Page 25 of Buried Secrets

“Doubt we’ll get hits,” Matt said. “Most missing persons cases from that era weren’t DNA-logged.”

“True,” Samira acknowledged. “But I can also tell you that each of these women gave birth. There was a definite preauricular sulcus…a groove on the ilium bone that indicates scaring during childbirth. I can’t say how many times or when, but perhaps their children may be looking for them through commercial DNA databases. We may have some luck that way.”

Matt leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the wall of photos documenting the island’s history. His great-grandfather standing proudly in front of the first ferry, his grandfather operating the general store that had since become a boutique selling overpriced candles to summer people, his father coaching Little League on the town green.

How many of them had known something was wrong at the mansion? How many had looked the other way?

“We’re searching through old records now.”

“That’s assuming this was connected to the home’s operations,” Samira cautioned. “Could be unrelated. Someone using the extensive grounds as a convenient dumping site.”

“Two victims in the same location all close in age and having given birth,” Matt countered. “And the timeline overlaps with when the place shut down, right before the Costigans bought it.”

“Fair point.” Papers rustled on Samira’s end of the line. “I should have more detailed profiles for you by the end of the week. We’re prioritizing these remains in the lab.”

“Thank you,” Matt said, meaning it. He would be lost without Samira’s insight.

After ending the call, Matt sat motionless, staring at the notes he’d taken. Two women, murdered in the short years between the foundation’s discontinuation and the sale to Truman, all buried on the grounds of a place meant to shelter vulnerable mothers. The perversion of that mission struck him anew with each detail he learned.

His phone buzzed with a text from Alice, the clerk for the sheriff’s department: FBI Agent Cook requesting update meeting. Said you’re not returning his calls.

Matt grimaced. Agent Cook had quickly established himself as a pain in the ass, strutting around the island like he owned the place, flashing credentials and dropping more details about the case than Matt was comfortable with, especially with the rampant island gossip. Matt had been deliberately avoiding him, a tactic that clearly wasn’t working.

Tell him I’ll brief him tomorrow morning, Matt texted back. Today, he needed to focus on his own without the distraction the outside agent brought. He wanted to piece together the puzzle in his own mind, begin connecting the dots between clues to build the case.

He stared at the black-and-white photo of Widow’s Point Mansion that hung on his office wall, taken sometime in the 1950s, when it was in its prime. Even in the decades-old image, the place exuded an aura of watchfulness.

What had those many windows witnessed?

By late afternoon, the fog had fully retreated, leaving behind a crisp autumn day burnished by the golden light of the lowering sun. Matt pulled his cruiser into the mansion’s gravel drive, the tires crunching like brittle bones. The temporary evidence tents had been removed, but the areas where bodies had been exhumed remained cordoned off with police tape, incongruous patches of disturbed earth marring the stately grounds.

The weathered stone of the mansion darkened as shadows lengthened. Scaffolding covered a portion of the east wing where renovations had been underway before the discovery of remains halted all exterior construction. Matt had always thought the building possessed a certain dignified beauty, but now he could only see it as a monument to hidden horror.

Amy York emerged from the front door as he approached, her usual happy glow subdued by what he assumed was the stress of the recent days.

“Sheriff,” she greeted him, tucking an escaping strand of hair behind her ear. “More questions?”

“Just checking in with Ms. Mathews,” Matt replied. “How are you doing?”

She shook her head, earrings jingling. “I’ve been staying at Kelsey and Mac’s. The thought of those poor women buried right outside my door has been really creeping me out.”

“Everything should be back in place in the next few days. I’m sorry this happened.”

“You and me both. Not sure all this work and worry will be worth it in the end.” She laughed bitterly. “Who will want to stay in a place where murders occurred, not just one but three!”

Matt shifted awkwardly, uncertain what to say.

“Well, she’s down there in the basement now if you want to see her. She doesn’t take many breaks, that one. I set up a desk up here for her to work, but she seems to not mind being downstairs.”

Matt nodded, trying to appear casual while his pulse inexplicably quickened. “I should check in, see if she’s found anything relevant.”

“Mm-hmm,” Amy hummed. “I’m heading out, let me know if you need anything.”

He moved past her into the mansion’s cavernous entrance hall. Inside, the temperature dropped several degrees, the old solid walls holding the day’s gathering chill. His footsteps echoed across the flooring, bouncing off high ceilings and returning like ghostly companions as he made his way toward the basement stairs.

The records room door stood ajar, and a sliver of warm light spilled into the dim corridor. Matt was momentarily arrested at the threshold by the scene within. Kaitlin Matthews sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of folders and ledgers. Her dark hair was loosely piled atop her head and escaping tendrils framed her face as she bent over an open book, making notes on a yellow legal pad. She’d removed her cardigan in the stuffy room. The slim-fitting t-shirt underneath revealed the elegant line of her shoulders as she worked.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, absorbed in whatever document held her attention. Matt found himself watching the methodical movement of her hands as she turned a page, the way she absently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and revealed the clean line of her jaw. The simple intimacy of observing her unaware created a tightness in his chest that he preferred not to examine.