Page 15 of Once Marked
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.
