Page 26 of Buried Secrets

He cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles against the door frame.

Kaitlin started and jerked her head up, eyes widening before recognition smoothed her features.

“Sheriff,” she said, her pen down. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” Matt entered the room. “Amy said you were down here.”

Kaitlin stretched and rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness of hours spent hunched over documents. The movement drew his eye before he firmly redirected his gaze to the papers spread around her.

“Some,” she agreed, reaching for a stack of folders. “I’ve organized employment records by year.”

Matt crouched beside her, close enough to catch the faint citrus scent of her shampoo. He accepted the folder she handed him. Their fingers brushed in the exchange.

“These are staff rosters from the late 80s,” she explained, flipping the folder open for him. “The home was officially operated by the New England Maternal Welfare Foundation out of Boston, but it seems they hired mostly local people for day-to-day operations. I’m assuming they were locals; the same names keep cropping up.”

“Locals,” Matt murmured, scanning the lists of names. Many were immediately familiar—island families that still lived in the community. People who nodded to him on the street, brought casseroles when he was ill, showed up for town meetings to argue about property taxes and zoning regulations.

His ancestors’ neighbors. His neighbors.

“Several names appear consistently across the years,” Kaitlin continued, pulling another folder from the stack. “Administrative staff, maintenance, kitchen workers. And there’s more. Look at this.”

She handed him a leather-bound ledger, open to a page marked with a slip of paper. Matt scanned the neat columns of handwritten entries, unsure what he was meant to see.

“Financial records?” he asked.

“Cash disbursements,” Kaitlin clarified. “Most of the foundation’s expenses are meticulously documented: food, utilities, staff salaries. But starting in late 1989, there are these.” She pointed to a recurring entry labeled simply, Special Services.

“No explanation of what that means?”

“None.” Kaitlin leaned closer, her shoulder nearly touching his as she turned to the next marked page. “And the amounts increased dramatically over time. By early 1992, just before the place closed, these ‘special services’ accounted for nearly forty percent of their monthly outflows.”

The proximity of her warmth and scent made it difficult to focus on the information she was revealing. Matt forced himself to concentrate on the numbers, the dates, the implications.

“Those are five and six figures,” he remarked, leaning closer.

Kaitlin sat back on her heels, putting a few inches of welcome distance between them. “I haven’t been able to locate any returned checks or bank statements after 1989 yet.”

“Are you suggesting someone was being paid out these amounts?”

“I don’t know, of course, without knowing who or to what these amounts were paid. It’s just a change, and a large one, in the time period the home was supposed to be shut down or at least no longer being operated by the non-profit New England Maternal Welfare Foundation. Where did they get this money from? I haven’t located the revenue or bank account records.” Kaitlin studied his face, her eyes softening with unexpected perception. “This is personal for you, isn’t it? The fact that all of this happened here, in your community.”

Matt stood abruptly. He paced to the other side of the small room, putting the table between them.

“I grew up here,” he said finally. “My whole life, this place was just… part of the landscape. Something we took for granted. A good place doing good work.” He gestured at the stacks of documents surrounding them. “Meanwhile, there were skeletons in the closet. And no one noticed. Or no one wanted to notice.”

“You can’t blame yourself for not knowing,” Kaitlin said softly. “Were you even born yet?”

“I’m not talking about myself,” Matt countered, though part of him was. “I’m talking about a community, my community, that either missed or ignored what was happening right in front of them.”

Kaitlin was quiet for a moment, watching him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. “Communities often build protective narratives,” she said finally. “Stories they tell themselves about who they are, what kind of place they live in. It can make them blind to contradictory evidence.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying people see what they want to see.”

She smiled slightly, the expression softening her academic explanation. “Essentially, yes. And a respected charitable institution would have an extra layer of protection, a veil to hide behind. Who wants to be the person questioning the motives of a home for unwed mothers?”

Matt’s phone buzzed in his pocket, offering a welcome interruption to the uncomfortable direction of their conversation. He glanced at the screen to find a text from Deputy Collins about a disturbance at the ferry landing.

“I need to go,” he said, relieved to have a legitimate reason to escape both the basement and Kaitlin’s too-perceptive gaze. “Keep digging. I’ll touch base with you later or tomorrow. Call me or text me if you find anything urgent.”