of black coffee in front of Morgan. Her voice was tinged with sympathy, the lines on her face evidence of the long hours she spent serving others.
"Seems like every day is a long one lately," Morgan replied, forcing a ghost of a smile as she cradled the mug, letting the warmth seep into her chilled fingers.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"BLT please, the usual."
"Coming right up." The waitress nodded before disappearing behind the counter.
Morgan sighed and opened the file folder she had brought with her, spreading the paperwork across the table. As she filled out the reports, her mind wandered to Amber Jade. What would her life have been if not for the senseless violence that had snuffed it out? Would she have found happiness or succumbed to the grief that threatened to swallow her whole?
"Here you go, hun," the waitress said, placing the BLT sandwich on the table. "Enjoy."
"Thank you," Morgan murmured, her attention fixed on the case documents scattered around her.
Her appetite waned, but she forced herself to take a bite of the sandwich, savoring the salty crunch of the bacon even as her thoughts churned. How could she uncover the truth behind Amber's death when so much of her own life remained shrouded in mystery?
"Excuse me, Morgan?" The waitress's voice cut through her reverie. "There's a call for you. Do you want to take it?"
"Sure," she replied, curiosity piqued. Who could be calling her here?
As she walked towards the phone, her fingers brushed against the cold metal of her FBI badge tucked securely in her coat pocket. It was a constant reminder of the path she had chosen and the sacrifices she had made to pursue justice. Whoever was on the other end of that line, she would face them head-on – just as she had faced every challenge that life had thrown her way.
Morgan approached the phone mounted on the diner wall, her hand hesitating for a moment before she picked up the receiver. The hum of conversation in the background faded as her focus narrowed to the voice on the other end of the line.
"Hello?" she asked, trying to sound casual despite the uneasy feeling that settled in her gut.
"Special Agent Morgan Cross," came a muffled response, barely audible over the crackling static. "Your father served in the FBI, but it ended badly for him and he had to get out. He made too many enemies, and you paid the price, getting locked up for ten years. It's time you faced the truth."
Her grip tightened on the receiver, knuckles whitening. She leaned closer, straining to pick up any nuances in the distorted voice that could offer a clue. The words echoed in her head, stirring up memories she had buried deep within herself. She had known her father to be a simple project manager for the city—a man who oversaw the construction of various buildings. It was a low-key job, and he kept his head down. Morgan had no memory of him ever having any problems with anyone, at work or otherwise.
"Who is this?" Morgan demanded, her voice tense and sharp as a razor's edge. "Tell me who you are right now."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then the call disconnected abruptly, leaving her standing in the diner with nothing but the low hum of static to keep her company.
"Damn it," she hissed under her breath, slamming the receiver back onto the wall-mounted phone. Her heart raced, adrenaline coursing through her veins like fire.
"Everything alright?" asked the waitress, eyeing Morgan with concern.
"Fine," Morgan replied curtly, her mind already racing on to the next steps. She couldn't trust an anonymous tip – especially one that seemed so calculated to unsettle her – but the implications were too significant to ignore.
Shaking hands retrieved her jacket from the booth, the half-eaten BLT sandwich forgotten. As she shrugged into the garment, Morgan couldn't help but think back to the conversations she'd had with her father before he passed. He'd always been cryptic about his past profession, evading every question with a skill she could only now recognize as professionally honed.
Could he have been an agent like me?
No, it was ridiculous. He would have told her. There was no way he would have taken that to the grave. Her father loved her, trusted her--he would have told her. If my father was an agent, and it ended badly for him, did his enemies come after me? Did they frame me for murder? she pondered, the questions gnawing at her insides like a ravenous beast. Her father couldn't have been an FBI agent, she was certain of it. He was a quiet man. The anonymous call had to be a sick prank, and the only person who knew where she would be at that moment was Derik.
"Enough," she whispered to herself, her voice tense and strained. She gathered her belongings and stormed toward the exit, the door jingling as she pushed through it. Outside, the sun cast long shadows on the pavement, streaks of gold and darkness blending together like the swirling thoughts inside Morgan's head. Morgan's grip on her phone tightened as she stood outside the diner, the wind whipping strands of her hair across her face. The metallic taste of anger mixed with confusion flooded her mouth as she punched Derik's number into her phone. The paperwork in her other hand crumpled under the force of her emotions.
"Derik," Morgan spat out before he could even say hello. "Do you think it's funny to mess with me? Calling my diner with some twisted story about my father?"
"Whoa, Morgan, hold on," Derik replied, clearly taken aback by her anger. "I didn't call you. I swear."
Her eyes narrowed as she stared off into the distance, processing his words. She wanted to believe him, but her gut instinct whispered otherwise. "Right," she scoffed. "This is just a coincidence, then? You knew I'd be here, and now someone calls with information about my past? Seems pretty convenient."
"I promise, it wasn't me," Derik insisted, genuine concern lacing his words. "But if it wasn't me, then who was it?"
