Page 31 of Forbidden
This was not just a home in disrepair; it was a monument to a life of hardship. The very atmosphere seemed to press down on her, thick with despair. Morgan could feel the weight of the Cranes' struggles pressing against her chest, a reminder of the dark corners of the world where hope struggled to survive.
In the corner of the living room, slouched on an old couch that had seen better days, sat Mr. Crane. A beer rested loosely in his hand, condensation dripping onto the threadbare cushion beneath. His attention was fixed on a small television set, its screen flickering with the images of some forgotten daytime program. His face was rugged, etched with deep lines that spoke of years spent battling demons both within and without.
As Morgan and Derik made their presence known, Mr. Crane offered nothing more than a low grunt, an acknowledgment devoid of interest or surprise. He didn't shift his gaze or make any effort to rise, remaining anchored to the couch as if resigned to his spot. There was something profoundly defeated about his posture, a silent surrender to the unrelenting currents that had swept away whatever dreams he might have once held dear.
Morgan felt a pang of sympathy for the man, understanding all too well the feeling of being caught in a tide you couldn't escape. She steeled herself, though, knowing that compassion would not bring them closer to answers. This visit was a necessary intrusion, one that might shine a light on the darkness they were trying to unravel. She cast a glance at Derik, sharing a wordless agreement: they were here for Jace, and whatever truth lay buried beneath the surface of this family's pain.
Mrs. Crane's hand, thin and speckled with age spots, gestured toward two chairs that had seen better days. Morgan noted the kitchen table's surface, a collage of life's remnants—old newspapers, empty cans, dishes stained with the residue of meals past. She took a seat, feeling the chair groan under her weight, its protest echoing in the cramped space.
"Mrs. Crane," Morgan began, her voice steady despite the tension knotting her stomach. "We're here because we need to understand more about Jace. Anything you can tell us might help." The woman's eyes, cloudy with years of hardship, met hers, searching for sincerity or perhaps an accusation.
Morgan could read the trepidation written across Mrs. Crane's face—the fear of dredging up past sorrows was palpable. Yet there was no other path forward but through the thicket of painful memories.
As Derik settled into the chair beside her, the sound of creaking wood momentarily filled the silence. He offered a nod of solidarity to Mrs. Crane, a silent pledge of respect during the difficult conversation ahead.
With practiced hands, Morgan retrieved the photograph from her folder, the symbol stark against the white background. She slid it across the table toward Mrs. Crane, whose gaze dropped to it immediately. The reaction was swift—a sharp intake of breath, a hand reaching out with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.
"Jace... he used to draw this," Mrs. Crane whispered, her voice barely rising above the hum of the decrepit refrigerator. Her fingertip traced the edges of the symbol as if trying to conjure a connection to her lost son.
"Where did he draw it?" Morgan asked, leaning in closer.
"All over... notebooks, scraps of paper," Mrs. Crane murmured, her eyes not leaving the photograph. "Never knew what it meant. Thought it was just doodles."
Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, both aware that the symbol was far from a mere scribble. It was a thread, one that wove deeper into the tapestry of their case, connecting victims to a mystery that now included Jace Crane.
"Did he mention anything about it? A group or club where he might have seen it?" Morgan prodded gently, each question a delicate step on uncertain ground.
"No," came the response, hollow with resignation. "Jace kept to himself mostly. Quiet boy. This..." Mrs. Crane gestured to the symbol, "was part of his world, not ours."
"Mrs. Crane," she started, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil that the case stirred within her. "Could you tell us more about Jace? What was he like?"
Mrs. Crane glanced at her husband before turning back to Morgan, a frail smile attempting to mask her sorrow. "Jace... he was a good kid," she said, her voice faltering. "Different, y'know? Quiet. Liked his own company."
"Spent a lot of time drawing," Mr. Crane added from his place on the couch, not taking his eyes off the flickering television screen. "We never really got it, but it mattered to him."
"Friends?" Derik asked, his tone soft yet probing.
"A few," Mrs. Crane replied. "Hung around that club downtown sometimes. But he stayed outta trouble."
"His death," Morgan interjected, "you believe it was an accident?"
"God's honest truth," Mr. Crane said firmly, finally turning to face them. His eyes held a resolute sadness that bordered on defeat. "It tore us apart, Agent Cross. Tore us right apart."
Morgan felt the weight of their pain, a somber echo of her own past grievances. Yet she had to delve further, for Jace's memory and the living victims who demanded justice.
"Was Elliott close with Jace?" She watched as the temperature of the room plummeted, the name alone conjuring ghosts that clung to the peeling wallpaper.
The shift was tangible. Mrs. Crane's hands knotted together, her knuckles whitening. Beside her, Mr. Crane's form stiffened, beer forgotten.
"Elliott..." Mrs. Crane began, then stopped. The word was a key to a locked door they dared not open.
"Can you tell us about him?" Derik pressed, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table that bore the remnants of countless meals and unspoken words.
"Nothing to tell," Mr. Crane muttered, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the confines of the trailer.
"Something happened between them?" Morgan's question hung in the air, a dare to shatter the silence.
"We don't talk to Elliott no more," Mrs. Crane said. It wasn't just a statement; it was a wall, built brick by brick with every unsaid reason and hidden hurt.
