Page 15 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

Rachel took a moment, her professional eye scanning the two-story structure with its wrap-around deck that blended the interior into a beautiful landscape.

From here, the ocean sprawled out in a panorama that captured the essence of the Outer Banks—wild, untamed, and endlessly blue.

This was not just another listing; it was a sanctuary waiting for those looking to escape the mundane.

Rachel knew that the housekeepers should have completed their rounds by now, their invisible hands setting the stage for her to showcase this coastal haven.

She understood that the devil was in the details—a smudge on a window, a pillow askew—these were the minutiae that could make or break a deal.

And deals were what kept the lights on, what fueled the town of Darnley, a place tethered to the ebb and flow of seasonal visitors.

Drawing in a deep breath, the scent of the ocean strong in her nostrils, Rachel prepared herself to step inside. This was where her prowess shone brightest, and she would ensure that the beachfront rental stood ready to welcome the next tide of guests with impeccable grace.

Rachel walked up the wide wooden stairs, then stepped across the deck of the beachfront rental. When she unlocked the door and went inside, familiar scent of cleaning products replaced the soft, persistent aroma of salt and sea. She locked the door behind her and continued on inside.

With tomorrow’s viewings looming on the horizon, Rachel’s gaze swept the interior with the precision of a seasoned hawk, her eyes checking out every detail.

The cleanliness had to be beyond reproach; it was her guarantee to potential renters that they were stepping into not just a temporary abode but a slice of coastal paradise.

Rachel’s focus narrowed to spot any imperfections, each polished surface a reflection of her own professional standards.

She reached for her phone and began to type a message.

“Vacuum under the dining room table again,” she wrote, referring to the slight traces of sand and dust that had escaped the housekeepers’ notice.

As she moved through the rooms, she added: “Kitchen counters need another wipe-down. Check all cabinet doors.” Lastly, “Make sure all the windows are streak-free.” The natural light that flooded the space was one of the property’s selling points, and it had to be unmarred by human touch or the salt spray carried on the ocean breeze.

Moving upstairs, Rachel’s inspection continued with the same rigorous attention.

The soft carpets muffled her footsteps as she made her way through the hallway, entering the master bedroom.

Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over the space.

The beds were made, but the pillows lacked the plushness she desired.

“Fluff pillows in master bedroom,” she added to her text.

In the second bedroom, her keen eye caught the slight tilt of a framed seascape on the wall.

It was minor, almost imperceptible, but to Rachel, it was a glaring oversight.

“Straighten artwork in second bedroom,” she instructed.

Rather than make any such corrections herself, she wanted to focus the cleaning crews attention on every detail.

She capped off the list with a firm instruction, echoing her internal drive for excellence: “Please have this done early tomorrow morning before I start showing the property at 9 AM.”

The message now complete, she hit send, entrusting the housekeeping team to execute her vision with the same fervor that drove her own actions.

Rachel felt a momentary surge of satisfaction.

Tomorrow’s showings would go without a hitch, and each guest would step into a flawless example of Outer Banks living.

With that last act of diligence, she descended the staircase, her hand trailing along the polished banister.

Then, stepping through sliding glass doors, she emerged onto the front deck to appraise the view.

The ocean, a vast expanse of shimmering azure, met the sky at an indistinct horizon.

Seagulls traced lazy arcs above, their cries a sporadic soundtrack to the rhythmic crashing of waves below.

Rachel leaned against the railing, the scent of salt mingling with the earthiness of sunbaked wood beneath her palms. It was a moment of respite, a rare pause in the perpetual motion of her life.

A smile, touched by a note of irony, curved Rachel’s lips as she gazed out across the ocean.

No problems here for the housekeepers to fix, she thought.

Here she stood, rooted in this coastal serenity, yet often too immersed in work to truly savor it.

Her days were a blur of appointments, negotiations, and meticulous oversight—vital threads in the tapestry of her career.

She inhaled deeply, tasting the brine on her tongue, and exhaled the weight of her responsibilities—if only for a minute.

She chuckled softly to herself, a sound almost lost to the sea’s constant murmur.

Rachel Brennan, the agent who sold dreams of leisure, was herself caught in an endless chase after perfection.

But even as the thought lingered, the undercurrent of her ambition tugged at her.

She had built her reputation on being relentless, thorough, always ahead of the game.

And while the ocean’s call was sweet, the satisfaction of her clients and the success of tomorrow’s showings held a gravity she could not deny.

A familiar voice echoed in Rachel’s mind, a blend of authority and concern.

“You’re burning the candle at both ends, Rachel.

” The memory of that conversation brought a warmth to her chest, softening the harsh lines of her professional facade.

The speaker, Grace Mitchell, had long since transcended the realm of employer; she was mentor, confidante, and friend rolled into one.

Leaning on the sun-warmed railing, Rachel mulled over Grace’s advice to take some time off.

It had been delivered with a gentle firmness that spoke volumes about their relationship.

A week away from the frenzy of deals and paperwork.

