Page 38 of For Silence

Font Size:

Page 38 of For Silence

"Is Henry Caldwell here?" Morgan kept her voice level, her gaze piercing through the formality of the encounter to anchor itself on the intent behind the question.

"Uh, yes," the suited man hesitated, thrown by her directness. "He's still in his office."

"Thank you." She dismissed him with a curt nod, her strides long and purposeful as she led Derik through the maze of cubicles.

Caldwell's nameplate glinted dully beside an oak door partially ajar, spilling muted voices into the corridor. Without hesitation, she rapped sharply against the wood, pushing the door open wider. Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward them as they entered—a man and a woman seated across from Caldwell, who stood at the head of the table, papers in hand.

"Mr. Caldwell?" Morgan didn't wait for an invitation. "FBI. We need you to come with us."

His reaction was immediate, brows knitting together in a mix of confusion and irritation. "What is this about?"

"Questions we need answers to. Not here," she stated, eyes locked onto his.

"Look, I'm in the middle of something important," Caldwell protested, his voice edged with annoyance. "Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't," Morgan replied firmly, her posture leaving no room for debate. The atmosphere tensed, the air thickening with unspoken implications as Derik flanked her, his presence an unspoken backing to her authority.

Morgan watched as Henry Caldwell's face shifted from annoyance to anger. His hand tightened around the stack of papers, knuckles whitening. "I know my rights," he snapped, his voice rising. "You can't just barge in here and demand—"

"Mr. Caldwell," Derik interjected, his tone even but firm, "we're not here to trample on your rights. We need to talk, and frankly, it's not optional."

"Talk about what?" Caldwell demanded. His gaze darted between Morgan and Derik, a flicker of unease betraying his composed façade. "And if you think I don’t see through this system —"

"Save it," Morgan cut in sharply. She had no patience for diatribes or conspiracy theories. The direct approach was better. "We can have a civil conversation at the office, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice."

"Hard way? Are you threatening me?" Caldwell’s eyes narrowed, a vein pulsing at his temple.

"Consider it a strong suggestion," Derik said, his voice laced with an undercurrent of something that wasn't quite a threat but held enough weight to make it clear they weren't asking for permission.

Caldwell threw a glance at the other meeting attendees, who sat silent, eyes wide. They were spectators to a standoff they didn’t sign up for. With a huff, Caldwell set the papers down, his chest heaving with restrained fury. "This is harassment. You’re persecuting a journalist for digging up the dirt you people want buried!"

"Then let’s clear your name," Morgan stated, locking her jaw. "Unless there's something you need to bury."

Caldwell's lips twisted into a sneer, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed. He dropped into his chair, the leather creaking under the sudden shift of weight. "Fine," he spat out the word like it left a sour taste. "Let’s go."

The walk back through the office was tense, the air practically vibrating with Caldwell’s indignation. Employees peeked over their cubicle walls, curiosity mingling with concern as the procession passed. The click of Morgan’s heels against the linoleum floor marked time like a metronome, steady and unyielding. Derik followed in step beside her, silent but watchful, his presence a reminder that they were a united front.

They reached the lobby, and Caldwell stopped short, turning to face them. “I’ll cooperate,” he said begrudgingly, "but remember, I have a platform. People will hear about this."

"Looking forward to reading all about it," Morgan replied coolly, holding open the door as she gestured for him to exit first. "After you, Mr. Caldwell."

As they stepped out into the waning light of day, Morgan felt the knot of tension in her stomach tighten. This was far from over, and every fiber in her being told her they were onto something big. But the road ahead was murky, fraught with unknowns. What secrets did Henry Caldwell hold? And would they be enough to catch a killer?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Morgan leaned forward, the cold metal table creating a barrier between her and Henry Caldwell. Beside her, Derik mirrored her posture, his green eyes fixed on the journalist with an intensity that matched Morgan's own. Photos of the victims lay scattered before Caldwell, their faces a mosaic of the dead.

"Recognize them?" Morgan's voice was sharp, slicing through the tension in the room.

Caldwell's gaze flitted across the photos. "Yes," he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "I wrote about some of them. Tragic what happened."

"Tragic," Derik echoed, his tone suggesting skepticism. "But you claim to know nothing about how they met their ends?"

"Nothing more than what I've penned down for the public eye," Caldwell responded, his voice steady, but Morgan noted the slightest sheen of sweat on his brow.

She pushed another photo towards him, one of Mariana Torres. "And Judge Torres? Did you write about her too?"

"Torres?" Caldwell's eyes narrowed as he regarded the image. "I heard about her death. Another blow to the illusion of justice." His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the table.


Articles you may like