Page 27 of Buried Secrets

Kaitlin nodded, already reaching for another folder. “Amy brought in a copier, so I’ve made copies of every significant thing I’ve found so far. They’re in that envelope on the table.”

“Thanks.” Matt picked up the envelope, then paused at the door. “You’ve been putting in long hours. Make sure you keep track of your time for the department.”

“I will,” she promised, though she was already bent over the documents again.

Matt lingered a moment longer. There was something compelling about her focus, her methodical approach to uncovering details that he admired. Whatever her real reason for being on the island—and he still wasn’t convinced about her reasons—she was proving to be a valuable ally.

That was all she was, he reminded himself firmly. Someone who would eventually return to her life across the ocean, leaving the island and its mysteries behind.

The Harbor Inn’s dining room hummed with the quiet conversations of the few remaining patrons. Most of the summer tourists had departed weeks ago, leaving only year-round residents and the occasional off-season visitor drawn by the island’s autumn beauty. Matt sat alone at a corner table, nursing a beer and picking at a plate of fish and chips that had long since gone cold.

The day’s discoveries weighed on him, making food seem irrelevant. After settling the fight at the ferry terminal with Deputy Collins, he’d spent the remainder of the afternoon cross-referencing the names from Kaitlin’s lists against his memory and town records, creating a preliminary interview schedule. So many familiar names. People he thought he’d known his entire life.

The bell above the inn’s door jingled. Agent Cook entered, his tailored suit and polished shoes marking him an outsider among the flannel shirts and weathered faces of the local patrons. The FBI agent scanned the room, stopping when he landed on Matt.

Matt suppressed a groan. He was not in the mood for the man’s aggressive competence and thinly veiled condescension.

To his dismay, Cook was not alone. Kaitlin Matthews followed him inside, cheeks flushed from the evening chill, her hair loose around her shoulders. She hadn’t changed from her work clothes—the same jeans and t-shirt she’d worn in the basement archives—but somehow managed to look freshly put together in a way that made Matt acutely aware of his own rumpled khakis.

Cook placed his hand on the small of Kaitlin’s back, guiding her toward a table on the opposite side of the room.

The server approached their table, and Matt couldn’t help but notice how Cook leaned forward to say something that made Kaitlin laugh. The sound carried across the room, bright and genuine.

He forced his attention back to his cold dinner, stabbing a soggy French fry with unnecessary force. What did he care if Kaitlin Matthews was having drinks with the FBI agent? It wasn’t his business who she spent time with. She was a grown woman, free to make her own choices.

“Refill, Sheriff?” Jenna approached with a coffee pot, mercifully interrupting his brewing resentment.

“To go please,” Matt said, pushing his cup toward her. “And maybe some pie?”

“Apple or blueberry?”

“Surprise me.”

Jenna returned with a to-go bag, a cup of coffee, and knowing glances toward the object of Matt’s attention. “FBI fellow’s been asking a lot of questions around town,” Jenna continued, undeterred by Matt’s lack of engagement.

“That so?” Matt took some cash out of his wallet and laid it on the bar.

“Mm-hmm. Asked me if the mansion had ever had any trouble over the years. Odd goings-on, complaints from neighbors. That sort of thing.”

This caught Matt’s attention. “What did you tell him?”

Jenna snorted softly. “Told him this is a small island. If there’d been ‘odd goings-on’ at our biggest landmark, everyone would know about it.” She paused, something troubled crossing her weathered features. “Though my mother used to say there was something not right about that place. Never would explain what she meant.”

“Your mother worked there?”

“Cooked in the kitchens for a spell in the sixties.” Jenna shrugged. “But you know how old folks get, seeing shadows where there aren’t any. Especially my mother. Woman believed the mail boat was run by Canadian spies. And that was long before we knew she had dementia.”

Matt managed a smile at that, though his mind was already cataloging this new piece of information. Another thread to pull.

Across the room, Cook leaned in closer to Kaitlin, saying something that made her shake her head, though she was still smiling. Matt watched as the agent’s hand moved to cover hers on the table, thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that was unmistakably flirtatious.

Kaitlin didn’t pull away.

The sight made something dark and primitive stir in Matt’s chest. Which was ridiculous.

Matt stood to leave, deliberately avoiding glancing in their direction again. Outside, the night air carried the crisp scent of autumn—fallen leaves, wood smoke, the brackish tang of the harbor at low tide. He stood for a moment on the inn’s porch, breathing deeply, trying to clear his head of unwelcome thoughts.

Out of the shadows, a large, looming but familiar figure stepped onto the porch.