Page 4 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

Early the next morning, Riley watched as the soft light of dawn turned the sky into a canvas of golds and pinks.

The sun was just spilling over the horizon as Ann Marie drove them through the quiet streets of Teomoc, North Carolina, where quaint beach houses gave way to small businesses, with very few people out on the streets.

They had checked into a pleasant motel just before midnight and slept well enough to get up and out very early this morning after a quick morning snack.

“Isn’t it just breathtaking, Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice bubbled with excitement as she gestured to the sprawling coastal view. “The way the sun shimmers on the water, it’s like a thousand diamonds.”

Riley listened quietly, but made no comment in return. The young agent’s enthusiasm was sometimes contagious, but right now it jarred with thoughts in her own mind—memories of cases solved and unsolved, lives saved and lost, constantly checking for comparisons to what they might be faced with here.

Still, it must feel good to be so young and enthusiastic, she thought, feeling slightly envious and a little old.

Although Riley often found Ann Marie’s high spirits a bit exhausting, she had learned that this partner could focus on the job when it became necessary.

They soon arrived at the police headquarters, and Ann Marie parked her FBI sedan in the lot.

When they stepped out of the car, the morning’s chill was beginning to recede in the warmth of the rising sun.

The building in front of them was unassuming, its faded brick facade blending seamlessly with the easygoing vibe of the coastal town.

As she walked through the front doors, Riley’s gaze landed on a bulletin board that stood in the lobby.

Among colorful pamphlets promising whale watching tours and historical excursions were stark black-and-white images of wanted criminals—their faces frozen in time.

It was a jarring juxtaposition, this collision of innocence and danger in a popular vacation destination.

Although the entire police headquarters had a sort of laid-back charm, that didn’t mask the undercurrent of tension.

She and Ann Marie were here because this charming community had been marred by violence.

As soon as they stepped inside, Sheriff Smitty Beeler approached. He was a large, imposing figure with the face of a seasoned lawman, showing the lines of countless cases and sleepless nights. With a tight smile, he extended a hand to Riley.

“Agents,” he said in a gruff voice, “I appreciate you coming down so quick. We’ve got our hands full with this one.”

Riley took his hand, feeling the firm grip that spoke of both strength and a certain weary resolve.

She met his gaze, noting the faint shadow under his eyes—likely from poring over case files into the early hours.

Yet, his uniform was immaculate, the badge polished to a shine that seemed to defy the ungodly hour.

The sheriff radiated an air of steadfast dedication that resonated with Riley, a kindred spirit in this kind of job.

“Of course, Sheriff Beeler,” she replied, her tone matching his professionalism. “We’re here to help in any way we can.”

As they exchanged pleasantries, Riley found herself cataloging every detail—the way Beeler’s holster had molded to the shape of his sidearm from years of wear, the subtle shift of his weight suggesting a slight limp, perhaps an injury sustained in the line of duty.

“I understand that a jogger found your most recent body,” Riley commented.

“That’s right,” the Sheriff replied. “Her husband had actually reported her missing the day before yesterday. Luther Shearer is his name, they owned a hotel together over in Darnley. Billie was a member of the Darnley Board of Commissioners. Luther reported her missing when she didn’t show up for a meeting.

Nobody had any idea what had happened to her until …

Well, I can show you the place where her body was found. ”

Beeler led them outside to his cruiser, its white and blue paint job standing out against the backdrop of the awakening town. Riley settled into the front passenger seat, and Ann Marie climbed in back.

As Beeler drove the cruiser, Riley observed that the town was now stirring to life.

Shopkeepers unfurled awnings, their storefronts welcoming the first hints of commerce.

Early-morning joggers, their breath visible in the cool air, maintained a steady pace on the sidewalks, lost in the rhythm of exertion.

And there, at the periphery, the early risers among the tourists made their pilgrimage toward the beach, drawn by the allure of sun and surf.

Despite the normalcy of the scene, there was an undercurrent of tension that Riley couldn’t ignore.

It was there in the brisk nods of the locals, the hushed conversations that paused as they passed.

Word had clearly gotten around about a couple of recent deaths in the Outer Banks, even if the details hadn’t been made public.

This wasn’t just another day; a darkness had settled over the community, one that wouldn’t lift until the killer was found.

As they drove, the chatter of the radio dispatch blended with the murmur of the engine, creating a soundtrack to their journey. Riley’s gaze followed the long stretch of asphalt as it sliced through the marshy expanses of Teomoc Island, leading them towards Kitty Hawk.

The rising sun cast a soft glow on the bridge that connected Teomoc Island to Bodie Island, transforming the mundane structure into a gilded path over the water.

Beeler’s voice provided a constant backdrop, his drawl rich with the history of the Outer Banks, recounting tales of shipwrecks and daring rescues that seemed at odds with the serenity of the morning.

“Visitors can get rowdy during peak tourist season,” Beeler mused, casting a sideways glance at Riley. “It’s like they fall prey to the buccaneer legends of these parts. But usually, we don’t have to deal with anything worse than the drunk and disorderly. Now, with these murders...”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

Riley absorbed his words, the weight of responsibility in his tone not lost on her. She knew that a delicate balance must be required to manage a sanctuary for vacationers that had become a potential hunting ground for a killer.

As they descended from the bridge, the landscape shifted subtly.

The quaint houses and kitschy shops gave way to open spaces where nature reasserted itself.

Sand dunes rose alongside the road, their grass-tufted crests waving gently in the breeze.

The air carried the tang of salt and the earthier scents of marshlands.

“Look at those dunes,” Ann Marie commented, pointing to a series of sandy mounds in the distance. “They look like giant waves frozen mid-crash. It’s all so... alive.”

Riley realized that she shared some of Ann Marie’s wonder at the ever-shifting world around them.