Morgan bit her lip, considering the possibilities. If it wasn't Derik, then did that mean the call was genuine? Or was someone else trying to manipulate her? She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Morgan clenched her fist, the anger surging through her veins like a wildfire.
"I don't believe you," she spat bitterly, clenching her teeth. "Just stay away from me, Derik."
"Wait, Morgan—" Derik's protest was cut short as she disconnected the call, leaving him on the other end with only the sharp beep of the line going dead.
With her heart pounding in her chest, Morgan stared at her phone for a moment before shoving it into her pocket. She stood outside the diner, lost in thought, the soft glow of the neon sign flickering overhead, casting a reddish hue on the pavement.
"Trust no one," she whispered to herself, her father's old advice echoing in her ears. It was a mantra that had served her well during her time in prison – but now, out in the world once more, she found herself questioning everything, including her ability to know whom she could rely on.
She shook her head, forcing her thoughts back on track. There was work to be done, and she couldn't afford to let her guard down – not with lives at stake.
Determinedly, she strode across the parking lot to her car, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes. As she slid behind the wheel, she glanced around, taking note of the other vehicles and people milling about. Paranoia gnawed at her, making her hyper-aware of everything around her.
She needed to stay sharp and keep her emotions in check. Whoever this mysterious caller was, they had managed to get under her skin – but she couldn't let them win. She had to find this killer before they struck again, and uncovering the truth behind the call would be part of that.
As she pulled out of the parking lot, her resolve hardened, matched only by the steely determination in her eyes. She would not let this caller manipulate her, nor would she allow Derik's presence to compromise her investigation. Right now, she had to find the man who was drowning those women.
There had to be something she’d missed in the case files. Whatever it was, she was going to find it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Morgan sat hunched over her kitchen table, the glow of her laptop screen casting angular shadows on her face. A half-empty cup of cold coffee sat untouched next to her as she flipped through a stack of files that seemed to spill out from every corner of the table like a paper waterfall. Skunk was curled up at her feet, his gentle snores punctuating the otherwise quiet room.
"Come on," Morgan muttered under her breath, scanning the documents with her hardened eyes. She was searching for a connection between Stacy Cox, Martha McTavish, and Amber Jade - but so far, the thread remained elusive. Her mind continued to circle back to the AA meeting where Stacy had been last seen, leaving with an unknown man in his forties. Was he the key to all of this? Or just another dead end?
Letting out a sigh, she decided it was time to follow up on Amber Jade. With no family or friends to contact, her only lifeline was her physician, Dr. Stone. Morgan pulled out her phone and dialed his number, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table as she waited for him to pick up.
"Dr. Stone speaking," came the voice on the other end.
"Dr. Stone, this is Special Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI. I'm investigating the death of one of your patients, Amber Jade," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, despite her frustration.
"Oh, goodness, yes," he said. "I received word of Amber's passing. It's tragic."
"She was the victim of homicide, yes, and she was not the first victim. I understand you were Amber's physician. Can you tell me anything about her life that might help me understand what happened to her?"
There was a pause before Dr. Stone replied, his voice guarded. "I treated Amber, yes, but I can't share personal medical information without proper authorization."
"Of course," Morgan said, quickly assuring him that she had the necessary clearance. "We're just trying to piece together any possible connections between these women, and any information you have could be crucial. It doesn't have to be anything medical--I'm merely trying to understand who Amber was as a person."
Dr. Stone hesitated for a moment longer before relenting. "Well, Amber didn't have any close friends or family, as far as I know. She was a private person, but we had built up a rapport over the years. It's tragic what happened to her."
Morgan nodded even though he couldn't see her. She knew she needed more than just sympathy – she needed a lead. "Did Amber ever mention attending AA meetings, doctor? Or had she been struggling with an addiction?"
"AA meetings?" Dr. Stone's surprise came through clearly. "No, I don't believe she ever mentioned anything like that to me. She was quite well-adjusted in our sessions, but she wasn't handling her parents' deaths very well. It's possible she turned to alcohol after I last saw her, but I couldn't say for certain."
"Thank you, Doctor. If you think of anything, please let me know."
"I will, Special Agent Cross. Thank you."
Morgan hung up and sighed, disappointment heavy in her chest. She had been hoping she could somehow tie Amber to Stacy with the AA meetings, but if Amber wasn't even an alcoholic, then the theory was moot.
Morgan stared at the cluttered mess of files strewn across the table. If there was no lead in Amber's life, then maybe she had to turn it back to Martha, the last victim they'd found. Martha was most likely the first victim, unless there were still others out there, waiting to be found.
Morgan grabbed the worn manila folder with Martha's name scrawled on the front, flipping it open to reveal a collection of documents and photographs.
Her eyes scanned the pages, taking in the details of Martha's life: known drug addict, frequented shelters, no fixed address. It was possible Martha had attended AA meetings with Stacy.
