Page 27 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

When Sheriff Beeler’s car slid to a stop, its headlights illuminating Grace Mitchell’s home, Riley was relieved to see a vehicle parked in the driveway.

If Grace was at home, if they didn’t have to spend time searching for her, they could still save a life tonight.

An image of Rachel Brennan—alone, vulnerable—flashed behind Riley’s eyes.

As they all scrambled out and rushed to the front door, her hand brushed the gun at her hip, tracing the cool metal as if to remind herself of the reality they were about to face. Beeler’s knock resonated against the door's wood, hard and demanding.

“Grace Mitchell, this is Sheriff Beeler. We need to speak with you,” he called out, his voice carrying authority that demanded obedience.

Silence was the only reply.

“Ms. Mitchell, it’s Agent Esmer from the FBI. Please open the door,” Ann Marie tried, her voice strong. Again, there was no response. Not even the shuffle of movement sounded to suggest that their presence had been acknowledged.

Riley exchanged a glance with Beeler, her dark eyes reflecting her urgency.

When she gave a firm nod, the sheriff stepped back and launched himself at the door.

His considerable frame made the wood give way with a violent crack, splintering around the lock.

The sound shattered the night’s stillness, a stark declaration of their intrusion.

As they crossed the threshold, Riley’s hand found her weapon with a swiftness borne from years of training and too many encounters that ended in darkness.

Her eyes swept the entryway, scanning for threats, her mind already reaching out, trying to sense the killer’s presence.

The domestic interior, a stark contrast to the scene she had prepared herself for, appeared to be a nicely arranged home.

“Clear,” Beeler murmured after checking the living room, his voice low, a testament to his experience. Ann Marie nodded, covering the kitchen, moving with quiet efficiency. Riley felt time slipping away from them; every corner and every closed door could mean life or death for Rachel Brennan.

Drowned in fresh water, she remembered.

“Find a bathroom,” she demanded.

Ann Marie opened a few doors and told her, “A half-bath, no tub.”

“Keep checking everything downstairs,” Riley hissed as she moved fast towards the staircase. At the top, the hallway stretched ominously, doors ajar, a bright light shining from one of them.

Riley approached, her pulse throbbing in her ears, and there lay the figure of Rachel Brennan—motionless in the bathtub, the water still draining out around her.

“I’ve found her!” Riley’s voice shattered the silence. “Call paramedics and backup! And keep looking for Grace Mitchell!” The urgency in her yell descended the staircase, seeking out Beeler and Ann Marie.

But is Rachel alive? she wondered.

*

Sheriff Smitty Beeler wasted no time obeying Agent Paige’s order. His hand hovered over his holster as the dispatcher’s voice crackled in his ear.

“Police and paramedics to Grace Mitchell's residence, stat,” he ordered, his tone clipped, adding the street address.

As Agent Paige’s footsteps echoed from upstairs, Beeler took a steadying breath and advanced through the living room.

The space was dimly lit, darkness pooling in the corners like secrets.

Each step felt weighted, every sense strained for the telltale signs of danger.

His eyes skimmed the surroundings – the mundane clutter of domestic life was now a potential hiding place for the unpredictable.

And then, there it was: a flicker at the edge of his vision, subtle yet unmistakable.

Beeler turned towards the movement, but it was already too late.

Grace Mitchell exploded from behind the plush fabric of a heavy curtain, her movements feral and charged with raw panic.

With a swiftness that belied her elegantly disheveled appearance, she snatched Beeler’s weapon from its leather home.

“Grace!” Beeler’s voice was a calm command, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. “Think about what you’re doing.”

Her wild, desperate eyes locked onto his, holding him in a moment suspended between reason and disaster.

*

Riley saw that clothes clung to Rachel’s skin, soaked as if she’d been dragged through a storm.

But she could see no rise and fall in the chest. A wet gag still covered the victim’s mouth, a blindfold hid her eyes.

When Riley pulled off the gag, her breath caught at the sight of the blue tinge marring Rachel’s lips, the stillness that seemed to have claimed her.

Training kicked in. Her service weapon clicked back into its holster as she called on her strength to lift the woman from the tub and roll her face down onto the floor. Water ran out of Rachel’s open mouth, but there was no other motion.

Riley fell to her knees beside Rachel Brennan’s inert form and turned her over to face upward.

Riley’s fingers sought the pulse that should have been throbbing under Rachel’s jaw, but there was nothing. Leaning down, she listened for the breath that didn’t come, watched for motion in the chest that still lay distressingly still.

“It can’t be too late,” she muttered.

Interlacing her fingers, she positioned them over Rachel’s sternum and began compressions. Each push was a silent count, each count a hope that this would not be the end.

The cold bathroom tiles were hard, but Riley barely registered the discomfort. As she administered each life-giving press, a part of her mind darted to questions.

Where is Grace?

Is she watching from some dark corner?

Or has she gotten away from us?

Riley’s hands moved with a steadiness born from years of training, from too many scenes like this one. Each compression was a defiance, a refusal to let death claim another victim without a fight.

*

“Don’t move!” The command was sharp, slicing through the stillness of the living room.

Sheriff Beeler saw the barrel of his own gun pointed at his chest. Grace Mitchell’s hand trembled visibly as she held the weapon, her eyes darting with the frenzied light of a cornered animal.

He thought she might fire the gun whether she intended to or not.

“Grace,” Beeler said, his voice calm in the storm of her panic. “Put the gun down. We can talk about this.”

He raised his hands slowly, showing her the palms. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go down – not with Grace Mitchell, not with anyone. Years on the job had taught him the value of words over weapons, and he clung to that value now as he faced the barrel of his own service pistol.