“Almost there,” Beeler announced, turning the cruiser onto a narrow access road that ran between the dunes and the waterfront.

He pulled the car off the road at a spot marked by yellow police tape fluttering erratically in the stiff coastal breeze, and they all got out and walked through the soft sand.

With each step towards the beach, the sound of the ocean grew louder, the rhythmic crash of waves a natural cadence that had witnessed countless sunrises.

A large tent loomed ahead, its white canvas stark against the blues and greens of the Outer Banks landscape.

More police tape marked off the area around it, and one of Beeler’s officers kept watch over it.

More than just a boundary for the public, the tape was a psychological barrier, segregating the ordinary world from a space where something extraordinary—and horrific—had occurred.

“We put the tent up right after the discovery,” Sheriff Beeler said, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves.

He motioned them forward with a sweep of his arm, the lines on his face deepening with the weight of responsibility.

“Wanted to keep the elements and the curious eyes away. We did the same at the earlier crime scene. I’ll show that to you later. ”

Riley came to a stop outside the tent, viewing the beach around them. The tent was in the dry upper part of the beach that was never reached by ordinary high tides. Here, the sand was soft and shifty. She saw that their own trail of footprints was just a series of fuzzy-edged indentations.

“I guess you wouldn’t have found any identifiable footprints along here,” she observed.

“Unfortunately not,” Beeler agreed. “And even if there had been any down closer to the water, the tide would have erased them before we got here.”

Riley could see that the wet sand area had been washed clean. She knew that there were two high tides and two low tides daily, and that the exact times constantly shifted a little. But that pattern wouldn’t affect what took place up here on the dry sand.

“The jogger who found the body was running along the hard sand at the edge of the water,” Beeler explained.

“But when she saw a woman who appeared to be sunbathing in the early dawn hours, she stopped to speak with her. When she walked closer, she realized that the woman was dead. She panicked, but she did have a phone with her and she pulled herself together and dialed for help.”

“I imagine the killer transported the body here after death,” Ann Marie deduced, her gaze scanning the surroundings. “Because she wasn’t drowned in this ocean water.”

“That’s right.” Beeler affirmed.

“By land or by sea?” Ann Marie questioned further, her eyes flicking between the distant road and shimmering ocean.

“A car would make more sense,” Beeler replied, gesturing back towards the narrow strip of asphalt that cut through the otherwise untouched landscape.

“Just a short drag from where we parked. It wouldn’t take extraordinary strength to get everything out there, but it would mean more than one trip for a single person. ”

Riley’s dark eyes narrowed as she focused on the sandy terrain. “Any indication of drag marks?” she asked.

Beeler shrugged, his weathered face creasing into a thoughtful frown. “A few indentations that could be construed as such, but they’re inconclusive at best. The soft sand doesn’t hold much information.”

“So she was found by an early morning jogger,” Riley mused. “What about beach patrols?”

“They don’t run as often as during high tourist season. One came along here around midnight, but nothing had happened by then. The earlier victim was found by a local who went out fishing at dawn a couple of days ago, near Scudmore farther south on the Outer Banks.”

With a sigh, Riley said, “Okay, let’s see the scene inside the tent.”

Sheriff Beeler pushed a tent flap open, and they stepped inside. “At least the wind was cooperative,” he said. “Kept the scene as undisturbed as possible.”

The air was still, the smell of the sea battling with the sterility of forensic work that had been carried out here. The empty folding lounge chair sat in its place, and a few forensic tags marked where the body had been positioned and a few indentations that might have been footprints.

“So she was dead by the time she was placed in that chair,” Ann Marie commented, “but not dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in.”

“That’s right,” Beeler agreed. “So she would have been put here within a couple hours of death. Not much longer than that, anyhow. As for the beach chair itself—well, as you can see, it’s old and well-used.

So was the other one where Julie Sternan’s body was found, and the two of them didn’t match. ”

Riley could see the problem.

God knows where these beach chairs came from, she thought.

They’d been purchased long ago, and tracing their origins would be impossible.

As she stood before the empty chair, its canvas slack in the absence of its occupant, she pulled out her cell phone and studied the crime scene photos.

In her mind, she could see the victim superimposed on the empty chair.

It was as though Billie Shearer lay there in her pink one-piece swimsuit, at first glance looking perfectly natural.

There wasn’t a question in her mind that they were dealing with someone meticulous, someone who treated murder like a perverse form of art.

She stepped closer to the beach lounger, her mind already sifting through the information in front of her.

The killer had chosen this location purposefully—a place of beauty transformed into a stage, a setting for a macabre display.

What message were they trying to send? What perverse satisfaction did they derive from leaving their victim in such a public yet isolated space?

Ann Marie kept asking questions, and Beeler kept trying without much success to answer them. Meanwhile, Riley’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. Her intuition began to stir, that uncanny ability to slip beneath the skin of those who do harm.

Eyes closed, Riley let the sound of the waves guide her deeper into her own psyche, seeking the recesses where she seemed to be connected with the minds of those who perpetrated such acts.

What drove a person to stage their violence like a play, each act calculated to leave an impression?

What twisted satisfaction did they derive from this display?

Drifting within that mental space, Riley’s other senses dulled, she focused on the echoes of intent left behind, piecing together fragments of what she had seen whether consciously noticed or not, what she could draw on from having worked so many cases.

She was searching for the ‘why’ behind the ‘what’ that had happened here.

The image before her inner eye was elusive, like the last fading remnants of a dream upon waking.

A hazy picture lined with the sepia tones of nostalgia.

It wasn’t merely death laid out before her but a sense of guilt—of passion—and of something incomplete.

This killer wasn’t finished, and there seemed to be no ending in sight.