Page 5 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

As Riley opened her eyes, the world rushed back in, the stark reality of the tent grounding her once more. She exhaled slowly, the vestiges of a killer’s presence lingering like smoke in her mind. She noticed Ann Marie’s gaze fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and concern.

The younger agent had maneuvered her position so that she was facing Riley and the Sheriff looking away. Ann Marie had shrewdly distracted Sheriff Beeler’s attention when Riley had drifted away into her reverie, and Riley was grateful for that.

But Ann Marie’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and Riley knew that silent questions were forming behind them.

They had never spoken about the way Riley’s intuition worked, the gift that allowed her to feel the echoes of a murderer’s intent.

Riley knew that Ann Marie had some idea about all this.

She also knew perfectly well that her abilities had an exaggerated reputation throughout the BAU, and Ann Marie had caught wind of such talk.

Riley had considered opening up with Ann Marie about all this, letting her young partner in on the unique way she connected with their cases.

She really needed to do that sooner rather than later.

But how could she articulate something so intangible?

Her insights were born of whispers in her mind, not the concrete evidence that one could file in a report.

Although her sources were not supernatural, her ability to put barely perceived hints together with extensive experience and a profiler’s skills often took the form of pictures in her mind—and that was not an easy process to account for.

“How about you, Agent Paige?” Ann Marie asked, careful not to call her by her first name in front of a local law enforcement official. “Any theories?”

“This must be something personal,” Riley replied. “Here and in the photographs of the other scene, it looks like someone is recreating... repurposing the past.”

“Like a signature?” Ann Marie asked, eager to understand.

“More intimate. It’s as if...” Riley paused, searching for the right words, “...as if the killer is dressing up the present in the past’s clothing.”

The Sheriff looked puzzled, so Riley added, “Of course this is all guesswork, just first impressions.”

With a deep breath, she turned away from the beach chair and the images it conjured.

There was a lot of ordinary investigative work to be done, and she wanted to get on with that.

As they prepared to leave, the crime scene’s stark reality juxtaposed against the natural beauty of the beach served as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life.

“We’d better start making our rounds,” Sheriff Beeler said. “I guess you want to talk to the husband of the deceased and with the woman who found the body.”

“We need to put every detail of the crime scene together,” Riley said. “Let’s start with the one who found her.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “She and her roommate rented a nice cottage right on the beach. They’re both software engineers, here on vacation. I’ll take you to them.”

It was just a short drive to a quaint cottage not far from Kitty Hawk.

It was raised on posts that kept it above any unusual high tides.

The weathered gray shingles and wide porch overlooking the shore gave it a pleasant lived-in feel.

It was one of a row of similar buildings—all simple cottages, but Riley knew they were not inexpensive to rent in a location like this.

“Looks peaceful,” Ann Marie remarked, her voice betraying a hint of wistfulness.

“I don’t suppose it feels that way to the people inside,” Riley replied, her gaze lingering on the drawn curtains. She knew all too well how quickly tranquility could be shattered, how a single event could turn a vacation into a nightmare.

The three investigators left the car and climbed wooden steps to the entrance. After a soft knock, they waited for an answer.

They were greeted at the door by a woman, elegantly dressed and in her fifties. Sheriff Beeler stepped forward to make introductions.

“Agents Paige and Esmer,” he gestured toward the woman, “this is Grace Mitchell. She’s the realtor who rented this cottage to Linda Morris and Lucy North.”

Grace extended her hand to each of them in turn, her eyes reflecting a warmth that belied the circumstances.

“I’ve been spending some time with Linda and Lucy,” Grace explained, her voice holding a note of regret. “I can’t help but feel... well, responsible in some strange way. I know it doesn’t make sense - I mean, how could I have known what would happen? But I was the one who rented them this place.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “So, I thought the least I could do was to be here for them, at least as much as I could.”

Riley found herself touched by Grace’s compassion.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said sincerely.

“But unfortunately,” Grace added with an apologetic smile, “I have another property to show soon. Duty calls.”

With a final nod of thanks from Riley and Ann Marie, Grace left the house.

Sheriff Beeler led them inside, where they met Linda Morris.

The pallor of her face struck Riley more than any words could have done - a stark reminder of why they were there.

It was the look of someone who had seen too much, the haunted expression of one touched by death.

The Sheriff introduced the two FBI agents, then Riley said, “Ms. Morris, thank you for seeing us. We just have a few questions. Won’t take much of your time.”

Linda stepped back so they could enter, the led them through the front hall, its walls adorned with framed seaside prints, into a small sitting room.

The living room was a sanctuary of soft couches and pastel hues, with knick-knacks that might have been picked up from local beachside shops adorning the shelves and tables.

A book lay open, face down, on an armchair—a tableau of domestic normalcy interrupted.

Perched anxiously in a big stuffed chair, a petite woman cast her gaze around the room, her eyes bloodshot and weary. Linda gestured towards her, breaking the silence.

“This is my friend, Lucy North,” she said softly. “We work together back in Raleigh.”

“We came here to relax before starting in on a big project,” Lucy said in a near-whisper of pained irony.

“Can we sit?” Riley asked gently, indicating the sofa. Linda nodded mutely and shuffled to an armchair, curling into herself like a child seeking comfort.

Ann Marie settled on the sofa beside Riley, her posture perfect, the very picture of composed concern. The Sheriff looked around and picked a chair that looked strong enough to accommodate him. Both of them looked at Riley expectantly, a signal for her to do the questioning.

