CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Riley felt a familiar sense of anticipation as Sheriff Rich leaned back against the edge of his desk, his face creasing with memories.
When a case began to crystallize, when scattered pieces suddenly revealed their connection, she often felt it first as a physical sensation—a tingling at the base of her skull. This was it. The moment when the killer’s twisted logic would begin to make some kind of sense.
“What do you know about Jay’s death?” she asked.
The sheriff’s eyes grew distant, looking past the cramped office walls to events five years gone. “Those brothers—they were fixtures here for three summers straight. They took turns coming to Redcliff County to climb Raven’s Leap Cliff.”
Ann Marie leaned forward, her notebook poised. “Took turns? Never together?”
“Never climbed together, not once. First year was Jay, then Tony the next, then Jay again for what turned out to be his last climb. They always checked in with me before attempting the cliff. Safety protocol for solo climbers in these parts. Over those visits, I got to know them fairly well.”
Riley watched the sheriff’s subtle shifts of expression—regret, fondness, sorrow.
He sat down in his chair again and continued, “I warned them, of course. Told them solo climbing that cliff was a damn fool thing to do.” Rich gave a humorless chuckle.
“But those boys had this... ritual. Each time the one who was here would show me this little pocket compass. Had ‘Find Your Way’ engraved on it.”
“A good luck charm,” Ann Marie commented.
“Maybe even more than that,” Rich continued. “They treated that thing like it was magic. Said as long as they had it, they’d be safe. One would send it to the other before their climb. Never saw two grown men put so much stock in a trinket.”
An irrational belief. Riley realized. She remembered Timothy Lancaster’s words from yesterday: “People like Tony Bartlett and myself often harbor deeply irrational beliefs.” Lancaster had described how some brilliant minds bent toward magical thinking, toward patterns and rituals that defied logic.
“That last summer,” Rich said, his voice dropping, “Jay stopped by my office like always. But something about him was different that day. He made a joke about his luck running out this time. Said Tony had sent the compass like usual, through SwiftUnified Parcels, but it never arrived.” The sheriff’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight.
“Jay told me he’d talked to Tony on the phone, and his brother was beside himself, begging Jay not to make the climb without that charm.
“But Jay just laughed it off,” Rich continued. “Said he knew that cliff like the back of his hand, charm or no charm.” He paused, rubbing at his jaw. “I’m not a superstitious man, Agent Paige, but something didn’t sit right. Felt it in my gut, watching him walk out that door.”
The room fell silent. Through the thin walls, Riley could hear the muted sounds of the station—a phone ringing, the hum of conversation, the ordinary business of law enforcement carrying on as usual.
“Jay fell that afternoon,” Rich finally said. “Harness failure, they determined. Might have caught it if he’d been double-checking with a partner.”
The sheriff’s eyes clouded with regret over what might have been. Riley recognized that look—she’d worn it herself too many times to count, in the aftermath of cases where small changes might have meant a life saved.
“When Tony came to claim the body, I’d never seen rage like that.” Rich’s voice had grown hoarse. “He wasn’t just grieving. He was... bursting with it. Shaking. Could barely speak.”
“What happened?” Ann Marie asked softly.
“He showed up at my office with this envelope in his hand. A SwiftUnified envelope that had been returned to him.” Rich traced an invisible shape on his desk.
“Marked ‘UNDELIVERABLE’ in big red letters. Inside was the compass. Kept saying over and over that his brother would still be alive if the delivery had been made.”
Riley and Ann Marie exchanged a glance, the significance obvious to both of them. The envelopes left behind in the abandoned vehicles. The word “UNDELIVERABLE” like an accusation, a marker of failure with deadly consequences.
“Tony demanded to know who the driver was,” Rich continued, “who’d failed to deliver his package to the Trailside Motel where Jay was staying. I didn’t tell him, though I knew it wouldn’t be hard for him to find out that it was Dana Beaufort who drove that route.”
Riley’s breath caught. A name. A target.
“I tried explaining it wasn’t the driver’s fault,” Rich shook his head.
“It looked like the envelope got routed wrong before it ever reached the driver’s hands.
But Tony wasn’t hearing it. Just kept raging against the whole delivery system, everyone involved with it.
Even so, I didn’t anticipate any kind of violence.
The twins had never even been in a fist fight as far as I knew. ”
“You weren’t wrong at the time,” Ann Marie told him. “Tony didn’t attack anybody back then. But his anger must have festered over the years. He started targeting drivers currently working near locations significant to him and Jay.”
