Page 8 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

“What’s worse,” Beeler added to his warning, “I’m afraid this trip is going to be a waste of time—time that we don’t have.” With that, he slid his phone back into his pocket, then turned and headed out of the alley, leading the way back toward his cruiser. “But we need to go anyhow.”

Riley shook off the images she was getting from the scuffs in the alley and followed after the Sheriff. “If it’s not urgent …” she ventured.

“Obligatory more than urgent,” Beeler replied with a shake of his head. His voice held the tired edge of a man who’d fielded one too many calls. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with similar situations.”

Ann Marie caught up with them just as the Sheriff continued his explanation.

“The text I just got was from Sylvia Sitwell. She’s the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office in Teomoc and she wants updates—right now and in person.”

Riley nodded, understanding the delicate balance between keeping the public informed and releasing a story that could cause unnecessary panic.

“Sitwell’s been hounding me since we found the first body,” Beeler confessed, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

“I’ve been putting her off, but if we don’t talk to her in person, there’s no telling what kind of misinformation she might put out.

Probably anything she can think of to play down any danger to the public. ”

They all reached the cruiser and climbed in. Riley’s mind was awhirl with the details of the case as the cruiser cut through the coastal air, heading back to Teomoc.

As they passed over the now-familiar bridge onto Teomoc Island, she thought about the two victims, each adorned in swimwear from different earlier times, as if the killer were curating a macabre museum exhibit.

“Sheriff Beeler,” she asked, “do you have any leads on where those vintage swimsuits might’ve come from?”

Beeler’s eyes flicked over to her before settling back on the road.

“I’d thought I did, but I guess I was wrong,” he admitted. “There’s a store down in Scudmore, called Tidal Beauties. Deals in old-timey swim gear. It’s right near where Julie Sternan’s body was found.”

“Did you check it out?” Ann Marie inquired, leaning forward from the back seat.

“Yeah, I went there,” Beeler grunted. “Owner’s a fellow named Steven Walsh. He let me look through his catalogues. I combed through every page—and nothing matched that particular 20s outfit that Julie was wearing. It was a dead end.”

They turned into Teomoc, passing through streets lined with colorful shops and restaurants open for business.

When Beeler parked in front of the Outer Banks Tourists Office, Riley observed the quaint charm of the building.

It was a two-story structure painted in bright pastel colors that were faded by the sun and salt air.

A large banner hung across the front, advertising local attractions and events.

The windows displayed an array of colorful brochures and maps, promising endless adventures for visitors to the Outer Banks.

Potted palm trees flanked the entrance, their fronds rustling gently in the coastal breeze.

Riley stepped out of the vehicle, taking a deep breath of the salty air, bracing for the inevitable tension with local bureaucracy.

When they entered the building and headed for the director’s office, the air was thick with the aroma of polished wood and expensive perfume—a stark contrast to the salty tang of the beach outside.

At the center of the office stood Sylvia Sitwell, a woman whose very posture spelled political savvy and an obsession with optics.

Her tailored suit was as immaculate as her coiffed hair, a string of pearls draped around her neck that caught the light each time she moved—a beacon of authority in the room. Riley was startled to feel a sudden dislike for her, a palpable feeling of mistrust.

“Sheriff Beeler, who do we have here?” Sitwell’s voice was laced with apprehension.

“Ms. Sitwell, meet Special Agents Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer from the FBI,” Sheriff Beeler introduced them, his tone steady.

Riley could feel the sudden friction between them, the dissonance of their priorities scraping against each other. Sitwell’s gaze flickered over Riley, calculating, assessing potential threats to her carefully constructed image.

“I texted you just now to bring me an update,” Sitwell said to Beeler. “I hadn’t expected you to drag in the FBI.”

Beeler cleared his throat uneasily before speaking.

“Ms. Sitwell, I requested their help because we might be dealing with something bigger than we anticipated.”

Sitwell’s eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth drawing tight. “What do you mean?”

Riley answered the question, “A lot of the details in these two murders match up. They don’t appear random. We might be dealing with a serial killer.”

“I see,” Sitwell said, though it was clear she wished she didn’t. “I’d hoped local law enforcement could handle the investigations without... escalating matters. That’s not the kind of news I want to release.”

Then Sylvia Sitwell folded her arms across her chest, her expression one of cool skepticism.

“Sheriff Beeler,” she began, each word clipped, precise, “the information you’ve provided thus far me is very scant. It doesn’t convince me that we’re dealing with a serial killer and not just a couple of unfortunate, isolated homicides.”

“Respectfully, Ms. Sitwell,” Beeler replied, his tone patient, “I wouldn’t have called for federal assistance if I wasn’t seriously concerned about the pattern emerging here.”

“To make matters worse,” Sitwell continued, a frown marring her otherwise composed face, “I’m at a loss when faced with the local media’s questions. They’re becoming increasingly agitated, pressing for answers I simply don’t have. You’ve told me very little, almost nothing.”

