Page 42 of Once Marked
The snipping came to an abrupt halt.
The silence that followed was heavy, expectant.Rachel braced for the cloth, the familiar precursor to oblivion.But this time, a voice pierced through the fog.
“Hush,” it cooed, the tone soft, almost soothing.The voice was chillingly familiar, stirring embers of recognition in Rachel’s memory, but she couldn’t place it within the haze clouding her thoughts.
The air shifted, a new weight pressing close.Rachel’s breath hitched in her throat as anticipation curled around her senses.The scissors had ceased their cold dance against her scalp, and now silence loomed.She tensed, every muscle coiled, waiting.
“Soon you’ll be ready,” whispered a voice, soft as silk yet laced with an icy undercurrent.The words slithered into Rachel’s ears, a serpent’s hiss promising darkness.As the chloroform-soaked rag descended once more over her face, the cloying sweetness invaded her nostrils, a noxious perfume that spelled the end of consciousness.
But in those final moments, before the black tide washed over her, a spark ignited within the fog of her drugged mind.Her captor—the orchestrator of her nightmare—was not a stranger.
That voice.It belonged to someone she knew, someone woven into the fabric of her everyday life.It was intimate, familiar, remaining in her memory from countless conversations and shared confidences.
Rachel’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as the name hovered at the edge of her awareness.But before she could grasp this revelation, darkness dragged her down once more into its silent depths.
CHAPTERTWENTY ONE
The day had faded into evening, the sky a canvas of deepening blues and grays as Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser pulled up to the Outer Banks Tourists Office.The building was quiet, but lights were still on inside.
“Looks like we’re just in time,” Beeler muttered to his two passengers, glancing at the sign that declared the office would close soon.
They all got out of the car and hurried up to the front door, which Riley was relieved to find still unlocked.Inside the building, the air was still heavy with the scent of polish and perfume, but the only person in sight was a young woman who was locking up drawers at the reception desk.Her movements suggested she was eager to end the workday.She barely glanced up at the visitors.
“We need to speak with Sylvia Sitwell,” Riley stated simply.
“The Director left early today—some personal business,” the receptionist replied.“I’m sorry, but we’re about to close up now.”
Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, whose frown was a reflection of her own frustration.Time was slipping away from them—and with it, perhaps, vital clues.
“Could you call her for us?”Ann Marie’s voice chimed in, the cheerful tone making it sound like a reasonable request.
“She doesn’t like to be bothered after hours,” the receptionist said.
“Tell her Sheriff Beeler and his two FBI colleagues need to talk with her again tonight,” Riley said.
At that, the receptionist straightened up and took a look at the three of them.“Sheriff,” she acknowledged with a forced smile, “I hadn’t realized it was you standing there.”
With a sigh, the receptionist picked up the phone.Riley watched her closely, noting the subtle change in her demeanor when she relayed their message.
“Ms.Sitwell’s at home,” the receptionist informed them after ending the call, scribbling an address on a piece of paper and handing it over.“She’ll see you now if you go directly there.”
“Thank you,” Sheriff Beeler said gruffly, ushering Riley and Ann Marie back to the car.As they drove through the darkening streets, the town’s quaint houses flickered with the warm glow of lights coming on.
Ann Marie broke the silence, her voice low.“Riley, maybe your hunch is right.Maybe our killer really is a woman.”
Beeler glanced sideways at Riley, but he made no audible comment.
Riley told herself sternly that theories were one thing, but proving them was another.She was anxious about interviewing the Director of the Outer Banks Tourists Office again.When they’d been there earlier, she’d found Sitwell quite irritating, her priorities all wrong.But Riley knew that wasn’t a good excuse for suspicions.
The house at the address they’d been given was a modest two-story, its siding bleached by sun and salt.As they approached, the porch light flickered on, revealing a swing and potted plants that indicated domesticity rather than danger.
Sheriff Beeler led the way, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden steps.The doorbell’s chime sounded abrupt in the quiet evening air.Moments later, Sylvia Sitwell opened the door.
“Good evening,” she greeted them, though she looked a bit annoyed.“I hope you’re bringing me good news this time.I heard about an arrest down in Sandhaven.Does that mean you’ve caught the killer?”
“The investigation is still open,” the Sheriff told her.“Sorry about the hour, but my FBI companions have some questions they think you can help with.”
“But the media sounded like …”
