Page 6 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

Ann Marie Esmer watched the passing coastal landscape from the passenger seat of Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser. Riley was seated in the back seat reviewing files, oblivious to the blur of tans and greens flashing by outside their windows.

“We’re almost there,” Sheriff Beeler remarked, as he navigated bends in the road.

“Good,” Ann Marie murmured, any further response lost in thought.

The thrill of working with Riley again was strong, yet so was a pang of guilt.

Her current position had been made possible by her former partner’s relentless progression of illness.

She remembered Grady’s resignation letter, the way his signature wavered at the bottom of the page.

Although she and Grady had gotten along just fine, they hadn’t had the natural rhythm she felt when she was partnered with Riley.

They drove into the town of Darnley, where Sheriff Beeler’s car pulled up to a stop outside the Seaspray Hotel. It was a quaint place that the Shearers had owned and operated together for many years.

“Luther Shearer said he’d be here to meet us,” Beeler said, opening the car door.

Ann Marie stepped out, stretching her legs and taking a moment to breathe in the salty tang of the ocean air again.

As they entered the hotel lobby, the cheerful chatter of vacationers contrasted sharply with the reason for their visit.

It appeared that a competent staff was keeping things going in spite of the tragedy faced by the remaining owner.

While Beeler spoke to the woman at the front desk, Ann Marie gazed around at the eclectic assortment of mismatched armchairs, each with its own unique pattern and color that told a story of its own.

Footstools, each differing in texture and height, beckoned visitors to rest their feet and engage in leisurely conversation.

The cozy atmosphere invited anyone who entered to sit, chat, and lose track of time.

Soon, a man approached them. He was slender and bent, his face marked with lines of unspeakable loss. Ann Marie took in his red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders. She had seen grief manifest in many forms, but it never got easier to witness.

The man nodded to Sheriff Beeler, then turned toward the two agents. Riley introduced them both.

“Mr. Shearer, I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is my partner, Agent Esmer. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Without comment, Shearer led them to a meeting room just off of the lobby, where the walls were adorned with framed paintings of ocean and beach scenes. They settled into plush, high-backed chairs at one end of a long table.

As soon as Luther began speaking, his frustration became apparent.

“Why won’t the police tell me anything at all, Sheriff?” he demanded. “I still don’t know who found Billie’s body or how. I’m being kept completely in the dark.”

With gentle firmness, Sheriff Beeler explained the need for confidentiality during an ongoing investigation. Then Ann Marie saw Riley nod at her, and she picked up the questioning.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk with us,” Ann Marie began, her voice soft.

She watched as Luther tried to compose himself.

She remembered the lessons she’d learned from consoling mourners at her father’s funeral home – how to hold space for grief, to listen more than speak, and when to gently probe the tender spots of a wounded soul.

“Anything if it helps find who did this to Billie,” he replied.

“We know this is incredibly difficult for you,” she continued, maintaining eye contact, “but anything you remember could be crucial. We need your help to piece together Billie’s last day – to understand what might have happened.”

Ann Marie asked the necessary questions with a gentle directness, her blue eyes radiating sincerity and concern.

She noted how Luther clung to the ‘normal’ details of their last lunch together, as though recounting them might somehow rewind time and erase the current nightmare.

He described the chicken salad sandwich Billie ate at lunch, the iced tea she sipped, their shared laughter.

“Then Billie kissed me goodbye,” Luther told them, his gaze distant. “She always did before heading out. Said it brought her good luck.”

“Where was she going?” Ann Marie asked.

“She was headed for a Board of Commissioners meeting at Town Hall,” Luther said. “She was a member of the board. I got a call when she didn’t turn up for the meeting, and then I called the police.”

Sheriff Beeler gave Luther a comforting tap on the shoulder.

“Luther, I need you to tell the agents what you told me when we talked before,” Sheriff Beeler said. “About those emails Billie received.”

Luther turned pale and took a deep breath before speaking.

“In the last few days... Billie started getting these strange emails,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were from someone we didn’t know, and they had photos of her attached.”

Riley leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sharp. “Photos?” she asked.

