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Alice snorted. “You want me to say that to Margaret Peterson, who’s been on the library board for forty-three years? I value my life too much.”
“Fair point. I’ll handle it.” Matt rose, knowing from experience that the Peterson situation would be the first of many interruptions. “Can you print this email and its attachments from Dr. Haddad while I’m out? I’ll review it when I get back.”
Three hours later, after mediating the skateboard dispute, responding to a fender-bender at the grocery store parking lot, and helping Peter Moore retrieve his escaped goat from the Methodist church garden, Matt finally returned to the station to find a thick stack of printouts on his desk, neatly paper-clipped with Alice’s characteristic efficiency.
He closed his office door—a signal that he shouldn’t be disturbed unless absolutely necessary—and spread the documents across his desk. The DNA profile analysis for victim two came first, full of scientific terminology and genetic markers that meant little to him without interpretation. He flipped through these pages quickly, focusing instead on the genealogical database results.
The report listed potential relatives sorted by estimated genetic relationship. First-degree relatives showed no matches, which wasn’t surprising given the lack of a missing persons report. But the extended relations had hits.
The report showed that victim two had nieces, nephews, and cousins. Samira had highlighted two names.
Ryan Lane (estimated relationship: nephew) - Portland, ME
Kaitlin Mathews (estimated relationship: niece) - London, UK
Matt stared at the names, certain he’d misread. Ryan Lane, the quiet, dark-haired boy who’d attended the island school a few years behind him. Son of Marissa Lane, who’d worked as a cook at the mansion until its closure, whom he and Kaitlin had interviewed just last week about the mansion’s operations.
And Kaitlin, who’d been in his bed that morning, listed as Ryan’s half sibling.
He flipped to the next page, where additional relationship data showed both Kaitlin and Ryan as sharing significant DNA markers with victim two, listed as probable relationship: aunt.
The pieces aligned with disturbing clarity.
Kaitlin hadn’t come to Widow’s Point for anonymous historical research under employment by some mysterious writer. She’d come searching for her own history, for family connections she’d somehow traced to the mansion.
Her reluctance to share her true purpose, her focused interest in the mansion’s adoption processes, her meetings with mainland attorneys, all now made perfect sense.
And she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth.
Anger flared, hot and immediate, followed by the deeper sting of betrayal. He’d opened himself to her, lowered his defenses while she’d calculated exactly how much truth to share and how much to withhold.
His mind raced back to their interview with Marissa Lane. The intensity of Marissa’s focus on Kaitlin. Had Kaitlin known then? Had she sat across from her biological family member, asking questions about the mansion, without revealing her true connection?
Matt gathered the reports into a single stack, sliding them into a folder with mechanical precision.
Whatever her reasons for concealment, whatever story she’d constructed to justify her deception, the time for lies had ended.
His phone vibrated with another text from Kaitlin:
Just put the sauce on to simmer. Still coming at 6?
Matt stared at the message. It felt jarringly false against what he’d discovered. He typed a brief reply:
I’ll be there.
The drive to Kaitlin’s cottage passed in a blur of autumn colors and growing darkness as Matt rehearsed and discarded various approaches to the coming confrontation. The folder of reports lay on the passenger seat beside him, its contents redefining everything about their budding relationship.
As he pulled into her gravel driveway, warm light spilled from the cottage windows, and the scent of garlic and herbs drifted through the evening air. It all seemed so normal, so inviting.
Matt sat in his car for a long moment, gathering himself. Part of him, a larger part than he cared to admit, wanted to leave the folder behind, to walk into that warm kitchen and pretend he knew nothing, to enjoy the evening they’d planned and deal with truths and consequences another day.
But deception had already painted his feelings toward her.
He grabbed the folder and approached the front door, which opened before he could knock. Kaitlin stood framed in golden light, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that reminded him of how she’d looked in his bed that morning.
“You’re right on time,” she said, smiling as she stepped back to let him in. “Wine’s breathing, pasta’s almost ready.”
The cottage smelled of tomatoes and basil, warm bread and the faint sweetness of her perfume. Matt remained just inside the doorway, not advancing further into the domestic scene she’d created.