“You don’t understand,” Grace cried out, her voice quavering with an edge of hysteria. “None of you do!”

Beeler could see that Grace Mitchell was beyond reach, the name an ill-fitting mask for the woman who had been Diana Winters in another life.

The gun still in her hand, she edged away from him, backward toward the front door.

He could see in her posture, hear in her voice – she was a tempest of fear and accusation, a soul lost in the eye of her own storm.

Stay calm, keep talking. He knew the stakes.

“Talk to me, Grace,” Beeler urged, keeping his tone even, struggling to bridge the gulf between them.

*

Ann Marie’s heart pounded against her ribcage, a metronome of fear and adrenaline as she burst into the dimly lit living room. She had been checking the deck when she heard voices that drew her back inside.

Her eyes locked onto the scene unfolding before her—Grace Mitchell, the elegance of her attire at odds with the desperation in her eyes, was holding Sheriff Beeler at gunpoint.

“Stay back!” Grace’s voice was a venomous hiss, slashing through the tension like a sharp blade. Ann Marie’s muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, but her training held her in place. “I’m leaving, and neither of you is going to stop me.”

Grace moved toward the broken front door without diverting the gun from its target. Ann Marie could only watch, her breath caught in her throat, as the woman began to retreat with careful steps.

Suddenly, the night was shattered by the wail of police sirens; red and blue lights sliced through the darkness outside, painting the porch in surreal hues as cars skidded to a halt, tires screeching.

An ambulance joined the chorus, its presence an ominous portent.

Silhouetted against the pulsating glow, Grace’s figure took on an ethereal quality, as if she were a specter caught between worlds.

Her eyes widened, the whites stark in the strobe of emergency lights.

Her hand, once steady, now trembled, making the gun seem even more threatening.

Ann Marie’s breath hitched; she knew this scene all too well—the moment when life teetered on the edge of a knife, when a single heartbeat could mean salvation or ruin.

She saw it in Grace’s eyes, the glint of someone cornered, wild with fear and capable of anything.

“Suicide by cop” whispered through her mind.

It was a path she’d learned of in somber academy lectures, a tragic outcome that seemed to hover over Grace now.

In the cold embrace of the night, with lives balancing on a razor’s edge, Ann Marie Esmer was aware that the next words spoken might tip the scales irrevocably.

From her upbringing in a mortuary, she knew the value of a gentle touch, the power of quiet assurance amidst the storm of grief.

It was a skill honed beside caskets and whispered over condolence books.

“Grace,” Ann Marie said, her voice soft in the tense air, “I understand you’re scared. I see you’re hurting.” She took a careful step forward, her hands open and non-threatening. “But this—this moment right here—is not the end of your story.”

Grace’s breath hitched, the gun’s tremble growing more pronounced.

“Your life is precious, Grace. And I believe in second chances,” Ann Marie continued, her tone soft but resolute. “Let us help you find a way back. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Grace’s hand lowered ever so slightly, the lethal dance of the gun slowing as Ann Marie’s words seemed to reach something buried deep within the woman before her.

“Think of the people who care about you,” Ann Marie pressed on. “There’s a path forward, Grace. You can choose it.”

For a moment, Grace’s eyes flickered with doubt, then with a clarity that spoke volumes, her decision was made visible in the slackening grip on the weapon.

With a shuddering exhale, the gun clattered onto the wooden boards of the porch, its echo a testament to the fragile victory wrought by words and understanding.

Ann Marie’s breath released, relief flooding her senses.

Beeler moved in, his seasoned instincts kicking into gear. He secured the firearm, while Ann Marie stepped closer to Grace, her hands gently grasping the woman’s arms.

“Grace Mitchell, you are under arrest,” Ann Marie declared. She felt Beeler’s presence behind her, a solid reassurance as they guided Grace down the steps, away from the edge of no return.

The flashing lights played over their figures as Grace was led to the waiting vehicle. Ann Marie’s heartbeat finally slowed, the adrenaline receding like a tide going out, leaving behind the sands of reality.

“Upstairs,” Beeler commanded the ambulance team as they piled out of their vehicle.

*

Riley knelt on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, her hands steady as she administered chest compressions to the victim lying before her.

A silent mantra ticked through her mind with each push — Stay with me — a rhythm punctuated by the faint echo of her own breathing.

The woman’s chest rose and fell under Riley’s force, a battle against the grip of death that dared to claim another soul.

“Come on,” Riley urged, her voice gruff with determination.

She paused, searching for the pulse at the woman’s neck, hoping for any sign of life.

Then, a cough shattered the stillness, rough and wet, like the first gasp of air after emerging from underwater.

The victim’s eyes fluttered, confusion and fear in their depths as she sputtered, trying to expel the shadows that clung to her consciousness.

Relief surged through Riley, but she didn’t let it soften her focus. She had been through too much, seen too many false hopes snuffed out.

“That’s it, keep breathing,” she coaxed, her tone softer now.

She’d heard the sound of help arriving and no indication of a gunfight. Surely if she could just hold on …

The sound of footsteps clattered on the stairs, multiplying. Riley’s head snapped up, dark hair framing her face, eyes scanning the entrance.

“In here! Help!” she called out, her voice cutting through the clamor.

Paramedics burst into the room, a flurry of uniforms and medical equipment. They moved with professional urgency, crowding around the victim as Riley stepped back, giving them space. She watched as they assessed the woman, tubes and monitors quickly deployed in practiced emergency care.

Riley felt a twinge of warmth for the victim, whose life had nearly slipped away in this impersonal space.

Her job was done — for now. Riley knew the work would begin again once the victim spoke, once she could piece together the fragments of this mystery that had nearly ended with one more body to count.