.. perhaps even a stay in one of these beachfront havens?

The suggestion alone was a testament to the trust and respect woven between them through years of collaboration.

With a soft exhale, Rachel admitted there was appeal in the possibility—a rare chance to recharge in the lap of luxury.

The perks of her position with Mitchell Realtors often felt abstract, benefits noted on paper but seldom realized.

Free stays in these opulent properties were among them—a facet of her job she’d barely sampled.

Rachel’s small apartment in town seemed all the more confined when cast against the sprawling majesty of this beachfront escape.

As she leaned against the deck’s railing, tracing the weathered grain of the wood, Rachel allowed herself a moment to fantasize. What would it be like to wake each morning to the sound of waves, to have no agenda but the pursuit of relaxation?

But even as the temptation tugged at her, Rachel’s musings took a darker turn.

The serenity of the Outer Banks had recently been marred by warnings of danger.

She pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders, as if the gesture could ward off the chill of unease.

The news of Billie Shearer’s death had spread like wildfire, igniting fear and suspicion in every conversation.

Rachel didn’t know Billie personally, but she’d seen her around—noticed her vibrant smile at community events, heard her laughter ringing out above the hubbub of local gatherings.

Billie’s role in the town extended far beyond her hotelier duties; she had been a fixture on the Board of Commissioners.

Rachel recalled their last brief exchange—a simple nod of acknowledgment at the supermarket barely a week ago.

It seemed impossible that someone as full of life as Billie was gone, silenced by an unknown malice.

And there had been another murder down in Sandhaven—the name alone conjured up images of a rugged coastline and a defiant, close-knit population.

Rachel shivered as the thought of a woman from that insular town, recently dead under circumstances eerily similar to Billie’s.

She didn’t know the victim’s name, but the murmurings among the locals had painted a grim picture of a pattern emerging, connecting the two tragedies.

The implications were chilling, and Rachel found herself scanning the horizon as if the perpetrator might be lurking among the rolling waves or hiding in the dunes. Could there really be a serial killer walking among them, preying on unsuspecting women?

She tried to focus on the facts, on the few details that had slipped through the tight-lipped police reports and hushed conversations. Both women were fixtures in their communities, both had seemingly vanished into thin air, and both had been found too late, their lives extinguished in violence.

The thought of today’s email from the Outer Banks Tourists Office flitted through her mind, a well-intentioned warning: “Be vigilant and aware of your surroundings.” The words had been intended for all women in the area, a digital whisper of caution.

The voice in her head, unmistakably Grace’s, carried a tone both stern and caring.

“You shouldn’t be out there all by yourself, Rachel,” the imagined reprimand went, tinged with the warmth of concern.

Rachel couldn’t help but smile; she could almost see Grace’s furrowed brow soften into a look of affectionate exasperation.

Alone like this, she realized, meant being potentially exposed; a single figure against the vast canvas of sea and sand.

For a moment, she allowed herself to acknowledge the fear, to feel the slow thump of her heart as it beat a cautious rhythm.

Rachel’s hand drifted to her purse, touching the familiar shape of her pepper spray—a small but weighty reassurance.

But there was something about today, about this house with its sun-bleached deck and the cry of the gulls, that made the specter of danger seem distant, almost inconceivable.

As swiftly as it came, the unease dissipated, swept away by Rachel’s innate pragmatism.

She straightened her posture, her mind rallying against the moment of trepidation.

Rachel Brennan was not one to be cowed by the possibility of lurking threats.

She had armed herself with more than just pepper spray.

Self-defense classes had honed her reflexes, taught her how to turn her body into a weapon if need be.

She prided herself on her awareness, her ability to read a room—or, in this case, a deserted property—and sense if something was amiss.

A seagull’s cry broke through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present.

This was no time for daydreams; duty called, and Rachel Brennan answered with all the commitment she was known for.

The briny scent of the sea, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the faint rustling of the dunes—all was as it should be.

With a nod to herself, she acknowledged the momentary fear for what it was—a natural reaction—and locked it away. There was work to be done.

Turning on her heel, Rachel moved back into the house. Her mind was already cataloging the tasks that remained: notes to jot down, final touches to ensure the property sparkled for prospective renters. She reached for the door handle, the cool metal familiar beneath her fingers.

But then, the silence was betrayed by an unexpected sound—a floorboard groaned softly behind her. A split second hung suspended, instinct and training kicking in. Before she could pivot, before she could unleash the self-defense maneuvers, a blunt force collided with the back of her head.

The world spun away from Rachel as darkness rushed in to claim her.

There was no pain at first, only a sensation of falling, as if the ground itself had given way beneath her feet.

Her last coherent thought was a fleeting image of Grace’s concerned face, a ghostly echo of her warning words.

And then, nothingness enveloped her, swallowing the golden light of the Outer Banks afternoon whole.

Rachel Brennan, ever vigilant and capable, was rendered helpless by an unseen adversary, crumpling to the floor of the beautiful beach house as consciousness slipped away like sand through open fingers.