Page 10 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

Riley gazed at the transitions they were driving through as Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser made its way southward along the Outer Banks.

The scenery shifted from vibrant clusters of beach houses and sun-soaked families to more solitary stretches where wild grasses swayed and the ocean was separated from the road by sand dunes.

The vehicle passed through small villages where time appeared to have paused, preserving the small-town Americana of a bygone era.

“Would you look at that?” Ann Marie murmured, gazing at picket fences and mom-and-pop shops, a small-town serenity that seemed far removed from their pursuit.

Riley nodded, her gaze lingering on the quaint fishing boats bobbing in the harbor, their colorful hulls reflecting the late afternoon sun.

“Strange,” Riley mused aloud, “how life seems to go on undisturbed just a few miles from where tragedy struck.”

Beeler glanced at her. “The Outer Banks is a landscape of contrasts, alright,” he said. “And it’s a place of shifts and changes. Nothing ever stays the same. And …”

Beeler paused thoughtfully, then added, “Well, I’ve lived here all my life, and it seems to me that things are seldom what they seem in these parts. It’s like the shades of pirates and drownings and shipwrecks still hold these shores in their thrall.”

Riley was struck by the note of awe in Beeler’s voice. She doubted that he’d had to deal with many murders in his jurisdiction. But he was clearly a man not unused to the unexpected.

After they’d passed through a little village called Scudmore, Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser slowed to a stop.

Riley glanced out the window at the desolate stretch of land, where undulating dunes rose next to the road.

The Outer Banks held a raw beauty that was alluring, but also menacing now, with murders hidden behind the scenery.

“Here we are,” Beeler announced.

They all stepped out and saw that the dunes weren’t high here, and they were held in place with patches of grass and weeds.

The rhythmic sound of distant waves served as a haunting backdrop as Beeler led them along a narrow path that wound among the mounds.

Sea oats swayed gently, their tips brushing against Riley’s arms, leaving faint trails on the fabric of her jacket.

Ann Marie observed, “Not an easy path for a killer dragging a chair and a body.”

“Followed this very route,” Beeler acknowledged. “We could see scuff marks, but just like before, no identifiable footprints.

As they rounded the final dune, a crime scene tent came into view, a blight on the otherwise untouched landscape. An armed officer stood guard, and Riley nodded to him as they passed, an acknowledgment of their shared duty.

As Riley’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the tent, she saw the unfolded beach chair upon which Julie Sternan’s body had been found sitting at the center, marked by yellow tape. Two victims, two chairs, two days apart—the pattern was emerging, but the meaning remained out of reach.

“A local fisherman found her here,” Beeler said, “two mornings before Billie Shearer’s body was discovered.It was his favorite fishing spot, although he didn’t come out here on any regular schedule.”

As Riley circled the chair, but it offered no clues.

Like the other one, it was well-used, but they weren’t a match in design or color.

The chairs were both nondescript, the type one might overlook at a garage sale or find abandoned at a beach house rental.

There were no unique markings, no manufacturer’s tags left intact, nothing that could tie it to a specific place or person.

Like the chair at the other crime scene, this one was worn down by time and elements, making its origins virtually untraceable.

She ran her fingers along the armrest, feeling the rough texture, picturing the killer doing the same after setting the stage for this display. A nagging thought tugged at the edge of her consciousness, a realization that in spite of the mismatches, these chairs must have been chosen for a reason.

She pulled out her phone and studied the photos of Julie Sternan, captured at the moment she had been discovered.

The scene was unsettling: Julie lay there, clad in a striking turquoise one-piece swimsuit adorned with bold, geometric patterns that clashed vividly with the natural surroundings.

And it had already been established that neither body had been dressed in a swimsuit that belonged to them.

Each crime scene had been meticulously staged, and the victims dressed with care to indicate a different period in time.

Sheriff Beeler’s voice broke through her concentration. “Anything?” he asked.

“Just thinking about the staging,” Riley muttered as she gazed at the scene. It was evident that this was far more than a mere act of a killer disposing of bodies; each setting was a statement, a carefully orchestrated performance.

But what drove this killer to such lengths?

What was the obsession with swimsuits from different eras?

The vibrant colors and textures contrasted starkly against the lifeless bodies.

Changing clothes on a deceased victim was no trivial task.

It required a significant amount of effort and precision, especially since it had to be done immediately after death, before the onset of rigor mortis rendered it impossible.

Riley glanced at Ann Marie, giving her a subtle nod—an unspoken invitation to dive into the analytical depths. She saw the potential in the younger agent, the eagerness to dissect the macabre puzzle before them. She must be allowed every opportunity to hone her skills.

Following a different train of thought, Ann Marie asked the Sheriff, “Julie Sternan went missing from Sandhaven, near her home, correct?”

Beeler nodded, his face etched with the weight of responsibility. “That’s right. Her husband reported her missing when she didn’t return from her swim.”

“Swimming alone, then taken... her body ends up here, miles away,” Ann Marie continued, each word marked by a thoughtful pause. “So, the question is why? Why bring her all the way out here?”

“Exactly,” Beeler agreed, his voice a blend of appreciation and concern. “It doesn’t make any sense. We’re hoping you folks can shed some light on that.”

“Billie Shearer’s body was found far from where she was last seen, too,” Ann Marie continued, thinking out loud.

“Moving bodies of victims is the mark of a particular kind of killer. When it’s not a matter of hiding what has happened, it’s usually because the killer has a specific plan in mind.

Sometimes that’s to create a particular setting—as in this case.

But in spite of the exact staging, there’s no pattern in the places the women were taken or in the distances or directions they were moved. ”

Riley nodded slowly, watching as Ann Marie’s blue eyes scanning the crime scene with precision. She wanted to encourage the way Ann Marie pieced bits of information together; it reminded Riley of her own process.

