Page 24 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

The day had faded into evening, the sky a canvas of deepening blues and grays as Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser pulled up to the Outer Banks Tourists Office. The building was quiet, but lights were still on inside.

“Looks like we’re just in time,” Beeler muttered to his two passengers, glancing at the sign that declared the office would close soon.

They all got out of the car and hurried up to the front door, which Riley was relieved to find still unlocked.

Inside the building, the air was still heavy with the scent of polish and perfume, but the only person in sight was a young woman who was locking up drawers at the reception desk.

Her movements suggested she was eager to end the workday. She barely glanced up at the visitors.

“We need to speak with Sylvia Sitwell,” Riley stated simply.

“The Director left early today—some personal business,” the receptionist replied. “I’m sorry, but we’re about to close up now.”

Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, whose frown was a reflection of her own frustration. Time was slipping away from them—and with it, perhaps, vital clues.

“Could you call her for us?” Ann Marie’s voice chimed in, the cheerful tone making it sound like a reasonable request.

“She doesn’t like to be bothered after hours,” the receptionist said.

“Tell her Sheriff Beeler and his two FBI colleagues need to talk with her again tonight,” Riley said.

At that, the receptionist straightened up and took a look at the three of them. “Sheriff,” she acknowledged with a forced smile, “I hadn’t realized it was you standing there.”

With a sigh, the receptionist picked up the phone. Riley watched her closely, noting the subtle change in her demeanor when she relayed their message.

“Ms. Sitwell’s at home,” the receptionist informed them after ending the call, scribbling an address on a piece of paper and handing it over. “She’ll see you now if you go directly there.”

“Thank you,” Sheriff Beeler said gruffly, ushering Riley and Ann Marie back to the car. As they drove through the darkening streets, the town’s quaint houses flickered with the warm glow of lights coming on.

Ann Marie broke the silence, her voice low. “Riley, maybe your hunch is right. Maybe our killer really is a woman.”

Beeler glanced sideways at Riley, but he made no audible comment.

Riley told herself sternly that theories were one thing, but proving them was another.

She was anxious about interviewing the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office again.

When they’d been there earlier, she’d found Sitwell quite irritating, her priorities all wrong.

But Riley knew that wasn’t a good excuse for suspicions.

The house at the address they’d been given was a modest two-story, its siding bleached by sun and salt. As they approached, the porch light flickered on, revealing a swing and potted plants that indicated domesticity rather than danger.

Sheriff Beeler led the way, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden steps. The doorbell’s chime sounded abrupt in the quiet evening air. Moments later, Sylvia Sitwell opened the door.

“Good evening,” she greeted them, though she looked a bit annoyed. “I hope you’re bringing me good news this time. I heard about an arrest down in Sandhaven. Does that mean you’ve caught the killer?”

“The investigation is still open,” the Sheriff told her. “Sorry about the hour, but my FBI companions have some questions they think you can help with.”

“But the media sounded like …”

“The media has probably got it wrong,” Beeler said, looking at Riley as a signal for her to go ahead with an explanation for their visit.

“We’re here to discuss the investigation,” Riley said tersely, stepping past the threshold. “We think you can help us wrap up some loose ends.”

The Director hesitated, then seemed to decide that she couldn’t refuse to talk with them.

As Sylvia ushered them into the living room, Riley saw that the Director’s house, though not sprawling in size, was a masterpiece of expert decoration.

The walls were adorned with art that captured the eye, and the soft lighting created a warm and inviting ambiance.

Every piece of furniture, from the plush sofas to the polished wooden tables, had been chosen with a discerning eye, contributing to a harmonious and sophisticated atmosphere.

Riley scanned the space discreetly, noting each closed door that might conceal a hostage. Nothing seemed odd or out of place, yet she knew that if Sylvia Sitwell was involved in Rachel’s abduction, no sign of that was likely to be visible.

“Please, sit down,” Sylvia offered, motioning toward the floral-patterned sofas. Sheriff Beeler sat down carefully as though he was afraid he might damage the decor. Ann Marie plopped onto the sofa, looking perfectly at home among the flowered cushions.

Riley remained standing, her gaze lingering on photographs on the mantle. Were these family people? Had any of them been involved in the deaths they were learning about?

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley asked, turning to watch the Director closely, “I spoke with Harry Winters today. You are his sister, aren’t you?”

Sylvia’s smile faltered, a subtle shift in her expression that didn’t go unnoticed. “Yes, I am. My maiden name was Winters. I’ve been divorced for several years, but I kept my married name because it was already well established in my career.”

“That’s why we’ve come to you. Perhaps you can help us.” Riley’s eyes stayed fixed on Sylvia, who took a chair and seemed to shrink slightly under the scrutiny.

“What can you tell me about Elaine Winters’ drowning?” Riley asked bluntly. She moved closer and took a seat where she could continue to watch the director closely.

