Chapter Text
Morgan Gillory’s brain never stopped. On normal days, it was a symphony: hundreds of facts, figures, smells, and memories weaving into perfect, crystal-clear logical chains. But on this Tuesday morning, the symphony sounded more like a chainsaw running inside a closed garage.
It all started three days ago. Baby Chloe had caught some kind of childhood virus, and her crying had pierced Morgan’s eardrums every single night. Morgan had rocked her daughter for hours, pacing the apartment until her own sleep deprivation began to take physical form. Add Ava to the mix. The teenager was going through another crisis: slamming doors, acting irritable, and blaming the entire world in general, and Morgan in particular, for total injustice. Ava needed attention, Eliot needed help with his report on deep-sea fish, and Chloe needed a clear nose and her mother’s arms.
Morgan had slept exactly forty-seven minutes in the last forty-eight hours.
She stood in the middle of the Los Angeles Police Department, holding the largest cup of iced Americano she could find on her way to work. The ice cubes clinked softly against the plastic. For some reason, this sound—usually imperceptible in the hum of the precinct—echoed today as a faint pulsation in her left temple.
"Gillory."
Adam Karadec’s voice sounded from behind her, steady and devoid of inflection, as always. Morgan plastered on her best, widest smile and spun sharply on the heels of her chunky boots.
"Detective!" she replied cheerfully. Too cheerfully. Her voice pitched half a tone higher than usual. "Tell me we found the victim’s wife’s bank statements. Because if not, I’m going to have to hack the IRS database, and Lieutenant Soto will start yelling about violating federal laws again."
Karadec stood two steps away, dressed in his impeccable gray suit. His gaze swept over her neon-pink sequined t-shirt, then moved up to her face. Morgan knew she had covered the dark circles under her eyes with a triple layer of concealer, but Karadec’s X-ray vision always made her feel like she wasn't wearing an ounce of makeup.
"The statements are on my desk," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You’re talking faster than usual. And you’ve already had three espressos since you got in."
"My metabolism requires fuel, Adam. Genius burns a lot of calories," she waved him off with her free hand and stepped toward the evidence board.
The case was complicated—a triple homicide disguised as a gas leak in an elite mansion. Morgan stared intensely at the crime scene photos. Usually, it took her a second to spot an anomaly. A shifted chair, the wrong angle of a shadow, the lack of dust where it should be. But today, the pictures weren't adding up. The colors seemed too bright, the neon sticky notes on the board blurred at the edges, and a nasty, dry tickle had settled in her throat, which she stubbornly ignored.
She blinked once, twice, chasing away the fog before her eyes.
"Look at the ventilation grate," Morgan poked a finger at a photo, trying to keep it from trembling from the caffeine overdose and lack of sleep. "The bolts aren’t tightened all the way. Someone took it off shortly before the explosion. And this someone..." she faltered.
The word was on the tip of her tongue. A simple word. A basic logical link that always came to her effortlessly. But the thought suddenly slipped away, leaving behind a ringing emptiness.
Karadec took a step closer. He didn’t interrupt or rush her; he just looked down at her with a mix of professional curiosity and something else, very much akin to concern.
"And this someone..." Morgan swallowed hard with a parched throat. "...is left-handed. Because the scratches on the paint go from left to right."
She blurted it out in a single breath, feeling immense relief that her brain had finally produced the necessary information. Morgan smiled triumphantly at Karadec, taking a large gulp of her iced coffee. The cold liquid burned her inflamed throat, but she didn’t even wince.
Adam didn’t return the smile. He watched how her hand, holding the cup, trembled ever so slightly.
"Left-handed. Good. I’ll send forensics to check the gardener’s tools," he paused for a second. "Morgan, go home."
"What?" she indignantly replied, slamming the cup down on the desk. "We’re in the middle of an investigation! I’m not..."
"You look like you haven’t slept in a week," he interrupted, his voice dropping slightly, meant only for her. "Go get some sleep. The case isn't going anywhere until tomorrow."
"Chloe was up all night teething, and Ava caused a scene because I mixed up her hair conditioner with shower gel. I’m not going home, it’s chaos there!" she threw her hands up, the movement echoing with a dull ache somewhere between her shoulder blades. A precursor to impending body aches, which she also decided to ignore. "The police precinct is the only place in Los Angeles where I can relax. So give me those bank statements, Detective. I’m not going anywhere."
Karadec stared at her for a long time. He hated it when she was this stubborn, but he knew arguing right now was useless. He nodded silently and went to get the documents.
Morgan turned back to the board, leaning heavily on the desk with both hands. Her eyes burned. She took a deep breath, coaxing her body to hold out for just one more day. She would manage. She always did.
Going outside was a mistake. Los Angeles greeted Morgan with the merciless, retina-scorching Californian sun and the roar of midday traffic. As soon as the precinct’s automatic doors closed behind her, she instinctively dug into the bottomless pockets of her jacket for her massive rhinestone sunglasses and perched them on her nose.