“Anything else you’re seeing?” Sheriff Beeler asked, his voice hopeful.

“Could that apparent randomness of location be deliberate?” Ann Marie considered. “A tactic to throw us off, make it harder to track them down.”

Riley silently agreed, allowing Ann Marie’s analysis to fill the space. It was sound thinking. Sometimes serial killers made randomness part of their M.O.

“Whoever did this...” Ann Marie trailed off, her brows knitting together once more.

“If they’re being deliberately unpredictable, then we’re dealing with someone who understands how investigations work.

They know we look for patterns, so they’re trying not to leave any that might lead to their own location. ”

“They could be being careful about that,” Riley agreed, her thoughts aligning with Ann Marie’s. “But everyone makes mistakes.”

“Right,” Ann Marie responded. “But meanwhile, we have to pay attention to the things that are consistent —the timing, for example. We’ve had two victims spaced two days apart.

If that’s a pattern that holds, the killer’s time frame suggests they’re preparing for their next move right now.

” Her blue eyes darkened with concern. “Could be selecting someone even as we speak,” she added.

“And we have no way to guess where that might take place or where another body might turn up.”

“The Outer Banks is a big place,” Beeler put in gruffly, “a set of barrier islands about 200 miles long.”

Riley felt the statement settle in her bones, heavy and inevitable. Ann Marie was right, the killer’s clock was ticking away, and they had no idea where to look.

“Beeler,” she said, glancing at the sheriff’s stoic profile, “could you give us a minute?” Her request was met with a nod, as Beeler understood the need for agents to hash things out amongst themselves.

As Beeler stepped out, the fabric walls of the tent fluttered with his departure, leaving Riley and Ann Marie enclosed in a cocoon of urgency and speculation.

“Ann Marie,” Riley began, her voice low, “we’re missing something. There’s something here we haven’t seen yet.”

She turned away, pacing the confined space, feeling the grains of sand shift beneath her shoes.

Her mind raced through the details of the crime scene, the seemingly deliberate randomness, the calculated distances.

There was something there, a piece of this macabre puzzle that evaded her grasp.

But it was close, she could feel it lurking in the shadows of her subconscious.

Riley took a deep breath as it came to her. “I think the killer is a woman.” But her voice, typically steady and commanding, carried an unusual undertone of uncertainty.

“What makes you say that?” Ann Marie asked, her brows arching high on her forehead.

Riley hesitated, her gaze drifting to the weathered beach chair that sat at the center of the tent, its very ordinariness stark against the tapestry of death.

“I can’t explain exactly why,” she admitted, feeling her intuition pressing against the walls of logic.

“It has something to do with the feeling with which these scenes were staged. There’s a note of.

.. almost nostalgia to it. Something … well, feminine, I guess. ”

The two of them fell silent for a moment.

“Riley, how do you make these intuitive leaps?” Ann Marie’s voice was low, threaded with a reverence that Riley wasn’t sure she deserved. “I’ve heard rumors about your... gift, but I’ve never understood how it works.”

Riley glanced at the lonely beach chair. How did she explain something so intrinsic, so woven into the fabric of her being?

“There’s nothing supernatural or paranormal about it,” she began, her tone level as she met Ann Marie’s gaze.

She took a deep breath as she searched for words.

“Insights come to me differently than they do to most other agents, but just because something is intuitive doesn’t mean it isn’t based on logic. ”

It was true; her gut instincts were often a patchwork of observation and experience, stitched together by an unspoken understanding of human nature. But explaining that to someone without the same internal compass was like describing color to the blind.

“Think of it as a different kind of processing,” Riley continued, watching Ann Marie absorb her words.

“My mind connects dots that aren’t always immediately obvious.

” She gestured vaguely towards the scene around them.

“The patterns here, they evoke a certain... sentimentality. It’s subtle, but it’s there. ”

Ann Marie nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she digested Riley’s explanation.

Silence enveloped them once more, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore.

Riley knew the young agent had a keen mind and hoped she’d come to see that intuition was merely another tool in their investigative arsenal—one that, like any other, required fine-tuning and careful application.

“Does that make sense?” Riley asked, breaking the quiet between them. She hoped it did. She hoped Ann Marie could understand that what some called a gift was, in reality, the product of years spent walking a tightrope over the abyss of human depravity.

“Intuition is like muscle memory,” she added with a half-smile, “honed by years of practice and too many encounters with darkness.”

Ann Marie seemed to consider this, her eyes still fixed on Riley, searching for the hidden threads that wove her partner’s hunches into a coherent tapestry. There was a hunger there, a desire to grasp the elusive nature of Riley’s talent.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Riley,” Ann Marie said finally, her voice sincere.

“Sometimes we arrive at logical conclusions through unconscious processes,” Riley said, her voice steady against the drone of the wind outside the tent.

“Keep in mind,” she added, “I’m by no means sure that I’m right in thinking the killer is a woman, but I feel that way pretty strongly right now.

It’s just a theory we need to consider alongside others. ”

Their contemplation was shattered by the insistent buzzing of Riley’s phone. She plucked it from her pocket with practiced ease, her heart rate quickening at the sight of Sam Flores’ name on the screen. The BAU tech was methodical and precise—his call would not be without reason.

“Sam,” she said, her tone sharpening with anticipation, the rustle of the tent flaps momentarily forgotten. “What have you got?”

“Riley,” came the reply, tinged with a note of breakthrough. “I’ve got something for you on those emails to Luther Shearer’s wife.”

“What have you found, Sam?”

“I’ve traced the sender,” Sam replied, his triumph ringing clear.