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Understanding dawned in Walsh’s eyes. “The remains recently discovered on the property. I saw the news reports.” His voice softened. “This isn’t just research for you, is it?”
Kaitlin met his gaze steadily. “I have reason to believe my own adoption may have been connected to the mansion.”
Walsh was silent for a long moment, weighing professional obligation against human compassion. “I can’t advise you onto an investigation into potential crimes without being formally retained, beyond our current arrangement,” he said finally. “But speaking generally, if you suspect improprieties in an adoption that occurred thirty years ago, the statute of limitations for most related offenses would have expired.”
“I’m not looking to prosecute anyone,” Kaitlin clarified. “I just want the truth.”
“Truth can be its own kind of justice,” Walsh acknowledged. He hesitated, then added, “If you’re pursuing this line of inquiry, you should know that it can be difficult to open the records of closed adoptions. If you need help with that, I can assist.” He rose to his feet and went to his desk. “You know, there was a Dr. Whitaker. He was the physician for the island before the island clinic opened. I’ll bet his signature appears on countless birth certificates from the facility.”
“I know,” Kaitlin said quietly. “He committed suicide in 1992.”
“Yes.” Walsh’s expression was grave. “That I do recall, it was quite a scandal. Some said it was related to the rumors that he had an affair and was despondent when his family found out. His former residence is actually not far from here, an apartment building on the eastern side. There is still a plaque with his name on the building. I walk past it every day. His wife still lives there, I believe.”
The revelation sent a jolt through Kaitlin. “His widow is still alive? Here in Portland?”
Walsh nodded. “Elise Whitaker, if I remember correctly. That story took up a lot of the local newspapers during the time. I remember feeling sorry for the family, it didn’t stop for months after his death.”
“The scandal?”
“Yes. Soap opera stuff really. Not the kind of legacy you’d expect from decades of community service.”
Kaitlin raced to gather her notes. “Thank you, Mr. Walsh. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”
“Ms. Mathews.” Walsh’s tone stopped her as she rose to leave. “Whatever you discover in your investigation, about your own origins, be prepared for some complicated truths. Those situations are rarely divided neatly into heroes and villains. Reach out if you need further assistance.”
The warning followed her as she rushed out of the office, stepping into the brisk October air of Portland’s Old Port. Complicated truths. Wasn’t that what she’d found at every turn since arriving on Widow’s Point Island? People who were neither wholly good nor entirely evil, but shaped by circumstances, choices, and the weight of secrets carried for decades.
The eastern side of Old Port lay a fifteen-minute walk from the attorney’s office—a scenic route along the waterfront that would normally have captured Kaitlin’s attention with its historic architecture and glimpses of Casco Bay. Today, she barely registered her surroundings.
The address she had in hand after a quick search on her phone belonged to an elegant brick building overlooking the water, its large windows offering panoramic views of the bay. Kaitlin stood across the street, studying the entrance, uncertain of her next move. What would she say to Elise Whitaker if she managed to speak with her? How could she explain her presence without closing more doors than opening?
As Kaitlin hesitated, weighing her options, the building’s door swung open. A familiar figure emerged onto the steps—tall, broad-shouldered, with the confident bearing she’d observed during their encounters on the island.
Agent Cook.
He hadn’t seen Kaitlin yet. He was focused on adjusting the cuffs of his expensive coat. Kaitlin stepped back instinctively, ducking behind a parked car. Surprise and confusion tangled in her mind. Kaitlin knew he and Matt were collaborating on the case. That had to be why he was here.
Had Agent Cook gotten a chance to speak to the widow himself? What information had he wanted to get from the widow?
Before she could retreat further, Agent Cook looked up, his gaze sweeping the street and landing directly on her half-hidden form.
“This is unexpected!” He crossed the street toward her, curiosity evident in his eyes. “What brings you to Portland and this particular neighborhood?”
Kaitlin straightened, abandoning the pretense of concealment. “Research,” she replied, the explanation wearing thin with repetition. “I had an appointment downtown and thought I’d explore the area before catching the afternoon ferry back.”
Agent Cook studied her with the penetrating gaze of someone accustomed to examining evidence for inconsistencies. Kaitlin reflexively pulled her collar together. “Quite a coincidence,” Cook said. “I can’t say I’m disappointed to run into you. I was hoping to see you again.”
“Small world,” Kaitlin murmured.
A flicker of pain shot through her temple, the beginning of a headache brought on by tension and too little sleep. She winced, pressing fingertips against the spot.
Cook noticed immediately. “Are you all right?”
“Just a headache starting. Nothing serious.”
“Have you had lunch? There’s an excellent café around the corner. I’d be happy to treat you before you head back to the island.” His smile was charming, professional, revealing nothing of whatever business had brought him to the Whitaker building. “I do have a brief meeting with Samira first, but you’re welcome to join me, get off your feet for a few minutes. It would give us a chance to catch up.”
The invitation set warning bells ringing in Kaitlin’s mind, though she couldn’t precisely articulate why. “That’s very kind, but I should probably head back. The ferry schedule…”
