Second, Death (An Alex Quinn Suspense Thriller—Book Two)

By Rylie Dark

Interpol agent Alex Quinn, 29, born to Italian-Turkish parents, is a multi-lingual genius. With an advanced degree in Criminal Psychology from a university in France and a PHD from a Germany university, Alex was recruited by Interpol at the age of 25—their youngest recruit—because of her encyclopedic knowledge of serial killers. When a body is found hanging from the rafters of the Notre Dame in Paris, Alex is dispatched immediately—but this killer may just be the match she has yet to meet…

“A brilliant book. I couldn’t put it down and I never guessed who the murderer was!”
—Reader review for Only Murder
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SECOND, DEATH is book #2 in a new series by #1 bestselling and critically acclaimed mystery and suspense author Rylie Dark, whose books have received over 2,000 five-star reviews and ratings.

With killers preying in high-trafficked historic sites, Interpol convenes a special task force to hunt them down before panic spreads—and finds no one better to head up this new force than Alex Quinn.

Beautiful in an exotic way, with a mixture of her Mediterranean heritage, Alex, with her olive complexion and startling green eyes, bears a pencil thin scar along one hand from the palm to the tip of a finger—a scar that keeps her single-mindedly focused on avenging her parents.

Able to solve cases in record time, Alex has been all over Europe for nearly a decade. Yet one killer still eludes her.

The man who killed her parents.

The darkness of past propels her—yet it also threatens to swallow her whole…

A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured Interpol agent, the Alex Quinn series is a riveting mystery, a cat-and-mouse thriller packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love.
More books in the series are also available!

“I loved this thriller, read it in one sitting. Lots of twists and turns and I didn’t guess the
culprit at all… Already pre-ordered the second!”
—Reader review for Only Murder
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“This book takes off with a bang… An excellent read, and I'm looking forward to the next book!”
—Reader review for SEE HER RUN
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“Fantastic book! It was hard to put down. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”
—Reader review for SEE HER RUN
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“The twists and turns kept coming. Can't wait to read the next book!”
—Reader review for SEE HER RUN
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“A must-read if you enjoy action-packed stories with good plots!”
—Reader review for SEE HER RUN
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“I really like this author and this series starts with a bang. It will keep you turning the pages till the end of the book and wanting more.”
—Reader review for SEE HER RUN
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“I can't say enough about this author! How about ‘out of this world’! This author is going to go far!”
—Reader review for ONLY MURDER
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“I really enjoyed this book… The characters were alive, and the twists and turns were great. It will keep you reading till the end and leave you wanting more.”
—Reader review for NO WAY OUT
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“This is an author that I highly recommend. Her books will have you begging for more.”
—Reader review for NO WAY OUT
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rylie Dark
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094381558

Book preview

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S E C O N D,   D E A T H

(An Alex Quinn Mystery—Book 2)

R y l i e   D a r k

Rylie Dark

Bestselling author Rylie Dark is author of the SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books; of the HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TARA STRONG MYSTERY series, comprising five books (and counting); of the ALEX QUINN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); of the MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); and of the KELLY CRUZ MYSTERY series, comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Rylie loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2023 by Rylie Dark. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Egor Mayer, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY RYLIE DARK

KELLY CRUZ MYSTERY

WHERE YOU GO (Book #1)

WHERE YOU HIDE (Book #2)

WHERE YOU SLEEP (Book #3)

WHERE YOU RUN (Book #4)

WHERE YOU FEAR (Book #5)

MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

WITH MALICE (Book #1)

WITH ENVY (Book #2)

WITH VENGEANCE (Book #3)

WITH RAGE (Book #4)

WITH YOU (Book #5)

ALEX QUINN SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIRST, MURDER (Book #1)

SECOND, DEATH (Book #2)

THIRD, ENVY (Book #3)

FOURTH, LUST (Book #4)

FIFTH, WRATH (Book #5)

TARA STRONG MYSTERY

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE (Book #1)

GIRL WITHOUT A HOME (Book #2)

GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE (Book #3)

GIRL WITHOUT A NAME (Book #4)

GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER (Book #5)

HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND YOU (Book #1)

BESIDE YOU (Book #2)

AFTER YOU (Book #3)

WATCHING YOU (Book #4)

JUDGING YOU (Book #5)

SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ONLY MURDER (Book #1)

ONLY RAGE (Book #2)

ONLY HIS (Book #3)

ONLY ONCE (Book #4)

ONLY SPITE (Book #5)

ONLY MADNESS (Book #6)

MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SEE HER RUN (Book #1)

SEE HER HIDE (Book #2)

SEE HER SCREAM (Book #3)

SEE HER VANISH (Book #4)

SEE HER GONE (Book #5)

SEE HER DEAD (Book #6)

CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NO WAY OUT (Book #1)

NO WAY BACK (Book #2)

NO WAY HOME (Book #3)

NO WAY LEFT (Book #4)

NO WAY UP (Book #5)

NO WAY TO DIE (Book #6)

MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TOO LATE (Book #1)

TOO CLOSE (Book #2)

TOO FAR GONE (Book #3)

TOO LOST (Book #4)

TOO BROKEN (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Gwendalyn Vira stood at the feet of Saint Peter, his bronze toe rubbed smooth by centuries of reverent pilgrims, gazing up at the stern, bearded expression. It was the third church she’d seen that day, each older, darker, and dryer than the last, and there were still two more stops on the tour. The fifteen-year-old sighed, reaching out to touch the bronze foot of the saint the way she’d seen her parents and the rest of the tour group do it. Why not?