“Thank you,” Riley said to Linda again. “We’ll do everything we can to make this as quick as possible.”

The gratitude in Linda’s tired eyes was a silent acknowledgment of their shared burden. Here they were, strangers thrown together by a cruel twist of fate, bound by the need to understand, to bring order back to a world turned upside-down.

“Ms. Morris,” Riley began, aware of the delicate balance between empathy and the need for information. “Can you walk us through what happened yesterday morning?”

The words were a catalyst, and Linda’s face crumpled as she relived the moment of horror. “I’ve already …” she began to protest, looking at the sheriff.

“If you’ll go over it again,” Beeler said gently, “the FBI might be able to help us stop this killer.”

Linda swallowed hard and then recounted the early hours, when the world seemed untouched and pure, the mist floating above the water. With each word, she transported Riley to the desolate beach where serenity had been shattered by the grotesque reality of death.

“At first I wondered—who sunbathes at dawn?” Her voice broke under the weight of the memory. “But then... then I realized...something must be wrong.”

Riley absorbed every tremor in Linda’s voice, every haunted glance towards Lucy. This was more than recounting facts; it was an unburdening.

Linda’s hands clenched and unclenched, as if she were attempting to wring the haunting memory from her very skin.

“I called out to her,” she went on, her voice a mere whisper in the quiet room. “But there was only stillness in return. I walked closer, trying to talk with her...and when I saw her eyes behind those sunglasses…”

Her voice hitched, choked by the rawness of the recollection.

“They were vacant,” she finally managed to continue. “No life in them at all. It was like being trapped in some awful horror movie.”

Her gaze sought Riley’s, desperate for empathy, for a reprieve from a burden of guilt that wasn’t actually hers.

“You’re being very helpful, Ms. Morris," Riley said. “I just have a couple more questions.”

She hesitated before making a query that was both necessary and invasive.

“Did you touch anything? Or even move anything?”

“No, I—I knew better than to disturb … I knew that I mustn’t …. I backed away and I think I screamed, but I called 911 as soon as I could manage my phone.”

“Just one more thing,” Riley said. “Have either of you spoken to anyone about what happened? Specifically about the condition of the body?”

Both women shook their heads.

“The Sheriff told us not to,” Linda said.

“We didn’t even tell Grace about all that,” Lucy added.

“Then please keep it that way,” Riley said. “It’s important that the details not be made public.”

“Okay,” Linda said. Her gaze drifted off, lost in the replay of that morning.

Lucy broke in, her whisper laden with terror. “Neither of us can stop thinking about that poor woman. But what if Linda had run into the killer?”

The question was unsettling and potent. Riley had no doubt there would have been two dead women on that beach to be discovered by whoever wandered by next.

She felt sympathy for these two young women.

As software engineers, they probably worked hard.

Their vacation, meant for rest and rejuvenation, had been brutally upended, overshadowed by what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Here in this cozy living room, far removed from the sterile confines of an interrogation room, the impact of this woman’s report felt all the more personal, all the more poignant.

“Thank you, Linda,” Riley said softly, closing her notebook with a sense of finality.

The story had been told, the recollection setting the gears of investigation into motion.

But behind the facts lay the human cost, the shadows now cast over two lives that had merely sought the peace of an ocean vacation.

“Let’s go,” Riley said to her companions, her voice firm despite the knot of apprehension in her stomach.

As she stood, Riley extended a hand, pressing a small card between Linda’s trembling fingers. “If you need to talk, this service can help,” she said. “I’ve written my phone number on the back if you want to check in with me.”

“Thank you,” Linda managed, clutching the card as if it were a lifeline. Lucy nodded beside her, silent gratitude shimmering in her eyes.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Riley assured them, her much-repeated promise genuine despite the helplessness that often came with it. “Please try to rest, and do call Sheriff Beeler or me if you remember anything else.”

Both Ann Marie and Sheriff Beeler thanked the two women.

Then Riley and her colleagues made their way out of the cottage.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing off the world of Linda and Lucy from their view.

Riley moved down the stairs, then paused on sand below, taking a deep breath of salty air that did little to cleanse the lingering taste of tragedy.

“It’s such a lovely setting,” Ann Marie commented sadly.

Riley nodded, taking one last look up at the cottage. Behind those curtains, two women grappled with the kind of fear that would linger for many years to come—perhaps for the rest of their lives.

She caught Beeler’s eye and indicated their next destination.

“Sheriff, we should speak with Luther Shearer next. We need to hear his story.”

“Of course,” Beeler agreed, his own demeanor mirroring Riley’s professional resolve as he led them back to the cruiser.

“Next stop, the town of Darnley,” Beeler announced, as he opened the car doors for his two companions. “It’s not far from Nag’s Head.”

The drive was serene as the road unfurled like a ribbon, weaving between pockets of civilization and stretches of natural beauty. Yet, for all its tranquility, Riley’s mind was anything but still. She found herself revisiting each detail, each thread of the case, in search of a pattern.

As they drew closer to Luther Shearer’s world—a world fractured by loss—Riley steeled herself for the encounter.

Interviewing the bereaved was never easy.

Meeting the loved ones of victims was like navigating a minefield blindfolded; one misstep could end the discussion.

But it was a necessary part of the process, a painful step toward finding the truth.

She had done this countless times, yet each time felt like the first, every story unique in its pain and its plea for answers.