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."
A tear slid down her cheek as she stared at the last photo in the album. It was taken just before her arrest – her father's arm around her shoulders, both of them smiling for the camera, blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to hit.
Is it true, Dad? Were you really an FBI agent before I was born? And if so… why didn't you tell me?
Her father's eyes seemed to bore into hers through the photograph, but they offered no answers. The room felt colder now – the silence heavy and oppressive.
Morgan took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. With a sudden burst of energy, she shoved the boxes back into the depths of the closet, shutting the door with a resolute slam. The sound echoed through the quiet room, and as it faded away, Morgan felt an odd sense of determination settle over her. She couldn't let some stranger's words get to her. She knew her dad. Even if he did lie to her, she knew there would have been a good reason.
Her footsteps felt heavy as she crossed the living space, feeling the weight of her past threatening to crush her. She sank back onto the kitchen chair, surrounded by the files and photos that she had been poring over for hours. Her eyes flicked between them, searching for connections that remained elusive.
"Stacy, orphan… Martha, lost child… Amber, parents gone…" Morgan whispered, her voice barely audible against the hum of her laptop. She could feel the exhaustion creeping up on her, but she refused to give in. There had to be something she was missing – some clue that would unravel the mystery.
"Three different traumas, three different murder locations…"
She leaned back on the chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. Her mind swam with faces and names, victims and locations, but nothing seemed to fit together.
As much as she hated to admit it, Derik would probably be a good help right now. But as always, she'd pushed him away. Even if her reasons were good, she was frustrated with herself. They needed answers. She just hoped Derik was looking for them too.