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As Kaitlin calculated the tip and signed the receipt, another thunderclap shook the building, closer this time. The lights flickered again, longer, before steadying.
“That’s my cue,” Matt said, rising. “The causeway to my place gets dicey in weather like this, especially at high tide.”
Kaitlin stood as well, gathering her cardigan. “Thank you for the company, unexpected though it was.”
“Likewise.” Matt paused, then added, “If you need anything while you’re on the island, the sheriff’s office is just off the town common. Door’s always open during business hours.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unsure whether to interpret his words as professional courtesy or subtle surveillance.
They parted at the inn’s entrance, Matt pulling up the collar of his jacket against the wind that now howled around the building’s corners. He nodded once in farewell before jogging toward a weathered Jeep parked near the harbor.
Kaitlin watched him go, then turned toward the stairs that led to her room. As she climbed to the second floor, the lights flickered again and went out completely, plunging the stairwell into darkness.
“Perfect,” she muttered while feeling her way along the wall.
A beam of light appeared from above. It was Mrs. Foster with an oil lamp, just as Matt had predicted.
“First of many tonight, dear,” the innkeeper said, handing Kaitlin a second lamp. “Welcome to island living.”
In her room, Kaitlin set the lamp on the nightstand and moved to the window. Rain now lashed against the glass, distorting the view of the harbor where boats strained against their moorings.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her mind circling back to her conversation with the sheriff. He clearly didn’t believe her cover story and would likely be looking into her background.
There were secrets here. And someone, perhaps many someones, wanted them to remain hidden.
She moved to her suitcase, retrieving the leather-bound journal that contained the single photograph she possessed of her biological mother: a grainy black and white image showing a young woman standing before a large Victorian building, her face partially turned away from the camera. The photo had been among her parents’ paperwork of her adoption. The back of the photo had a handwritten note.
Widow’s Point
Careful and tedious research had led her here.
Whatever had happened there decades ago, whatever fate had befallen the woman who had given birth to her, Kaitlin was determined to uncover the truth, regardless of who wanted it to remain buried.
Outside, the storm raged on, rattling the inn’s ancient windows with each gust. Kaitlin settled on the bed, opening her notes by lamplight, preparing for tomorrow’s continued research.
Sheriff Winters might be watching her now, but he wouldn’t stop her.
No one would.
She had waited too long for answers.
Chapter 3
Morning sunlight spilled across the island, transforming the aftermath of the storm into something almost enchanted. Puddles along the narrow road reflected the brilliant blue sky while droplets clung to every leaf and blade of grass, creating tiny prisms that scattered light in all directions. Kaitlin drove slowly, windows down to let in the clean, salt-tinged air that followed last night’s storm.
She couldn’t have ordered better weather for her first proper visit to the mansion. The break in clouds offered her a chance to see things clearly.
As she rounded the final curve in the road, the Widow’s Point Mansion came into view, and Kaitlin found herself easing her foot off the accelerator until the rental car slowed to a crawl.
The building stood atop a gentle rise, its Victorian grandeur both imposing and beautiful in the morning light. Three full stories of weathered stone and dark wood, surrounded by gardens that had clearly once been immaculate but now were in various stages of renovation. Ornate gables and a widow’s walk crowned the structure, and large bay windows punctuated the facade like watchful eyes.
This was where it had happened. Where her life had begun.
Kaitlin pulled to a stop beside several other vehicles: a contractor’s truck with Sullivan’s Construction emblazoned on the side, a sleek sedan, and the unmistakable white and blue of a sheriff’s cruiser. She suppressed a flash of irritation at the sight of the patrol car. Was the man everywhere on this tiny island?
She remained in her car a moment longer, hands still gripping the steering wheel. Somewhere in that building, thirty-three years ago, a young woman had given birth. Perhaps she had held her newborn daughter before surrendering her to an adoption process that would eventually carry that baby across an ocean to London.
What had been going through her mother’s mind in those moments? Fear? Resignation? Relief?
