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Their deaths had torn through the fabric of her life, leaving jagged edges that caught on everything. She’d lost not just her parents but her anchors, the two people who had known every version of her, who could trace the map of how she’d become who she was. Without them, she sometimes felt like she was disappearing at the edges, becoming translucent, untethered from her own life as it was. A life that was mostly work, with limited friends and now no family.
Her father, with his passion for maritime history, her mother with her artist’s eye for light and composition. They would have booked one of the harbor side rooms. Her father would have been pouring over local historical accounts while her mother captured the changing sky in her sketchbook.
They would have encouraged this search, too, she knew. Even though they’d raised her as completely their own, they’d never hidden her adoption. “Your birth mother loved you enough to give you to us,” her mother had always said. “That’s a great gift, one we’ve never taken for granted.”
What she hadn’t known—and had only discovered after their untimely deaths when she’d gone through their papers—was that her “gift” had come with a substantial price tag. The solicitor’s records had been explicit: one hundred thousand pounds paid to an American attorney in 1991, far above standard fees for the time, with all details sealed. The names of her biological parents were hidden.
Kaitlin breathed in deeply, the familiar sting she had known her entire life filling her lungs. The one burning question she had wanted to know, why? Why had her biological mother given her away? The price tag only continued to hollow out the hole that had persisted in her heart as long as she could remember.
And why had her adoptive parents gone such a route to adopt her? It certainly would have been cheaper and easier to adopt locally. Without close friends or any remaining relatives to question, Kaitlin could only speculate their reasons. They were much older than other parents of her childhood friends; perhaps that had been a factor.
The Harbor Inn’s heavy oak door swung open, admitting a gust of chilled air and a few wind-scattered leaves that skittered across the worn floorboards. Kaitlin glanced up absently, then felt her spine stiffen as she recognized a familiar figure sitting at the bar.
Sheriff Winters looked different out of uniform, more approachable in worn jeans and a charcoal fisherman’s sweater that softened his authoritative bearing and emphasized his substantial muscled frame.
A brief look of surprise crossed his features as he acknowledged her presence. Kaitlin returned the gesture with cool politeness, expecting him to turn back around to his meal.
Instead, he gathered up his half-eaten supper and pint and approached her table.
“Ms. Mathews,” he said, his voice carrying traces of the distinctive island accent, though less pronounced than the locals she’d encountered so far. “I see we had the same idea for dinner. The haddock special is to die for.”
“Sheriff,” she replied, setting down her wine glass. “I’d say great minds think alike, but I suspect the limited dining options on an island this size have more to do with it.”
A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. Kaitlin also suspected the fact that she’d told him her dinner plans had more than a little to do with this coincidence. “The Harbor Inn haddock or leftover pizza at home were mine. Mind if I join you?” he asked.
Sharing a meal with the local sheriff, particularly one who seemed suspicious of her presence, was not part of her plan. Yet, refusing might draw more attention than she wanted. However, so did having him sitting at her table. Nevertheless, his assumption that she wouldn’t turn him away with his plate in hand made it impossible to decline his offer.
“Please,” she heard herself say, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. The nervousness in her voice surprised her; she was usually better at maintaining composure. “Though I warn you, I’m poor company according to most.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he replied, settling into the chair with a casual ease that suggested comfort in his own skin.
Kaitlin studied him as he arranged his plate on the table. In the candlelight, she noticed details that had escaped her in the municipal building’s harsh fluorescence: the way his dark hair curled slightly at his temples and the tanned lines around his eyes that suggested he spent considerable time outdoors.
“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “settling in all right at the Harbor Inn? Mrs. Foster runs a tight ship.”
“It’s charming,” Kaitlin replied neutrally. “The view is particularly lovely.”
“Best in town, especially during sunrise.” He took a sip of his porter. “Though the walls are thinner than advertised.”
Despite herself, Kaitlin smiled. “I’ve noticed.”
The easy conversation felt like a trap, a way to lower her guard. Kaitlin redirected. “Is it common for the local sheriff to dine with suspicious outsiders, or am I receiving special treatment?”
His expression became more measured. “Is that how you see yourself? A suspicious outsider?”
“It’s how you seemed to view me this afternoon,” she countered.
Matt considered this, tracing a pattern in the condensation on his glass. “Let’s just say your interest in the mansion’s history curiously coincides with recent nefarious events.”
“You mean the human remains,” Kaitlin baited.
“That’s not public information yet,” he replied. His tone was neutral but his gaze sharpened.
“It’s a reasonable assumption when the sheriff is researching burial records. Besides, it’s the talk of the town,” she said smoothly, taking a sip from her wine to hide her smirk at his confirmation.
Matt resumed eating his half-finished haddock, and she did the same. Kaitlin used the interruption to gather her thoughts, annoyed at herself for letting him fluster her. She needed to be careful around this man, whose casual demeanor clearly masked a sharp mind. A sharpness clear enough to see through her cover story.
“So,” Matt said after sampling the fish, “British immigration. That’s your area of expertise?”