It didn't help much. The light pierced even the dark lenses, driving into her brain like thin, red-hot needles.
Adam silently opened the passenger door of his impeccably clean department SUV for her. Morgan climbed inside, feeling the muscles in her legs tremble strangely after the short walk down the stairs. She chalked it up to having eaten only Chloe’s leftover cereal and a couple of stale crackers over the last two days.
As soon as Karadec started the engine, the air conditioning purred to life. Normally, Morgan loved this cool, artificial breeze, but now the blast of cold air sent a herd of goosebumps down her spine. The skin beneath her bright t-shirt pebbled. She subtly pulled her jacket tighter, crossing her arms firmly over her chest.
"Are you sure it’s a left-handed person?" Adam broke the silence, steering onto the freeway. He wasn't looking at her; his eyes were glued to the road, but Morgan knew he was tracking her every movement.
"Absolutely," she tried to answer in her usual, confident tone, but her voice cracked, breaking into a wheeze. Morgan cleared her throat, feeling something squeeze painfully in her chest. "The scratches on the grate. And also... in the photo from the gardener’s garage, the lawnmower handle was wrapped with electrical tape on the left side. The tape was more worn out there."
"Observant," Karadec nodded. He reached for the console and turned down the AC. "Your teeth are chattering, Gillory. It's 70°F in the car."
"I just don't like it blowing right in my face," she lied quickly, turning toward the window.
The scenery outside blurred into a smeared ribbon of color. Morgan closed her eyes for just a second, dreaming of a dark, quiet room. No Chloe crying, no Ava slamming doors, no unsolved equations in her head. But her brain, as if mocking her, kept throwing up images: bank accounts, ventilation bolts, poison, electrical tape. The files in her head began to layer over one another, creating an unbearable digital noise.
They parked by the wrought-iron gates of a mansion in Bel-Air. The heat outside now felt like a blessing to Morgan. She climbed out of the car, feeling as if two bags of cement had been placed on her shoulders.
The gardener, a burly guy with tattoos, was fussing around the rose bushes. Morgan headed toward him first, taking the initiative as usual. But as she got closer, the sharp chemical smell of fertilizer hit her nose. On a normal day, she would have instantly broken down the scent into its components: nitrogen, phosphorus, a little sulfur. Today, the smell just twisted her stomach into a tight knot.
Nausea rose in her throat. The world lost focus for a second. The green of the bushes became too loud, and the gardener's voice, answering the questions Adam was now asking, sounded like it was coming from underwater.
"...I just mow the lawns and tend to the roses, mister," the guy muttered, shifting from foot to foot.
Morgan stared at his hands. Left hand. Scraped knuckles.
"And the vents... do you... clean those too?" she tried to interject. The step forward took immense effort.
The gardener turned to her, and in that moment, Morgan realized she couldn’t take a breath. It felt like a taut string had snapped in her chest. The dry tickle she had ignored all morning erupted into a violent fit of coughing.
She doubled over, pressing a hand to her mouth. The cough was deep and barking; it tore at her lungs and knocked the remaining oxygen out of her. Her rhinestone sunglasses slid to the tip of her nose. Morgan instinctively grabbed the edge of a stone planter with her free hand to keep from falling, her knees suddenly turning entirely to jelly.
Karadec was there in a flash. He didn't fuss or ask stupid questions. He simply took a step, physically shielding her with his broad back from the gardener's bewildered stare.
"Give us a minute," Adam threw at the guy in an icy tone that brooked no argument.
He turned to Morgan. His hand, warm and heavy, landed between her shoulder blades. He didn't pat her; he just held his palm there, providing an anchor in a world that was currently spinning far too fast for her.
"Breathe, Morgan," he commanded quietly, almost in her ear. "Slowly."
She nodded, desperately gulping for air, tears rolling down her cheeks from the strain. When the spasm finally subsided, she remained standing, leaning heavily against the planter and breathing hard. There was a taste of iron in her mouth.
"I'm... I'm fine," she wheezed, trying to straighten up and fix her glasses. "Allergies. To these... stupid roses."
Adam looked down at her. His face was unreadable, but his jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched in his cheek. He saw the cold sweat on her pale forehead. He felt the heat radiating off her even through the thick fabric of her jacket. And he knew perfectly well that the roses currently blooming in Bel-Air were hypoallergenic varieties.
"We're done," Karadec gritted out. He turned to the gardener, drilling him with a glare. "Don't leave town. We'll be in touch."
"Adam, wait, I didn't even ask about..." Morgan started, taking a step after him, but instantly swayed.
Karadec silently caught her by the elbow. Hard. This time, he didn't let her pull away.
"We're going back to the car. Now," the detective's tone left no room for maneuvering. "And this time, Gillory, you're not going to say a single word until we get there."