Page 78 of Buried Secrets

“Do you know where he went?”

“Headed toward the mansion, I think. Took Route 7 out of town.”

Matt hung up and stomped on the gas. His cruiser fishtailed out onto the main road.

Of course Cook would go to the mansion. If his goal was to eliminate evidence, he would want to make sure it was all gone.

A realization dawned on him. Kaitlin had once told him she copied documents that were rare or fragile. Did she copy the journal?

Thirty minutes to reach the mansion. Matt prayed it would be enough time to stop Agent Cook from finishing what his grandfather had started thirty years ago.

Matt’s cruiser screamed through the island’s winding roads, emergency lights painting the autumn landscape in frantic red and blue. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and his foot pressed the accelerator closer to the floor with each passing second.

The speedometer climbed past sixty on roads designed for thirty-five, but all Matt could think about was Kaitlin. The journal was just paper and ink—replaceable if they had to start over. But Kaitlin…

Cook had already set a fire and planted a poisonous snake. What else was the guy willing to do?

Pure terror spiked through his gut. Kaitlin had turned his carefully ordered world upside down, challenged him and infuriated him and made him feel more alive than he had in years.

His anger over her deception suddenly seemed pathetically small compared to the possibility of losing her forever. She’d been searching for her mother, for answers about her own identity. Besides, there had been two attempts on her life. He would have done the same in her shoes.

Matt took the curve onto the mansion’s private road too quick, tires squealing against asphalt. Through the trees, he could see the building’s weathered stone facade and the cruiser parked in the gravel drive. Cook was already here.

Matt had never run faster in his life as he sprinted toward the mansion’s entrance.

Chapter 22

Kaitlin spread the 1940s employment records across the makeshift table in the mansion library. She tried to lose herself in the meticulous task of cross-referencing names and dates while her mind hummed with the anticipation of meeting Ryan and her conversations with Marissa last night. She was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t be fruitful now.

Her purpose for traveling to the island—to find her biological mother—was nearly complete. Additionally, she’d almost finished the work Amy had ‘hired’ her to do.

Next steps loomed before her. The thought of heading back home to London and her quiet empty life there was less than appealing. Finding her biological family had not yet created the heartwarming magical event she’d expected.

The construction noise from upstairs provided a steady backdrop to her thoughts. The hammering, the occasional shout between workers, the screech of power tools cutting through old wood had her yearning for a little of that quiet.

Amy had left twenty minutes ago for her meeting with the historical society, promising to return with coffee and updates on their ongoing battle over renovation permits. The mansion felt larger in her absence, the noise from upstairs echoing in the empty rooms of the main floor.

“Working hard, I see.”

Kaitlin’s head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. Agent Cook stood in the doorway. Something was wrong with his usual polished presentation. His suit jacket was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes held a wild quality. A predator cornering his prey.

A tingle of fear shivered over her skin.

“Agent Cook.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“With that noise upstairs, I didn’t think you would.” He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “We need to talk, Kaitlin.”

The click of the latch made her stomach drop. She swallowed deeply. “Of course. What about?”

“The journal you found this morning.” Agent Cook stalked closer. “I’m sure you examined it quite thoroughly before calling Matt.”

Kaitlin’s mouth went dry. “We had to read it to understand what we’d found.”

“Just read it?” His smile was sharp as broken glass. “Come now, Kaitlin. You’re a professional historian. A meticulous documenter. You wouldn’t just read something that significant.”

Her pulse hammered against her throat. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything.” He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne and something acrid—like old sweat. “I’m stating facts. You copied that journal before Matt took it as evidence. Every page, I’d bet.”