Anti-Hero | Tim Bradford

Chapter Thirty Eight - Grieving

Morgan sighed as she listened to the nurse speak, trying to hold back the flood of emotions running through her. Despite her deep knowledge that she was not to blame for any of this, she could not shake her guilt.

Noah's mother didn't make it, and they had no point of contact for any other family members. He was alone in this world. Morgan could relate to the feeling; she had spent so many years alone after her father had died because her mother had become a shell of herself, barely able to function. Her brother had spiralled in the other direction; he was associated with bad crowds and eventually stopped coming home. It was an unfortunate burden lifted when Morgan put her mother into her care home. Early-onset Alzheimer's. It had gotten to a point where some days she didn't recognise her own daughter.

Morgan had turned 18 weeks old before her mother was moved; thankfully, she had avoided the care system. The same could not be said for Noah. Her heart broke for the child; he was so young, yet he had already experienced a lifetime of grief. Right now, he knew nothing of his mother's passing; he still had his childhood. But he would only get to be a kid for a few minutes longer, until the social worker came, at least. Then he would have to grow up as his life changed. He would have to leave his childhood behind.

It didn't take long for Tim to find Morgan when he returned to the hospital. The nurse she was speaking to had pulled her into the hallway so as not to let Noah overhear anything that could cause any more distress. In her parting words to the nurse, she had asked for her details to be passed along to the social services so that she knew that Noah was okay.

"He'll be okay," Tim said, taking his wife's hand as he led her from the hospital. The drive was quiet. Enjoying what little comfort she could find, Morgan spent most of the time staring at the city rushing by. Tim had almost taken her straight back home, but he knew that if Morgan was told to stay put, she wouldn't listen. He knew that she would make a break for it, returning to the station to work, so he decided to save himself and his colleagues the hassle and just go to the precinct.

There was one condition to his leniency: lightwork only. Realistically, he knew that he would not be able to stop her, but at least if Grey asks, he can say he tried.

—

Once again, Morgan sat opposite Rosalind Dyer in an interrogation room.

The criminal had been moved here from the cells as she was agitating the other detainees. Dyer sat posed and poised in her chair, not needing to straighten up any further when Morgan entered. She had been exchanging pleasantries with the detective but received no response. Morgan swore she almost saw Dyer flinch when she dropped her body weight into the chair.

Yet again, Morgan enjoyed the surrounding silence; it was ironically peaceful. One of America's most dangerous serial killers sat opposite her, planning her death and downfall, and yet Morgan couldn't seem to care.

Quizzically, Rosalind looked at Morgan, trying to figure out what the detective was trying to achieve. No amount of prodding, insults, or jabs could break her out of her silence. Dyer had almost convinced herself that Morgan wasn't going to speak at all until she let out a long sigh.

"Do you want a coffee?"

"I'll take a raincheck on that. I'd rather enjoy this moment." Rosalind smiled. It reminded Morgan of the old lady who lived in the duplex across the street where she grew up. She had always given Morgan a butterscotch when their paths crossed. Although the woman was arrested for having a body in her basement,. Maybe Morgan wasn't as good at reading people as she thought.

"How was your hospital stay, Detective Bradford?" Rosalind continued. "I assume you're back to being in tip-top shape."

"Yes," Morgan gritted her teeth, her calm resolve slipping away as Dyer began her taunts. "Healthy as a horse."

"...And how was little Noah? He sounded so sweet."

"He is fine."

"It's a shame," Dyer smiled, knowing how much her words would cut, "You'll never get to experience that. Not everyone gets to live their dreams."

Morgan swallowed her breath, composing herself. Underneath the table, she wrung her hands together. "And what do you dream of? Murdering us all? Or potentially having a soul?"

"I just want to ruin you, Morgan." Dyer smiled, but her eyes remained cold and calculating. "And I would say I'm doing a good job. So I'm going to put an offer out."

Morgan leaned forward in her chair. "I'm listening."