Riley guessed something else. The other murders might just be preludes to one climactic murder that would avenge his brother once and for all.
Riley rose to her feet, “Does Dana Beaufort still live in Hartsfield? Still deliver for SwiftUnified?”
His expression growing grave as he caught her meaning. “Yes, to both.”
“We need to talk to her. Immediately.”
“I’ll drive you there myself,” Rich said, reaching for his keys. “It’s not far.”
As they moved toward the door, Riley’s mind raced ahead. Five years of festering grief. Five years for Tony’s magical thinking to twist into something murderous.
*
The morning sunlight grew harsher as Sheriff Rich’s cruiser pulled away from the station, cutting through Hartsfield’s quiet streets.
Riley sat rigid in the passenger seat, her mind mapping possible scenarios, calculating risks.
Beside her, the sheriff drove with the focus of a man who knew every pothole and bend in the road.
In the back seat, Ann Marie maintained an uncharacteristic silence, her usual cheerfulness tempered by the gravity of what they’d learned.
“Dana lives on Ashwood Lane,” Rich said, breaking the tense silence. “Nice neighborhood. Quiet. Keeps to herself mostly, from what I hear.”
Riley watched the town slide past the windows. Hartsfield was small enough that a stranger would stand out, especially one with Tony’s intensity. But she knew even a man consumed by grief and revenge could learn to wear normalcy like a mask.
The cruiser turned onto a tree-lined street where homes sat back from the road, each with its own carefully tended yard. Rich pulled into the driveway of a blue single-story with white trim and a small covered porch. Three hanging baskets of purple flowers swayed gently in the breeze.
“This is it,” Rich said, putting the car in park. “She won’t have left for work yet. She doesn’t start till noon.”
As they approached the front door, Riley scanned for signs of disturbance, checking windows for movement, noting the position of neighboring houses. Nothing seemed amiss. The porch was swept clean, a welcome mat declaring “Home Is Where the Packages Are” sitting squarely in front of the door.
Sheriff Rich knocked, and Riley heard footsteps approaching from inside. The door opened to reveal a woman approximately Riley’s age, her dark hair streaked with early gray.
“Walter,” Dana said. “This is unexpected.”
“Morning, Dana. Sorry to drop in like this, but it’s important.” Rich gestured to his companions. “These are FBI Agents Paige and Esmer. They need to ask you a few questions.”
“May we come in?” Riley asked.
Dana hesitated, then stepped back. “Of course.”
The living room was neat and sparsely decorated—a sofa, a coffee table stacked with magazines, a small television in the corner. A SwiftUnified Parcels uniform hung on a coat rack near the door, pressed and ready for this afternoon’s shift.
Once they were seated—Riley and Ann Marie on the sofa, Rich in an armchair, Dana perched on a wooden chair she’d pulled in from the dining room—Riley began carefully.
“Ms. Beaufort, we’re investigating a series of crimes that may be connected to delivery drivers in Virginia.” She watched Dana’s face, looking for any sign that she already suspected something. “Have you received any unusual communications lately? Any threats or concerning interactions?”
Dana frowned. “No threats, exactly. But...” She paused, considering. “There was something odd this morning. I almost didn’t think anything of it.”
Riley leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”
“When I went to get my mail, there was something in my mailbox that I don’t remember ordering.” Dana stood up. “Let me show you.”
She disappeared into another room and returned a moment later, holding something small between her thumb and forefinger. She placed it on the coffee table.
It was a magnetic chess pawn, black and gleaming. Small enough to fit in an envelope, to be mailed, to be delivered.
“At first I thought maybe it was part of a promotional thing from one of the subscription boxes I deliver,” Dana explained. “Companies do that sometimes—include little extras for the drivers. But there was no note, no packaging. Just this, sitting alone in my mailbox.”
Riley felt a chill. Timothy had told her about the killer: First and foremost, he’s a chess player.
Her eyes met Ann Marie’s, and she could see her partner had made the same connection. Chess pieces. A game of strategy. A game where pawns were sacrificed first.
“May I?” Riley asked, reaching for the piece.
Dana nodded.
Riley picked up the pawn, turning it over. It was heavier than it looked, magnetized on the bottom. The kind that would stick to a metal board for travel games, that some people might carry around with them to use wherever they are.
“When exactly did you find this?” Riley asked.
“This morning, around seven. I always check my mail first thing.” Dana frowned. “Why? What does it mean?”
Riley knew the answer to her question: Tony Bartlett had already made contact with the woman he expected to be his final victim.