To Die For → Derek Morgan

Five

Josephine

Derek had somehow managed to make me jealous—a man I had only known for a short time, someone I'd had a drink with just weeks ago. I needed to get over myself; I barely knew him well enough to be feeling this way. Fortunately, I was soon distracted by my thoughts as Reid started speaking.

"That's only one-point-six miles from the last restaurant hit," he said. We all exchanged curious, slightly concerned glances at how easily he rattled off the information, even as the genius he was.

"I've been studying a lot of maps," Reid added, raising his hands defensively.

"There's no need for all of us to go down there together," Hotch said, taking control of the situation. "We'll split up—half will head to his address, the other half will patrol the area around the restaurant in case he's on the hunt."

With the team split accordingly, I found myself once again shadowing Derek, alongside Elle. While the others went to speak with Sheppard's mother, we received intel on where he might be hiding—a rundown motel near the banks and restaurant

Approaching the front desk of the dingy motel, we were greeted by a lone receptionist—an older woman whose silver hair was tied tightly into a bun. Her glasses sat perched on the bridge of her nose, catching the faint light from the dusty lamp overhead, and her stern expression did little to welcome us. Without missing a beat, Elle stepped forward, taking the lead.

"We need the key to room 106," she requested, her tone firm yet edged with the underlying tension of the situation. The woman didn't speak, only offering a shrug before sliding the key beneath the glass partition with a dismissive gesture. Her indifference was palpable. Elle's tight-lipped, sarcastic "thanks" might have been amusing under different circumstances, but right now, humor had no place.

We made our way down the dim hallway, the musty scent of stale air clinging to the peeling wallpaper. Derek led the way, his gun drawn and steady. His posture was tense, his focus sharp as we reached the door.

"Sheppard, FBI," he barked, his voice reverberating down the corridor. Silence. Not a single sound from the other side. Derek glanced back at Elle and nodded, the silent signal to unlock the door.

The moment the door creaked open, we entered cautiously. The room was empty at first glance, but that meant nothing. Derek moved swiftly toward the bathroom, checking inside with his weapon ready. Moments later, his voice echoed back to us.

"Clear!" he called, lowering his gun as he emerged from the cramped space.

I surveyed the main area and responded, "Yeah, it's clear here too." I didn't meet his eyes, my attention drifting elsewhere.

Elle had already begun rifling through the room. Her movement was purposeful, her sharp gaze scanning everything. I turned just as she let out a low, cold statement.

"Crystal meth."

She stood next to the bed, where a neatly wrapped brick of methamphetamine lay in plain sight, its plastic wrapping gleaming under the dull light. It wasn't subtle.

"Yeah, he's halfway out of his mind right now," I muttered, taking in the scene. The cheap, battered furniture, the open drawers, the chaos barely concealed beneath the surface.

Derek had already made his way to the window, pulling the thin curtains aside to peer out. He gestured to something outside. "Which explains why he left this behind."

I moved closer to see what he meant. Parked just outside the window was a motorcycle, untouched and waiting.

"So, he's on foot," Elle concluded, her eyes flicking between us as we both nodded in agreement.