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"Maybe,"she conceded, but the image of the tattoo, that unsettling symbol, stayed fixedin her mind. It was a clue, it had to be. And she intended to unravel itsmeaning.
"Let'sgo," she said abruptly, pushing back her chair with a scrape against theworn tile floor. They had lingered in the digital realm long enough; it wastime to step into Reed's world.
***
The halls of thehigh school were thrumming with the energy of youth and learning. Lockers linedthe corridors, some decorated with stickers and band posters, others dented andscratched – silent witnesses to teenage angst and exuberance.
Morgan and Deriknavigated the sea of students, moving with purpose toward room 217. The doorbore a hand-painted sign: 'Mr. Reed's Art Studio: Create Your World.' A fittingmantra for someone potentially crafting an entirely different reality.
"Ready?"Morgan asked, her hand resting on the doorknob. Derik gave a terse nod, hisgreen eyes sharp with focus.
She pushed thedoor open without knocking, stepping into a sunlit classroom filled with thescent of paint and clay. Rows of easels held canvases in various stages ofcompletion, and a figure stood at the front of the class, animatedly discussingthe virtues of shadow and light.
"Excuse me,Mr. Reed?" Morgan called out, her voice cutting through the hushedattention of the students.
The man turned,his face registering mild surprise, then composed interest. "Yes, can Ihelp you?"
"We need totalk," Morgan stated flatly, her dark hair framing her face like a raven'swings. Derik stepped forward, flashing his badge.
"Iseverything okay?" Reed asked, concern knitting his brow as he glanced atthe teenagers watching the scene unfold.
"It willjust take a moment of your time," Derik assured him, his professionaldemeanor a stark contrast to the creative chaos of the art room.
"Class, whydon't you take a quick break?" Reed addressed his students before steppingtoward Morgan and Derik.
"Let's stepoutside," Morgan suggested, her tattoos shifting with the movement of herarms as she gestured towards the hallway.
"Ofcourse," Reed replied, wiping his hands on a paint-splattered apron beforeleading the way.
Morgan studiedMr. Reed as they stood in the empty hallway, a stark contrast to the vibrancyof his art classroom. The man's demeanor was calm, and he exuded an aura ofgenuine cooperation that made her instincts hum with uncertainty. She was usedto liars, to criminals who writhed under the weight of their own deceit. ButReed just seemed... open.
"Mr.Reed," Morgan began, her voice terse as she tried not to let fatigue seepthrough, "we appreciate your cooperation." Her eyes flickered to thetattoo visible on his wrist, peeking out from under a sleeve of his casualshirt. It was a complex pattern of lines and curves – eerily similar to the leylines linked to the murders they were investigating.
"Ofcourse," Reed replied, following her gaze. "You're talking aboutthis?" He lifted his arm for a closer look, his brow furrowing. "Inever thought it would be of interest to the FBI."
Derik leaned inslightly, his green eyes studying the ink. "It's unique," he saiddiplomatically. "Where did you get it?"
"Ah,"Reed chuckled, a wry edge to his laughter. "That’s a story. It was a longtime ago, in my younger, wilder days. I got this piece done on a whim."His smile faded into something more thoughtful, perhaps a bit embarrassed."I was honestly quite drunk at the time. Found a tattoo parlor and justwent for it."
"Anyparticular reason you chose this design?" Morgan asked, her mind racingthrough the implications. If this was a coincidence, it was a hell of one.
"Chose? No,I barely remember picking it. The artist had some designs on the wall, and Iguess I pointed to one. I didn’t even know what it meant until later—somepeople say it looks like an occult symbol, witchcraft or whatever." Reedshrugged, a gesture of dismissal. "But there was no grand plan behind it.Just youthful stupidity and too much alcohol."
Morgan observedhim closely, searching for any telltale sign of duplicity. The art teacherappeared earnest, his explanation plausible. Yet the gravity of the situation,the lives lost, kept her from taking anything at face value.
"Did youever look into its meaning after you got it?" Derik chimed in, hisexpression neutral yet attentive.
"Curiositygot the better of me once or twice," Reed conceded. "But I neverfound anything concrete. Just vague references to different cultures andhistorical symbols. Nothing that truly explained it."
"Alright,Mr. Reed," Morgan said, nodding slowly. "Thank you for explaining.Tattoos often tell stories, sometimes ones we don't intend to share."
Reed met hergaze, a hint of understanding crossing his features. Perhaps he saw somethingfamiliar in her, in the ink that adorned her own skin, each one a chapter ofher turbulent past.
Morgan tipped herhead slightly to one side, the lines etched into her face deepening withthought. She could read people well; it was a skill honed through years ofinterrogations and one she trusted above most others. Reed's demeanor was open,almost disarmingly so, and his story about an inebriated impulse tattoo fit theprofile of countless youthful indiscretions she had come across in her career.
"Mr.Reed," she began, piercing him with an unwavering gaze that had made manya hardened criminal squirm, "I need to ask you about your whereabouts thispast week during school hours."
His eyes, clearand unflinching, met hers. "Of course. I've been here every day. Theschool can confirm my attendance—I haven't missed a day in months." Hiswords were steady, the rhythm of truth as he saw it.