She felt a strange tingle as her fingers came into contact with the old, softened metal, as if she’d touched a low-volt battery.

Gwendalyn pulled her hand away quickly, repressing a small shriek. She looked up as if expecting the great statue to have moved. It remained motionless, of course, staring devoutly towards the central icon of the suffering Christ on the wall across the stone cathedral.

You only imagined it, she told herself, but she hurried away from the statue anyway before the unseeing bronze eyes could shift. Don’t let your mind play tricks on you.

Gwendalyn paused, lingering near the tail of the tour group. The guide was pointing out yet another painting of the Madonna and Child., as if she hadn’t already seen a thousand renditions of the same sour-faced woman and way-too-old-looking baby. Jesus, she thought, couldn’t they think of anything else to paint?

It wasn’t that she didn’t like churches, she thought, as the group continued in a slow circle around the pews and alcoves. She liked them fine, as much as she liked any of the other ancient Parisienne buildings. The history that lived in the walls and the sheer decadence of the architecture was lovely, but there was more to Paris than old churches. There had to be.

Before the vacation, she’d dreamed of adventures, romance, running around, and jumping from metro to metro. The Paris of her imagination was filled with artists brooding over their coffee and ennui, fashion models scampering up to expensive loft parties, and champagne springing from public fountains beneath the Arc de Triomphe.

Okay, maybe she let her fantasies run a little wild, but she had expected more from the most romantic city in the world. The heat of the day through the stained glass and the sweet, overpowering aroma of the incense made her head swim and ache.

Gwendalyn began to see red spots on the floor.

Oh no, she thought, I’m having a heat stroke. I’m going to faint.

But she didn’t faint.

And the red spots weren’t scattered or moving. They were in a line. Her eyes followed the spots beneath the oblivious feet of the tourists. The line led her eyes right to the crucifix. The trail of tiny, faint spots led from the altar, down the aisle, and away beyond Gwendalyn’s scope of vision.

Like a trail of dripping paint, she thought. Or spilled wine.

Or blood, her dark imagination put in. A shiver, half-thrill, and half-fear passed over her.

Gwendalyn looked at her parents, about five yards ahead of her in the untidy group of tourists. Her father was holding a camera to his eye, and her mother was pointing emphatically to the no flash photography sign posted next to a large statue of Saint Vincent. They were bickering in hushed, lock-jawed mutterings, as usual, and Gwendalyn was embarrassed, as usual. They would be no help.

Of course, none of these goofy tourists would be curious about the only really interesting thing she’d seen so far. The trail of droplets looked like a mystery to Gwendalyn, and finding out where they led sounded like more fun than the Stations of the Cross for the umpteenth time.

She would follow the trail herself, she decided, and her heart fluttered with adventurous spirit. Feeling as if she’d stepped into an episode of her favorite podcast, Gwendalyn looked around, her interest refreshed.

If there was ever a time to sneak away, it was now. Her parents wouldn’t even notice until the tour was over, when she would find them in the gift shop and act as if she’d been right behind them all along. She’d find out where the spots led, and maybe she’d come home with a Parisienne adventure to tell her friends after all.

Glancing over her shoulder, Gwendalyn didn’t think anybody was paying attention. She started walking quickly back towards the entrance of the cathedral, her face down so as not to raise suspicion. She followed the trail of spots, each no larger than her littlest fingernail.

The spots led out of the cathedral. Gwendalyn, her eyes trained on the ground so as not to miss the next blot in the trail, ducked right out, unnoticed by all except the tragic gaze of the crucified behind the pulpit.

The trail led her back into the long foyer, veering left, and into a small, open doorway. Flickering candlelight seemed to beckon her deeper into the stairwell beyond.

There were no signs posted on the door, neither to welcome her nor ward her off. Still, as she started down the narrow stairwell, she had the acute sense that she’d crossed beyond the beaten tourist track. The stairwell was too dimly lit, for one thing. Each alcove housed the sickly yellow light of tiny candle flames flickering from deep beds of melted wax.

By the time she’d traversed three descending circles around the axis of the stairs, she was starting to wonder if she ought to turn back. The air had turned cold with the indefinably compressed feeling of a subterranean atmosphere. The fine hairs on her arms and neck stood on end.

