Page 22 of Once Silenced

With the worksheets secured in a plain manila folder, he surveyed the room with keen eyes, elevated heartbeat syncing with the ticking clock.Each object seemed to pulse with potential energy—the laptop shut down and stowed away, the portable printer now silent, its function fulfilled.Now the night called to him, its darkness ready to hide his deeds.He opened the motel room door and stared outside.

“I’m keeping my promise, Mother,” he whispered again—not this time to his mother’s image, but rather to the darkness which had become an ally.“Your story will be told.And those who wronged you will pay.”

He stood—a figure in half-light—the embodiment of lessons she’d imparted.There was no room for doubt or hesitation, only the clarity of purpose.He straightened his jacket, smoothed back his hair, and allowed himself one last glance back at the portrait.

The woman in the frame watched on, unblinking, as he shouldered the weight of their shared mission.There was no turning back now; the stage was set, the players unknowingly ready for the next act in this macabre drama.

Tonight, he would commit another murder, pinning the worksheet with the latitude—37.12— to his victim’s remains.Tomorrow, he will strike yet again, depositing the longitude— -78.52—with that body.Those coordinates were pointers to a path leading towards his vendetta’s heart.

But of course, he was not just a killer; he was a creator—an architect of chaos, weaving a complex web of clues and coordinates to baffle and intrigue the investigators who try to follow his trail.It was a game, a challenge to the authorities, and a fulfillment of the dark education his mother began years ago.

And so, with the quiet click of the motel room door closing behind him, he moved into the night.The photograph remained, waiting for his return—her stern yet proud features watching … waiting.

CHAPTER TEN

Riley let herself into room number seven of the Wayside Motel and flicked on the light switch.She set her bag down, surveying the space.It was a perfectly ordinary motel room, the walls a nondescript beige and the carpet a faded shade of blue.The crisp white sheets of its two queen-size beds were invitingly smooth.The furnishings were functional, with a small wooden desk and a couple of sturdy chairs, a TV, and a small refrigerator.A single framed print depicted a serene landscape.

She had spent nights in many similar places when she’d been traveling all over the country on BAU cases.In her recent months at home, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be a stranger in impersonal surroundings.

With a heavy sigh, Riley moved to the window, hesitating before parting the drapes just enough to glimpse a little bit of this town—Glencoe, Virginia.The quiet street outside offered no cheer; instead, it served as a reminder of how far she was from her daughters and from Bill.Closing the curtains, she turned back to the room, letting the reality settle in.This was her base now—the launchpad for the investigation that awaited her, that she had insisted on undertaking.

She slipped off her shoes with reluctant acceptance, feeling the abrasive carpet fibers against her tired feet.Collapsing onto the bed, she lay there motionless as the day’s events began to replay in her mind: the dense canopy of Blue Ridge Wilderness Park, the jarring sight of the grave hidden amid nature’s tranquility, the way her breath had caught at the sight of the desiccated bones that had been hidden beneath the forest floor, and finally, the jarring sight of crime scene tape left wrapped around trees.

Each recollection was like a puzzle piece, falling into place yet yielding no complete picture.

She closed her eyes, attempting to will away one tension that lingered—the friction between her and Agent Ivor Putnam.They were professional adversaries, each driven by their own methods, their own determination to bring order to chaos.Although they were both dedicated to their work with the BAU, their attitudes and methods were uncomfortably at odds.

She remembered how she and Putnam had combed through the leaf litter methodically, side by side yet worlds apart.Their hands moved with practiced precision, disturbing the natural bed where secrets might lay buried.Each scoop of dirt, each sifting of debris, was a silent plea for the victim to reveal her story.She could still feel the grit under her nails, the residue of soil and decay that it would take intense scrubbing to get rid of.

The land had been reticent, holding its tongue as they searched for anything that might have been left by whoever had buried the dead woman—a fragment of clothing, a personal item, a strand of hair—that might serve as a clue.And though the friction between Riley and Putnam had been strong, a shared urgency had propelled them forward.Nevertheless, they had found nothing to shed light on the burial deep in the Blue Ridge Wilderness Park.

Of course, she hadn’t told anyone at the site about her internal glimpse of two figures—two distinct personalities—burying the body and marking the grave.She was certain that nobody on the scene—especially Detective Putnam—would have approved of her methods, and her brief insight had presented no details that she could offer as solid clues.

She’d felt guiltily relieved when she and Putnam had finished their fruitless search, and they had parted—he to return to Roanoke, she to come here to this motel.

As Riley tried to get her body and mind to relax, her phone vibrated insistently against the nightstand.Sheriff Austin Hagen’s name lit up the screen, pulling her back into the immediacy of her duty.

She’d spoken to Hagen earlier over the phone.He’d explained that he was absent from the crime scene because of his involvement with a rash of burglaries plaguing his jurisdiction in the nearby town of Kipford, but had promised to get back to her.Riley reached for the phone, prepared to dive back into the fray.

“Agent Paige,” he greeted her, his tone carrying the warmth of southern hospitality that seemed to seep through the phone line.“Any updates on our Jane Doe?”

“Nothing substantial, Sheriff,” she responded.“We completed our initial examination of the scene, but didn’t turn up any additional evidence.”She paused, considering how much to divulge about Ivor Putnam’s departure.“Agent Putnam is headed back to Roanoke to continue his investigation there.”

“And you?”The sheriff asked with a note of curiosity in his voice.

“I’m staying in Glencoe tonight,” she explained, shifting her position on the bed.“Waiting for a BAU partner to arrive.We’ll be focusing on identifying our Jane Doe and trying to define the connection to the recent murders, where the map coordinates were found.”

Sheriff Hagen’s voice was tinged with the weariness that seemed part and parcel of law enforcement in rural towns.

“Good.I’ve just wrapped up here in Kipford, and I’m on my way back to Glencoe.Why don’t you and your partner come by my office first thing tomorrow morning?We can coordinate our efforts, plan out the next steps.Maybe the coroner will have made an identification by then.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sheriff.”

“Great.I appreciate this, Agent Paige.Your being on the case, I mean.I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Looking forward to it,” she assured him, then their call ended with a soft click, silence returning to her motel room.

Riley found herself appreciating Hagen’s attitude.His welcoming tone was soothing after the day’s less welcoming encounters—with park superintendent Bern Stewart’s brusque efficiency, Ivor Putnam’s cool detachment, and even coroner Fritz Jannings’ clinical indifference.It was refreshing to hear a friendlier voice, possibly an ally, when her world felt full of adversaries.Perhaps here, in these small towns where secrets often lay buried, she might find someone she could work with.

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