Page 49 of Buried Secrets

Kaitlin rose to her feet. “I should get going too. Same ferry and all.”

Chapter 13

The office door clicked shut behind Matt, Samira, and Cook as they headed to their meeting, leaving Kaitlin alone with the pulsing pain in her temples and a growing sense of unease. Something felt off about the entire situation, and it wasn’t connected to her sudden headache but Agent Cook’s unexpected appearance outside the Whitaker building, along with his solicitous attention.

As the medication began to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of her headache, Kaitlin reached for her phone. If she couldn’t trust her instincts in this moment, perhaps facts would provide clarity. She typed, Dr. James Whitaker Portland Maine into the search bar and waited as the results populated her screen.

Several obituaries appeared first—apparently the doctor’s death had been noteworthy enough to warrant coverage beyond standard death notices. She skimmed through one from the Portland Press Herald, dated April, 1992:

Dr. James Whitaker, 64, prominent obstetrician and former medical director of the New England Maternal Welfare Foundation for Women, was found deceased on the island. Police have ruled the death a suicide. He is survived by his wife, Elise Whitaker; daughter, Catherine Cook; her husband, Anthony Cook; and grandson, Reid…

Kaitlin stared at the name, her fingers suddenly cold against the glass screen. Reid Cook. The FBI agent who had appeared outside the Whitaker residence, the same residence where the doctor’s wife presumably still lived, was Dr. Whitaker’s grandson.

She typed Reid Cook FBI with trembling fingers, finding a brief professional biography on a government website, accompanied by a younger version of the man who had kissed her forehead with such familiar ease. A chill raced along her skin as her instincts sent out a warning bell.

Cook’s FBI bio mentioned nothing of his family connections, focusing instead on his education, training, and specialization in violent crimes investigation.

The implications caused her belly to clench. To her knowledge, Cook hadn’t revealed his connection to the mansion to Dr. Whitaker, to the very investigation he was supposedly conducting objectively. He’d concealed his personal stake while insinuating himself into the investigation.

And she’d nearly gone alone with him on his boat.

The medication might be clearing her headache, but Kaitlin’s mind now raced with fresh questions and suspicions. Why had Cook hidden his connection? What interest did he have in her specifically? Was he protecting someone, his grandmother perhaps? What of the scandal the attorney mentioned earlier?

There had to be a connection.

When the office door opened again and Matt announced he was heading back to the island, Kaitlin seized the opportunity with undisguised relief.

Cook’s face flashed with annoyance before settling into polite disappointment. “Another time for our boat trip, then. Though I had hoped to continue our conversation about your research.”

“I have deadlines to meet,” she replied, the lie coming easily now that suspicion had replaced trust. “But thank you for your help with the migraine.”

Later, sitting beside Matt in the back of an Uber navigating Portland’s congested afternoon traffic, Kaitlin contemplated whether to share her discovery. The sheriff’s profile was rigid, jaw set in what appeared to be barely contained irritation as he stared out the window at passing storefronts.

“Is something wrong?” she ventured.

Matt’s response came clipped and cold. “Should there be?”

“You seem upset.”

“And you seem awfully cozy with Agent Cook.” The words shot out like bullets, precise and damaging. “You didn’t mention planning to meet up with him.”

Heat flashed across Kaitlin’s cheeks—anger, not embarrassment. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Matt continued staring out the window.

“I had a migraine,” Kaitlin snapped. “He offered medication. What exactly are you implying?”

The Uber driver cleared his throat awkwardly. Both passengers fell silent for the remainder of the journey to the ferry terminal, the atmosphere between them crackling with tension.

They boarded the ferry separately, Kaitlin finding a seat inside the heated cabin while Matt remained on the deck despite the biting October wind. The physical distance mirrored the chasm that had reopened between them, the tentative trust they’d built during the past few weeks erased by whatever Matt thought he’d witnessed.

The crossing seemed interminable, each wave that slapped against the hull marking another moment of strained silence. Kaitlin used the time to organize her thoughts, to consider what Cook’s connection to Dr. Whitaker might mean. Whatever Matt’s problem was, she couldn’t let it distract her.

Widow’s Point Island emerged from the mist, the mansion’s silhouette visible on its promontory like a sentinel watching their approach. The sight no longer filled Kaitlin with trepidation. Somewhere in that building lay answers about the dead women, about her mother, about herself.

As passengers disembarked onto the island dock, Kaitlin realized she hadn’t arranged transportation back to her cottage. Amy had dropped her off on her way into town. The local taxi service—a single van operated by a retired fisherman—was nowhere to be seen, and the miles-long walk loomed unappealing as daylight began to fade.

“Need a ride?” Matt’s voice came from behind her, grudging but professional.