Page 54 of Buried Secrets

Matt’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

Kaitlin turned on her side to face him, the sheet falling away from her breasts. “Do you think he’s trying to manipulate the investigation?”

Instead of answering, Matt’s eyes fell to her exposed chest, and he pulled her to him.

Kaitlin hesitated as Matt’s mouth found a nipple. “There’s something else,” she said. “Something that might be nothing, but… I ran into Mrs. Holloway at the grocery store yesterday morning. Her hand was bandaged, and when she spoke, her voice was raspy. Like mine was after the fire.”

Matt moved over her to rest between her legs. Kaitlin’s heart raced. “She was out with the flu,” he said, his lips against her skin. “Do you think she had something to do with the fire?”

“I don’t know.” Kaitlin shook her head. That the older woman was nimble enough to slip through the basement windows to start the blaze, and slip out the same way, felt simultaneously plausible and outlandish.

“It seems pretty extreme.” Matt’s thumb traced the curve of her lower lip.

Kaitlin let herself enjoy the sensations of Matt’s mouth and hands, her concerns about Agent Cook and Mrs. Holloway temporarily set aside.

This second joining held none of the hesitation of their first encounter. Bodies already familiar with each other’s rhythms moved together with confident pleasure, their hands found remembered sensitive places. Their mouths traced paths already mapped but no less exciting for their familiarity.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets dampened by exertion, the October sun had climbed higher outside the windows. Kaitlin spread her palms over Matt’s bare chest as her thoughts returned to their previous conversations.

“What now?” she asked, the question encompassing both their personal entanglement and her theories.

Matt’s fingers combed gently through her tousled hair, his eyes thoughtful. “Mrs. Holloway was on my list to interview. If she’s well enough to go to the grocery store, she’s well enough to talk to me. And I’ll look into Agent Cook.”

“And us?” The question slipped out before Kaitlin could reconsider its implications.

Matt’s hand stilled in her hair, and he looked into her eyes with unexpected seriousness. “That depends. Long distance relationships can be tough. How long do you plan to stay on the island?”

The practical question cut through the comfortable afterglow. Matt believed her to have a job working for an anonymous writer. The reality was she had no current job, no family, and scattered friends. There was nothing anchoring her to London, except the existence of her flat and some long-dead houseplants. Matt’s question created an unexpected ache just below her sternum.

“Until my client is satisfied,” she answered. “However long that takes.”

Matt seemed to weigh her response. “Then we have some time,” he said simply. He drew her close against his side. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The promise, limited as it was, settled something restless within her. Outside, the island wind carried the ocean breeze through a partially open window, a reminder of where they were: a small community surrounded by the vastness of the Atlantic, isolated yet connected, separate from the mainland yet influenced by its currents.

Like the island itself, Kaitlin realized, she and Matt existed in a liminal space, between strangers and lovers, between truth and secrets.

Chapter 15

Morning sunlight drenched the east-facing homes of Widow’s Point Island, casting weathered cedar shingles in honey gold. Matt drove slowly through the residential streets. He thought of Kaitlin’s skin against his, the way she’d kissed him goodbye at his door two hours earlier.

“I should get back to work,” she’d said, though her hands had lingered on his chest.

He’d let her go with reluctance as she drove away in her rental car before showering again and preparing for the day’s tasks. Matt was thankful she hadn’t asked about going with him to speak to Mrs. Holloway again, as he wanted to talk to her on his own. Now, turning onto Spruce Lane, Matt focused on the interview ahead.

The Holloway residence appeared around a gentle curve, a modest cape with faded blue trim and precisely maintained gardens that had won Eleanor Holloway the Garden Club’s annual award three years running.

Matt hadn’t expected to find her sitting on the front porch, a colorful quilt draped across her lap in the cool October morning. Her silver hair caught the sunlight, briefly forming a halo effect as she turned toward the sound of his approaching vehicle.

“Morning, Mrs. Holloway,” Matt called as he climbed from the cruiser. “Hope I’m not disturbing your Saturday.”

“Sheriff Winters.” Her acknowledgment carried neither surprise nor particular warmth. “I wondered when you’d get around to me.”

Matt usually found the directness of island interactions, which skipped pleasantries and focused on the matter at hand, to be efficient and strangely soothing. Today, as he approached Eleanor Holloway’s neat wooden porch steps, that directness felt like a challenge.

“Stopped by town offices the other day,” he replied as his boots scraped the steps. “They said you’d been out sick.”

Mrs. Holloway’s right hand lay partially concealed beneath the quilt’s edge, but the white gauze wrapped around her palm was visible where it extended to her wrist. The bandage looked fresh and neat.