He nodded again, swallowing hard. “Yes. Photos of Billie that were taken without her knowledge.” His voice cracked as he added, “Some of them were even taken while she was swimming.”

Ann Marie felt a chill at this revelation. “We need to find out who sent those photos,” she said. “Those messages need to go to FBI forensics.”

Luther hesitated, his shoulders tense with reluctance. “Do I really have to…" he asked, turning to the Sheriff.

Sheriff Beeler nodded solemnly. “There were others …” he began, leaving the rest unsaid but heavy with implication.

Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, her tone both firm and reassuring.

“This is crucial for finding out who did this to Billie,” she explained.

“Forensics will need full access to those emails.” She paused, meeting Luther's eyes with unwavering determination.

“Sam Flores can trace them back to their source if anyone can.”

Luther sighed. “They’re still on her computer. I can bring it to the Sheriff.”

“Just get it to my office,” Beeler told him. “I'll make sure whatever is needed gets delivered straight to Quantico,” he assured them.

Riley agreed with a nod before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a card. She jotted down a number on it before handing it over to the sheriff.

“Have someone call this number when they have the computer,” she instructed him. “Ask directly for Sam Flores and tell him I said to call.”

“And who is Sam Flores?” Beeler asked, looking at the card.

“He’s part of our technical forensics department,” Riley explained patiently.

“Make sure he gets access to Billie’s computer—full access.

I’ll send him the case files, so he’ll understand the situation.

” She met Luther’s gaze squarely as she added, “If anyone can trace those emails back to their source... it will be Sam.”

When the interview concluded, all that Ann Marie and her colleagues had learned was that Luther didn’t know of anyone who would want to do his wife harm—except possibly for the sender of those unsettling photos.

The three investigators stepped outside the hotel, where a salty breeze carried the distant cry of seagulls, and people around them were clearly enjoying a bright fall day in Darnley.

Riley spoke up, “Let’s retrace the path Billie took on the way to Town Hall.”

“We checked that route already, right after the call came in about her going missing,” he reminded them.

“We’d like to go over it anyway,” Riley said.

Sheriff Beeler led them on their next errand, his gait marked by the faint limp that spoke of years on the job, injuries sustained, and battles fought.

The stretch from Seaspray Hotel to Town Hall was trodden by locals and tourists alike. Lined with quaint shops, these streets buzzed with life, as the gentle sea breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean and mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread from nearby bakeries.

As they retraced Billie’s steps, Ann Marie tried to imagine this scene through a lens of malice, wondering if any passerby, any casual glance, held a darker intent. She glanced at Riley, whose gaze swept over the landscape with the precision of a hawk.

“Notice anything?” Ann Marie ventured, hoping to glean even a fragment of insight from her partner’s process.

Her mind replayed the morning’s scene in the crime scene tent, the image of Riley’s closed eyes.

Ann Marie had seen that look before. It was more than mere concentration; it was as if she were connecting with something invisible to her companions.

“Just looking for patterns,” Riley replied cryptically, her eyes still scanning. “Sometimes they scream louder than words.”

Then, as they moved along one less active street, Riley suddenly veered towards an unremarkable alleyway.

“Agent Paige?” Ann Marie called softly, registering the shift in her partner’s posture.

Riley had paused, her attention snagged by an alleyway so inconspicuous it seemed almost deliberately forgettable.

With an unreadable expression, Riley stepped off the sidewalk, her movements marked with purpose.

Ann Marie exchanged a brief look with Beeler, one that conveyed both her confusion and unspoken trust in Riley’s instincts.

Together, they trailed after the senior FBI agent, entering the shadowed passage between the buildings.

The sudden coolness felt like stepping into another world, one hidden from the casual glances of passersby.

Riley crouched down, hovering just above the concrete.

Ann Marie leaned closer, squinting at the ground, trying to decipher what had caught Riley’s eye amid the grime and detritus.

She saw nothing but the expected wear and tear of an alley frequented by delivery trucks and hurried footsteps—just scuffs and stains whispering tales of routine urban life.

“Something there?” Ann Marie asked, keeping her voice low, as though afraid to disturb the silence that seemed to be speaking volumes to Riley.