Page 14 of For Mercy

Morgan's eyes swept the room, taking in every detail.Stacks of yellowed newspapers teetered precariously on end tables, their headlines long outdated.The faint aroma of stale coffee mingled with pipe smoke, tickling her nostrils.A television droned in the background, its volume low but persistent.

"Nice place," Morgan said, her tone neutral.She'd learned long ago that sometimes the best way to get information was to let people fill the silence themselves.

Greg grunted, settling into a worn armchair."It's home.Now, what exactly do you want to know?"

Morgan leaned against the wall, her posture casual but her mind razor-sharp."Tell me about the person who rented your basement space."

The old man's face tightened, his eyes darting to the side."Not much to tell," Greg said, shrugging."Never met 'em in person."

Morgan raised an eyebrow."That's unusual, isn't it?Renting to someone you've never seen?"

Greg's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair."Look, they paid cash.Left it in unmarked envelopes.Rented for three months, no questions asked.That's all there was to it."

This setup was too perfect, too convenient.It reeked of premeditation, of someone who knew exactly how to cover their tracks.Her jaw clenched as she thought of Judge Hawthorne, of the elaborate death trap he'd been subjected to.

"And you never thought to meet them?To verify who they were?"Morgan pressed, her voice harder now.

Greg's eyes narrowed."Like I said, they paid.That's all that mattered."

Morgan felt a surge of frustration.She'd been on both sides of an interrogation, and she knew when someone was holding back.But pushing too hard now might shut Greg down completely.

"How did you communicate with them?"she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.

"Email," Greg replied."That's it.Just emails about the rent and such."

Morgan nodded slowly, her mind already formulating the next steps.They'd need to trace those emails to see if their killer had left any digital breadcrumbs.But something about this felt off.It was too neat, too easy.

As she opened her mouth to ask another question, a chill ran down her spine.The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a sensation she'd learned to trust both in prison and as an agent.Something wasn't right here.The room suddenly felt too small, too confined.

Her eyes met Derik's, and she saw the same unease reflected there.They needed to wrap this up, to get out and process what they'd learned.Because Morgan had a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning—and that whoever had orchestrated Judge Hawthorne's murder was far from done.

Greg shifted in his seat, his weathered hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of his plaid shirt.Morgan's keen eyes caught the nervous twitch, the way his gaze darted away from hers.

"Look," he said, his voice gruff with discomfort, "I ain't exactly been rolling in dough lately.Bills keep coming, and the roof ain't gonna fix itself."He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, where water stains spread like dark continents."When someone offers cash, no questions asked...well, a man in my position don't have the luxury of being picky."

Morgan nodded, her face a mask of understanding.She'd been desperate before, knew the weight of choices made when backed into a corner.But desperation could be exploited, and their killer had known exactly how to take advantage.

"I get it," she said, her voice low and steady."You needed the money.But those emails might be our only lead.Is there any chance you still have them?"

Greg hesitated, his rheumy eyes flickering towards an ancient desktop computer tucked in the corner of the room.Morgan's pulse quickened.If their perpetrator had been careless, even for a moment...

"I suppose I could pull them up," Greg mumbled, pushing himself to his feet with a groan."Don't delete much.Never know when you might need something."

As he shuffled towards the computer, Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik.Her partner's expression mirrored her own cautious hope.They'd been chasing shadows for days, and now, finally, a tangible lead.

Greg lowered himself into the creaking office chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.Morgan moved closer, careful not to crowd him.The ancient machine whirred to life, the fan kicking up dust that danced in the dim light filtering through grimy windows.

'Come on,' Morgan thought, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of a tattoo on her wrist – a reminder of her time behind bars, of the patience she'd learned the hard way.'Give us something, anything.'

As Greg navigated through his cluttered inbox, Morgan's mind raced ahead.What would they find?A carelessly used personal email?An IP address that could be traced?Or another dead end, another piece in a puzzle that seemed to grow more complex with each passing hour?

She thought of Judge Hawthorne, of the grotesque scene they'd discovered.Of Thomas, gunned down on that pier.Of her father, hidden away in the woods, a ghost from a past she was still trying to unravel.Somewhere in this twisted web of lies and vendettas was the truth – and Morgan was determined to drag it into the light, no matter the cost.

Morgan's eyes narrowed as she scanned the email exchange Greg had pulled up.A flicker of excitement coursed through her veins, but it was quickly tempered by years of hard-earned skepticism.This lead felt...convenient.Too convenient.

"There," Greg pointed, his weathered finger tapping the screen."That's the address they used."

Morgan leaned in, studying the string of seemingly random letters and numbers."[email protected]," she muttered, committing it to memory.

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