To Die For → Derek Morgan

Fourteen

Derek

I couldn't believe Josie had actually helped me slip out. Even if it was on Hotch's orders, it still surprised me that she went through with it. It wasn't just about the risk—there was something deeper between us now. I'd have to thank her later, but right now, I had other things on my mind.

I was headed to see James Barfield. He was Buford's star player, just like I had been. And I knew what Buford was doing to him, what he'd done to me. The abuse, the manipulation. The kid didn't stand a chance, and I couldn't let him think he was alone in this. He needed to know there was a way out, that he wasn't trapped like I'd been.

When I got to the youth center, I found him exactly where I thought he'd be—on the football court, running drills alone. He looked up when he saw me approaching, his eyes cautious but curious. I wasn't a stranger to him. We'd thrown the ball around a few times before, and I'd always tried to keep an eye on him whenever I was in town. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he stood stiffly as I walked over.

I picked up the football lying at my feet and tossed it toward him. He caught it easily, like he always did. We started throwing it back and forth without saying much, the sound of the ball hitting our hands filling the silence. It felt natural, like we were both avoiding the real reason I was here.

After a few more tosses, I decided to break the silence. "We need to talk about Carl Buford," I said, watching for his reaction.

James shrugged, his face unreadable. "What about him?" he asked, his voice casual. But I knew that look. I'd worn it myself for years—trying to play it cool, trying to pretend it didn't bother me.

I caught the ball and held it for a moment, not throwing it back just yet. "I know what he's been doing to you, James," I said quietly. "I know because he did the same thing to me."

James froze, his hands dropping to his sides. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at me like I'd just hit him with the truth he didn't want to hear. I could see the fear in his eyes, the denial starting to creep in.

"No, you don't know," he said after a long pause, shaking his head. "He's been good to me. He's helped me... he's—"

"He's a predator," I interrupted, my voice firmer now. "He's been grooming you, just like he did with me and a lot of other kids. I didn't see it back then either, James. But now... now I know."

James looked away, his jaw clenched. He tossed the ball lightly in his hands, avoiding my gaze. "I don't need this, man. I'm doing fine. He's not like that with me."

I stepped closer, my heart heavy. I knew what he was feeling because I'd been there, too—confused, hurt, and trying to rationalize it all. "I told myself the same thing for years. I didn't want to believe it, and I tried to convince myself he was helping me. But deep down, you know something's wrong. I can see it in you."

James finally looked at me, his eyes hardening. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I don't want you to go through what I did. I know how it feels to carry that weight, to blame yourself, to wonder why it happened. But it wasn't your fault, and it's not too late to stop it. You have a future, James, and he can't take that from you."

He stared at me for a long time, and I could see the internal battle raging behind his eyes. I knew what he was thinking—he didn't want to believe it, didn't want to admit that the man who'd been his mentor was really a monster.

"You don't understand," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's the only one who's ever believed in me."

I stepped closer, my tone softening. "That's what he does. He makes you think he's the only one who cares. But it's a lie, James. You've got people who care about you, who want to see you succeed for real, without anything in return."