Page 68 of Buried Secrets

A brief news article from the Portland Herald, dated six months after Whitaker’s death. The reporter had done some digging into the circumstances surrounding the doctor’s suicide, interviewing colleagues and friends. The consensus seemed to be that Whitaker had been involved in an affair and had gained inappropriate wealth from his work with the Foundation. The sums were not reported.

A doctor was in a position of authority and trust. The mansion’s isolated location, away from oversight and accountability as the Foundation pulled away, left an opening for opportunists, like Robert Holloway and James Whitaker, to take advantage in the form of private adoptions.

If all the adoptions were similar to Kaitlin’s, millions of dollars could have been made. Enough of a motive, certainly.

Agent Cook’s relation to Dr. Whitaker nagged at him. Matt’s research confirmed the facts Kaitlin had presented. When they first met, the FBI agent had mentioned being assigned to the case at the last minute, replacing another investigator.

He also recalled Samira’s hostile response to Cook’s assignment, but he had assumed they simply had a personal history. Was there something more?

He needed to talk to Samira again.

Matt drew more lines on his legal pad, connecting Agent Cook to Whitaker. If Cook was trying to protect his grandfather’s reputation, he’d have a personal interest in steering the narrative away from uncomfortable truths about the doctor’s involvement.

His pen stopped as he circled Agent Cook’s name. A cold thought crept into Matt’s gut. Someone had tried to sabotage the review of the mansion’s records. First by the fire, and second by planting a poisonous snake in the basement.

He brushed this possibility off. Agent Cook would have a lot to lose if it came out he was involved. His career with the FBI would be ended for certain. Cook was committed to his role and seemed to relish the work.

It was Eleanor Holloway who remained key. As the administrator’s sister-in-law and housemate, it was likely she knew about the private adoption arrangements, might have records or documents that could prove the connection between Robert and Dr. Whitaker.

Matt had interviewed her once already, but that conversation had been focused on general background about the foundation. This time, he would ask more pointed questions about the business side of operations, about money and motives and the kinds of services that might have been provided off the books.

He considered going to the county judge for a search warrant of the Holloway home, but the fact that the murders were committed over thirty years ago would make that problematic; he would need to have some level of probable cause. Maybe he could persuade Mrs. Holloway to show him around instead, especially if she’d kept Mr. Holloway’s belongings.

A trip over to Portland would also be a good idea. Maybe the widow Whitaker would be willing to talk to him.

The sky outside was beginning to lighten, deep purple fading to gray as dawn approached. Matt had been at the table for over two hours, filling pages with connections and theories that felt increasingly solid. But he still needed more evidence, more witness testimony to support his growing suspicions.

He checked the time. Seven thirty a.m. Still too early for a social call, but late enough to start planning his approach. Eleanor Holloway was in her eighties, a woman from a generation that valued propriety and discretion. She wouldn’t respond well to aggressive interrogation tactics, but she might open up to someone who showed respect for her position and her memories.

He could make an early ferry to Portland and be back before noon if he got organized.

Matt poured himself a cup of coffee after all, settling back at the table to refine his questions. Somewhere on this island, the truth about what had happened to the two women was waiting to be uncovered. And Eleanor Holloway or the doctor’s widow might be the only people left alive who could provide the answers he needed.

The morning light grew stronger. Outside, the island was waking up, preparing for another day of ordinary life.

Kaitlin was probably still asleep, processing her mother’s identity. Despite his anger at her deception, he couldn’t ignore the humanity of her story. A displaced child, searching for answers about why she hadn’t been enough to keep.

But his job wasn’t to heal old wounds or reunite families. His job was to find justice for two young women who’d died far from home, their lives cut short by someone they must have trusted to help them. Everything else, including his complicated feelings about the British researcher who’d turned his life upside down, would have to wait.

Matt finished his coffee and headed for the shower. He had a long day ahead of him, starting with a conversation that was thirty years overdue.

Kaitlin pressed her fingertips against her swollen eyelids, the tender skin a reminder of the tears from last night’s confrontations. Her laptop sat closed on the small desk. Ryan’s immediate, warm response to her email had been everything she’d hoped for. It glowed in her memory like a beacon in the darkness that had consumed her since Matt’s visit.

Kaitlin,

I can’t believe it. I’ve been hoping for this my whole life. Can we talk tomorrow morning? I have the day off and could take the ferry over if you’d like to meet in person. One request though—let’s connect first before you reach out to Mom. I want to make sure we’re on the same page about everything.

Mom. The word sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the late fall chill seeping through the cottage windows. Marissa Lane had raised him, loved him, been present for every milestone Kaitlin had experienced without her.

Kaitlin pushed the bitter thought aside. She shouldn’t dismiss the life her adoptive parents had given her. They’d loved her and given her all she needed, and Ryan had no role in the decisions that had shaped her life.

The cottage felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. She needed air, movement, the rhythmic pound of her feet against solid ground to quiet the chaos in her mind. To erase the disappointment in Matt’s face when he’d learned about her lies, the way he’d looked at her like she was just another outsider exploiting the island for her own purposes.

Which, she supposed, was exactly what she was.

Gray light filtered through the curtains, not quite dawn but close enough. Kaitlin pulled on her running gear, adding an extra layer against the November cold. Thermal leggings under her shorts, a long-sleeved technical shirt beneath her lightweight jacket. The routine of dressing for a run felt familiar, comforting in its predictability.

Outside, fog had rolled in overnight, casting the mansion in an otherworldly mist like a Gothic specter. Kaitlin could barely make out the driveway that led toward Amy’s place.