05

The next forty-eight hours unraveled like a twisted puzzle.

The bridal suite murder wasn't a one-off.

Morgan had known it the second she saw the scene. Every detail curated, the pose, the lighting, the veil like a final flourish. This was a statement, not just a killing. The deeper they dug, the more it began to resemble a show with an invisible director.

The team split into tasks.

Karadec and Morgan went to the university to track down Emmett Crain, the controversial art professor with a history of "blurring ethics." Daphne and Oz sifted through Crain's past work, and the more they found, the colder the air seemed to get.

Sleeping Beauty, his most infamous project, featured women staged to look dead—always asleep, always passive. Lana Ellison had posed for him once. She wasn't the only one.

There were other photos. Other names.

They canvassed Crain's past students, pulling names from class rosters, gallery shows, archived critiques. One name kept resurfacing—Vince Arnaud, former assistant, expelled after an ethics review. No fixed address. A reputation for extremism.

A volatile artist, a vanishing assistant, and women being turned into human exhibits.

Back at the precinct, Morgan stood by the case board, eyes scanning the connections. Many victims. All staged. Both former models in Crain's orbit.

"He taught them," she muttered. "But someone else is applying the lesson."

Karadec nodded. "You think Crain's behind it?"

"I think someone admired him enough to make death their canvas."

A knock on the glass. Daphne entered, a file in hand. "After a lot of digging, we finally pulled hotel footage from the scene. Got a partial plate off a van leaving the loading zone. Registered to a storage unit under the name Vince Arnaud."

Karadec grabbed his coat. "Then let's go see what kind of art he's keeping in storage."

—

They arrived just past dusk. The unmarked SUV idled half a block from the warehouse in question, surveillance in place. The sky had gone slate-gray, and the air reeked of salt, oil, and old metal. A place made to disappear people.

The unit was tucked in a row of anonymous industrial garages on the edge of the city. When they cracked it open, the air inside was cold, heavy with the smell of solvents and dust.

Inside were props—wedding veils, vintage dresses, painted backdrops. Mounted photos on foam board. Some of Lana. All carefully framed like gallery pieces.

"He's in there," Oz confirmed over comms. "Thermals show one figure moving. Possibly alone."

"Backup's five minutes out," Daphne added.

Morgan's grip on the door handle tightened, knuckles whitening.

Karadec glanced over at her from the driver's seat. "We wait," he said firmly.

She didn't answer.

"Morgan," he said again, sharper this time.

She was already out of the car, door swinging shut behind her. Karadec cursed under his breath and followed her.

Morgan moved fast, too fast, down the side of the building. She stayed low, eyes alert, movements sharp and deliberate. Karadec caught up with her just as she ducked behind a stack of wooden pallets at the loading dock.

"What the hell are you doing?" he whispered, barely keeping the frustration out of his voice.

"He's going to run," Morgan muttered, crouched low. "We can't let him."

"Then we wait for backup," Karadec insisted, his voice tight with urgency.

She shook her head. "I'm not letting that psycho get away with this."

Before he could stop her, she slipped inside through the side door. Karadec hesitated, heart pounding. Then he drew his weapon and followed.

Inside, the warehouse was a mess of stacked pallets, metal shelves, and flickering lights. Karadec's boots echoed on the concrete as he scanned for movement.

"Morgan!" he hissed. No answer.

Then a sharp clatter to the left.

He turned the corner just in time to see her chasing Vince Arnaud across the warehouse floor, heels pounding, badge flashing. Vince shoved a crate behind him, blocking her path. She hurdled it like she was born in track shoes.

"Morgan, stop—!" Karadec shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

She didn't.

Vince reached for something in his coat. A glint of metal.

Karadec's blood ran cold.

"Gun!" he shouted.

Morgan didn't stop running. She veered left, cutting into the shelving units. Vince turned and fired, just once. The bullet pinged off a metal beam. Morgan dove, rolled, came up fast and tackled him into a pile of shipping blankets.

By the time Karadec reached them, she had Vince Arnaud in a wrist lock, panting hard, and a scrape on her cheek.

"Got him," she panted, hair falling loose from her ponytail as she caught her breath.

Karadec holstered his weapon, jaw tight, and called it in. "Suspect in custody. Officers en route. We need medical to check for minor injuries."

Sirens echoed in the distance. He turned to her, face stony.

He looked down at her, at the rise and fall of her chest, the dirt on her jacket, the bruising forming along her cheek from the fall.

"You're insane," he muttered, too low for anyone but her to hear.

Morgan glanced up at him with a tired, crooked smile. "Maybe. But I got him."

"You ever do that again, I will personally handcuff you to your kitchen sink," he said, voice taut with barely-contained fury and something with fear.

Morgan glanced sideways. "Kinky."

He gave her a sharp look.

"What?" she said, feigning innocence as she pulled her jacket straight. "You're the one throwing around threats."

Karadec stepped in front of her, blocking her path as sirens whined faintly in the distance.

"You rushed in blind, Morgan. No backup. You weren't even wearing a vest." His tone dropped, quieter now, but no less intense.

"Yeah, well, you looked busy arguing with command and I didn't feel like dying of boredom."

Karadec pinched the bridge of his nose like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding. "You're unbelievable."

She tilted her head, smirking even as her eyes softened. "And yet here we are. Again. Bad guy in cuffs, you and me... still breathing."

He didn't answer right away. His hand dropped from his face, and his eyes lingered on hers a second longer than they should have. When he finally spoke, the edge in his voice had been sanded down to something low and quiet.

"That was too close, Morgan."

The sight of her running headfirst into danger clung to him, sharp and unsettling. He didn't know when his worry had shifted from professional to personal. The words hung there, heavier than the silence that followed.

She blinked, surprised. It wasn't sarcasm. It wasn't frustration. It was fear—real, unguarded, and raw. The kind of fear that left a mark.

He hadn't meant to let it show.

Morgan's expression shifted, the playfulness giving way to something softer. "I knew what I was doing," she said gently. "I always know."

He looked at her then, really looked. Then, his eyes scanned her like he was checking for more wounds he couldn't see.

"You could've died."

She gave a small shrug, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Could've. Didn't."

Karadec's jaw clenched. "That's not comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be."

The air between them tightened. Something unspoken sat in the space, charged and humming like a live wire. Then a paramedic called out, "You need that cheek looked at?"

Morgan glanced down. She'd scraped her cheek during the chase. Nothing major. Still, she nodded, stepping away just as Karadec started to say something else.

Whatever it was died on his tongue.