The red spots on the stairs were bigger than those on the floor of the cathedral.

And wetter.

She had to know.

With every nerve in her body suddenly tensed to the breaking point, the girl descended the final steps. She found herself standing in a circular room, illuminated by the same kind of candle-filled alcoves that lit the stairs. There were a dozen of them positioned around the room, casting dancing light on the central focal point of the room – an enormous statue and empty baptismal font.

The trail of droplets led her eyes straight to the base of the sculpture, mounted above and behind the raised stone pool. The statue was of the Archangel Michael, his stone wings spread wide, a great sword in his hand. The point of his sword and the heel of his stone boot were both aimed at the head of a stone serpent.

The serpent looked wrong, though. It had arms – human arms – that hung at odd angles away from the base of the statue. It was hard to tell by the dim, flickering candlelight, but she would swear that it was a man’s head on the snake’s body beneath the archangel’s foot, a human chest that the sword was pointed at, human fingers that dangled into the empty baptismal font.

Nearly empty.

As if in a trance, she took another step forward, horrifying realization dawning on her by degrees.

There was a dead man wedged into the base of the statue, his back broken painfully on the stone ridge of the sculpted snake. Blood, trickling down in thick streams from the man in the statue, was pooling at the bottom of the old stone basin.

She stared in awe and utter disbelief, her innocent mind momentarily unable to comprehend the violence she was observing.

Your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you.

"It is blood, she muttered. Her feet stopped, but her eyes wouldn’t look away. It’s blood!" Her voice rose in a shriek, only to be flung back at her by the dense, earthen walls of the chamber. Her head swam and, nightmarishly, her feet remained rooted to the spot.

This was no trick of her imagination. This was real. She’d followed a trail of blood from the cross to the tomb. Now she stared into the face of death as he hung, his face wrenched in a mask of agony, damned forever by the wrath of the archangel.

The scream turned into manic, hysterical laughter. Tears formed and fell from Gwendalyn’s eyes. She swooned and swayed, unable to comprehend how she’d come to be here or what her eyes insisted was right in front of her. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d made the whole thing up. The whole vacation was a weird dream.

It had to be, but it wasn’t.

Her terrified laughter continued involuntarily, like a hiccupping hyena. Her stomach hurt. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to wake up. She couldn’t.

Moving with horrifying slowness, as if wading through a waist-high sea of gravel, Gwendalyn turned around. She felt as though her eyelids had been peeled all the way back into her skull, as if she would never close her eyes again, never unsee the dead man’s morose stare and silent scream.

As she turned, ready to run screaming back up the stairs and vowing never to venture away from any group again in her life, her eyes fell on the wall that had been behind her back since she entered. The candlelight flickered on words written in a smeary red hand across the wall of the baptism chamber.

MY CHILD, LAUGH NO MORE

The girl’s scream broke as she fainted at last.

CHAPTER ONE

I wasn’t fully honest about what happened the night Mom and Dad were murdered. We need to talk. In person.

The dial tone droned in Dr. Alexandria Quinn’s ear, matching the stunned static that briefly filled her mind. Her sister Izel had just admitted to a lie, then abruptly hung up.

 Lied about what? Why bring it up now only to hang up a second later?

The phone call had woken her up from a shallow, restless sleep in a hotel bed on the outskirts of Prague. She never slept well after a case, and their last one was only recently closed. The high tension of the chase and emotional climax of the solve would take a few days to ebb out of her system – just enough time for her to open a new case and start the cycle afresh.

Now, however, she didn’t even get a full eight hours before the next mystery presented itself.

I wasn’t fully honest about what happened that night. We need to talk. In person. Lexi recalled the exact words her sister had used, her own highly trained analytical mind kicking into gear. She held multiple Ph.D.s in advanced linguistics, was a master of more than a dozen world languages, and was counted among the best translators and code-breakers in the world.

And yet, analyzing her own sister’s words felt strange. The language smacked of unresolved guilt, long-standing secrets, and paranoia.

It had been nearly fifteen years since their mother and father were gruesomely murdered. Their bodies had been left on display with chilling, posthumous tattoos: Oro and Verita – the words Gold and Truth in Italian. Fifteen years without answers. Fifteen years knowing that the real killer was still out there, laughing at her rage, confusion, and misery.

Staring at the corded phone in her hand, Lexi tried to hypothesize what lie Izel could have told and why her sister would refuse to discuss it until they were in person.

For that matter, Izel had not indicated when or where to meet in person before hanging up. Was Lexi supposed to wait for another call? Or was she now supposed to follow an obscure trail of clues in order to gain the real truth from her sister?

The phone yielded her nothing but more monotone. She slammed it back on the cradle a little harder than necessary, giving the hotel nightstand a violent shudder.

Lexi leaned forward, resting her elbows heavily on her knees, and let out