The only name that seemed viable was a welfare caseworker – Francine, who was Martha's emergency contact. Morgan dialed the number, hoping against hope that Francine might hold the key to unlocking this mystery.
"Hello?" A warm, kind voice answered the phone.
"Hi, Francine? My name is Morgan Cross, I'm an FBI agent investigating the recent murders of Stacy Cox, Amber Jade, and Martha McTavish. I understand you were Martha's caseworker?"
"Yes, I was," Francine responded, concern evident in her tone. "How can I help you, Agent Cross?"
"Did Martha ever mention anything about attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, or knowing anyone who did?" Morgan asked, her fingers gripping the edge of her couch tightly.
"AA meetings? No, not that I recall," Francine replied thoughtfully. "Martha struggled with addiction, but she never expressed an interest in getting sober through AA or any other program."
"Damn," Morgan muttered under her breath, her heart sinking further. "Can you tell me anything else about Martha?" Morgan asked, her voice straining to hold back her frustration. She rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.
"Martha had a very hard life," Francine sighed. "She lost a child when she was younger and just never quite picked herself back up. To be honest, I think that's what led her down the path of addiction. It was her way of coping."
Morgan glanced at the photo of Martha in the file, her heart aching for the pain she must have experienced. But how did this information connect her to Stacy and Amber? She dug her nails into the couch cushions as she fought the urge to grunt in frustration.
"Thank you, Francine," Morgan said, forcing a polite tone. "I appreciate your help."
"Of course, Agent Cross," Francine responded kindly. "If there's anything else I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
"Will do. Take care, Francine." Morgan ended the call and tossed her phone onto the coffee table, the frustration boiling over. She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging slightly in an attempt to ease the tension building inside her.
They took a breath and thought about the victims. Stacy Cox, the orphaned waitress; Martha McTavish, the grieving mother who couldn't escape addiction; and Amber Jade, struggling to cope with the loss of her parents. They all shared a traumatic past, but what was the link between those traumas that led each of them to their tragic end? Was it their trauma that made the killer target them?
"Skunk," Morgan said, rubbing her dog's head as she lay curled up at her feet. "Am I missing something obvious here? What connects these women?"
The dog simply snorted in her sleep, providing no answers.
"Thanks for the help," Morgan muttered sarcastically, leaning back on her chair and closing her eyes for a moment. She tried to gather her thoughts, to clear the clutter in her mind and see the pattern that was eluding her.
Maybe I should refocus on the marina, she thought aloud, opening her eyes again to glance at the list of people with access to the docks. She had been so sure that the marina held the answer, but with three different murder locations, she couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't the key to solving this case. After all, the bodies were found at all different locations.
Morgan's thoughts wandered, and she found herself back in the diner earlier that day. The anonymous phone call echoed in her mind - a voice claiming her father had been an FBI agent. She shook her head, dismissing the idea. There was no way he had been; he would have told her. Her dad loved her, and especially since she joined the FBI, she knew there was no reason why he'd keep it from her.
"Skunk, watch the files for me, buddy," she mumbled to her loyal dog, who looked up at her with sleepy eyes. Morgan pushed herself out of the chair and made her way to her bedroom closet. She slid open the door and dug out an old cardboard box wedged between her hiking boots and winter jackets.
"Alright, Dad, let's see if there are any secrets hiding in here," she muttered as she peeled the tape off the dusty box. Inside were photo albums from her childhood, each one filled with memories of simpler times. Pictures of her and her dad filled the pages, his ever-present grin warming her heart.
Could he really have been an agent before she was born? But why would he hide it? And why would he quit?"
"Hey, kiddo," her dad's voice seemed to echo from the past, a memory of him calling her inside after playing in their front yard. Morgan blinked away tears that threatened to spill over, focusing on the pictures instead.
Is there something I missed all these years? she asked herself, studying every detail of her father's face in each photograph. You always said you wanted to protect me, but from what? Was it this life? Being an agent?
The photo albums seemed to whisper as Morgan turned the pages, each image a window into her past. A snapshot of her riding a bike through their suburban neighborhood, with her dad's strong hands steadying her from behind, brought back the smell of fresh-cut grass and the feeling of the wind against her face. A pang of sadness stabbed at her heart, but she continued to flip through.
"Look at us, Dad," she murmured, tracing a finger over a picture of them building a snowman together. Morgan could almost hear his laughter and feel the chill of the snowflakes melting on her cheeks. "You made life so much fun."
She held up a photo of her hugging her dad after her high school graduation. The pride in his eyes was something she'd never forget. He was always her biggest supporter.
Morgan's fingers trembled as she turned another page, and her eyes fell upon a photograph of them dancing at the Father-Daughter Dance. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the memory to wash over her. The sound of the music playing softly in the background – it all felt so real.
"God, I miss you," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief. "I wish you were still here. You would know what to do."
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