Sylvia glanced away for a fraction of a second before meeting Riley’s gaze once more. “I remember it... when it happened … vividly,” she said, her voice a tremor in the still room. “It was such a … a tragic accident.” Her words stumbled out as if each one were a burden, heavy with memories.

Riley studied her, the subtle play of emotions across Sylvia’s features.

She thought the uneasiness that rose with her mention of the past might indicate guilt — the kind of appraisal that might cement that theory in any investigator’s mind.

Yet, something intangible was bothering Riley even as she formed her interview tactics.

“I can see that it affected you deeply,” Riley probed.

“Deeply doesn’t begin to cover it,” Sylvia replied, her eyes darkening with old pain. “Elaine was...” She trailed off, gathering herself. “She was family.”

“I understand,” Riley replied. She leaned forward, her elbows pressing into her knees as she looked Sylvia in the eye. “Ms. Sitwell,” she said, “we have reason to believe that someone is seeking vengeance for either Elaine Winters’s death or her stepdaughter’s.”

Sylvia blinked, her expression morphing from reluctant but courteous hostess to one of confusion.

“Vengeance?” she echoed, her voice quivering.

“I don’t understand. Elaine’s drowning was just a terrible accident.

Even if someone thought of it differently, why would they try to avenge Elaine’s death after all these years?

And Diana—well, whatever happened to cause her drowning, no one was to blame. ”

Riley observed Sylvia’s reaction closely. There was genuine bewilderment in her tone, the look of a woman blindsided by an unexpected turn.

“Earlier today,” Riley reminded Sylvia Sitwell, “we showed you some photos of the victims.”

The woman nodded uncomfortably.

“I think it’s important we revisit them,” Riley said. She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the images of Julie Sternan and Billie Shearer posed on the beach. “Just look at their faces this time,” she instructed. “And the style of their hair.”

Sylvia eyed the crime scene photographs warily.

“Take a close look,” Riley urged, her own eyes fixed on Sylvia Sitwell’s face. “Do you see any resemblance between these victims and Elaine Winters?”

Sylvia’s response was slow, hesitant, as though she was trying to piece together a puzzle of her own. Then her audible gasp sliced through the tension in the room, and Riley watched the woman’s face crumple with sudden realization.

“I didn’t see it before,” Sylvia whispered, her voice trembling. “Elaine...” Her voice trailed off into silence. Then she pulled herself together and spoke clearly, “The two recent victims, they both resemble Elaine. How can that be?”

“They might have been selected for that exact reason,” Ann Marie said softly. “And then the haircuts …”

“How horrible,” Sylvia cried.

Riley’s gaze never wavered from Sylvia’s eyes, searching for the flicker of deceit or guilt.

But there was none—only the dawning horror of recognition that painted genuine shock across the woman’s features.

It was the look of someone who had unwittingly held a piece of the puzzle all along without knowing its significance.

Then Riley felt a mental shift, like a familiar door creaking open. She knew she was missing something crucial. It lay somewhere in the chasm between words she’d heard spoken and the silence that Rachel had left behind. It was close, so tantalizingly close that she could almost taste it.

As Sylvia wrestled with the connection of recent murders to Elaine’s long-past death, echoes of a different scene began to play in Riley’s mind …

a memory from just a short time ago … snippets of conversation vying for dominance.

Grace Mitchell’s face flashed through her internal vision, her voice coming through clearly: “Rachel is my right hand. I trust her, rely on her more than anyone else.” She had added with a pride that seemed genuine. “She’s never let me down.”

But those words clashed with another statement. “Rachel didn’t show up for our afternoon drinks,” Grace had said with a dismissive wave. “I assumed something came up unexpectedly and that she’d contact me later on.”

The contradiction nagged at Riley like a splinter under the skin.

If Rachel Brennan was so dependable, why hadn’t she reached out if she was going to miss a meeting she’d agreed to?

Wouldn’t a person who fit Grace’s glowing description be punctual, or at least considerate enough not to inconvenience others?

Reliable people didn’t just change their plans and never bother to alert anyone who would be left sitting around alone waiting for them.

“Something doesn’t fit,” she whispered, barely audible.

“Agent Paige?” Sylvia’s voice was tentative, breaking through Riley’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” Riley said, her gaze snapping back to focus. “Just thinking out loud.” The room around them seemed to be waiting for whatever came next.

“Is everything alright, Agent Paige?” Sylvia asked, her eyes reflecting concern.

“It’s about reliability... and trust,” Riley replied cryptically, feeling the pieces of the puzzle nudging closer to alignment.

Sylvia’s innocence seemed clear to her now. But more importantly, perhaps she could be a bridge to the other side of this mystery. Riley leaned forward, her voice cutting through the silence that had fallen on the group gathered there.

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley said, with an intensity that demanded attention, “what can you tell us about Grace Mitchell?”