“We’ve got to keep details out of the public eye,” Beeler said.

“Does that mean keeping them away from me?” Sitwell asked, her tone sharpening. “I have to tell them something, and it needs to be reassuring rather than alarming.”

Despite her personal dislike of the director, her frustration resonated with Riley—a feeling all too familiar from her own encounters with the press during intense investigations. She recognized the importance of managing the narrative, especially when fear could spread faster than facts.

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley interjected smoothly, “we understand the position you’re in. Rest assured, our priority is to find the truth as swiftly as possible, without causing undue alarm.”

Sitwell’s gaze shifted to Riley, searching for an assurance that might mollify her worries. Then she turned away and paced the room, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

“I need to put out some sort of statement—a media release,” she said as she paced.

“Something to assure the public they’re not in imminent danger.

” When she stopped and faced them again, her hands fluttered like anxious birds, touching a strand of hair, then smoothing the fabric of her blazer as she spoke.

“Tourist season may be winding down, but we cannot afford to scare people right now. Or, for that matter, ever.”

“Ms. Sitwell,” Riley replied, “I understand your concerns about the tourism industry here. It’s a lifeline for this community, I get it.

” She paused, locking eyes with the director to ensure that her words were sinking in.

“But what we’re dealing with here is not just a threat to tourism—it’s a threat to lives. ”

Sitwell’s mouth opened as if she was about to object, but for a few moments no sound came out. Then she found her voice again, “So what am I supposed to tell people? We have local businesses that depend on tourists’ confidence.”

Riley thought hard for a moment. She quickly decided that a bit of brutal honesty might be in order.

“Ms. Sitwell, I’m about to show you something that I trust you won’t reveal to anybody. Once you see it, I’m sure you’ll agree that it mustn’t be made public—at least not yet.”

Riley’s thumb hovered over the screen of her cellphone, the images she was about to reveal were stark reminders of the brutality humans were capable of. She met Sitwell’s eyes, seeking an unspoken consent before swiping through the gallery.

The photos appeared: Julie Sternan and Billie Shearer posed on the beach, their lifeless forms adorned in swimsuits from eras long past.

Sitwell’s eyes darted across the digital canvas, taking in every cruel detail—the fixed stares, the unnatural poses, the sense of history corrupted. But how was she reacting internally to these images?

I can’t get a read on her, Riley thought with an odd twinge of unease.

“Good God,” Sitwell said, almost mechanically. “What is this?”

Riley explained that the women’s bodies had been found clad like this postmortem.

“Two victims, two different times and places, yet a pattern that’s more than coincidence,” Riley stated flatly.

“You asked what you should do. We need your help to protect the public without sparking undue fear or confusion. For example, we can’t reveal the information about the vintage swimsuits.

That could really blow back against our whole investigation. ”

Sitwell looked up from the phone. “How can I help? What do you suggest?”

Riley considered her words carefully. She had done this before—balancing the need for public awareness with the risk of causing hysteria.

“A lot of people already know about the deaths. We should issue a warning to the community, particularly women, alerting them to be vigilant. Throughout the Outer Banks, they should avoid being out and about alone. We keep it general: no specifics about the swimsuits or the manner of death. Just enough to encourage caution, not panic.”

“Will that be enough?” Ann Marie chimed in, her voice laced with concern.

“It has to be,” Riley replied, looking at Sitwell. “For now.”

“Alright,” Sitwell conceded. “I’ll issue a general warning and hold off on any of that specific information until you give the go-ahead. Just... please, keep me informed.”

Riley nodded at this gesture of cooperation, but she studied Sitwell’s face a moment too long for either of their comfort.

Finally it dawned on her that she’d contended with Sitwell’s type too many times to count—a bureaucrat so devoted to appearances and political necessities that her reactions to human tragedy had been long since dulled.

Not much of a person there, she thought.

But Riley knew better than to be surprised. It was an old, old story. She turned, more than ready to get out of the office and return to the tangible elements of the case, where she felt more at home. She and her two colleagues left the building and returned to Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser.

“Let’s hope the message gets through to the public,” Beeler grunted as he unlocked the doors, his seasoned features set in a grim line.

Riley slid silently into the passenger seat, her thoughts already leaping ahead to what awaited them. She felt the familiar tug of responsibility, the relentless drive that both propelled and haunted her.

As the cruiser pulled away, Riley let her gaze drift across the quaint townscape of Teomoc.

“Scudmore’s about half an hour from here,” Beeler stated as he checked the rearview mirror before merging onto the highway leading out of Teomoc. “I’ll show you the crime scene. Then we’ll continue south to Sandhaven.”

Riley nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, the Outer Banks slipping by like frames in an old movie reel. Her mind, however, was far from the tranquility outside. She could feel the undercurrents of this case pulling at her, and she braced herself mentally for whatever lay ahead.