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“Thanks, Pam. I’ll stop by next week to see if Mrs. Holloway’s back.” He glanced out the window at the worsening storm. “You heading home early with this weather?”
“Planning to close at three if it keeps up like this,” she replied. “Town manager already gave the go-ahead.”
“Smart move. Roads are getting slick with the temperature dropping,” Matt zipped his jacket in preparation to brave the rain again. “Take care getting home.”
Outside, the rain had intensified, driven sideways by gusting wind. Matt sprinted back to his Jeep, the cold droplets finding their way past his collar and down his neck despite the short distance.
Once inside, he sat for a moment, considering his next move. Eleanor Holloway lived in a small cape-style house on the north side of the island, about fifteen minutes away. He could drive by…
The thought had barely formed when his radio crackled to life.
“Sheriff, you copy?” Alice’s voice from dispatch cut through the sound of rain hammering the Jeep’s roof.
Matt reached for the handset. “Go ahead.”
“Got Cal Wheeler from the hardware store on the line. Says he caught a teenager trying to walk out with about fifty dollars’ worth of tools. Kid’s still there, pretty upset. Cal’s asking for assistance before things escalate.”
Matt sighed. The decision had been made for him. “Tell him I’m en route. Five minutes out.”
“Copy that. Stay dry.”
Matt switched on his emergency lights, though not the siren, and pulled back onto Main Street. Eleanor Holloway would have to wait. There was a distressed teenager and an agitated store owner who needed immediate attention.
The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as he drove toward the hardware store, matching the persistent drum of questions in his mind. And running beneath it all, Mrs. Jenkins’s haunting accusation: They took them, you know. The babies.
Chapter 10
The coastal fog rolled in from the harbor, shrouding Widow’s Point Island in a fine mist that beaded on Kaitlin’s jacket as she jogged along the winding road. Her first run since the fire—a tentative test of lungs that still burned with each deep breath—had been abbreviated to a careful two miles. The damp air settled heavily in her chest, a persistent reminder of smoke inhalation that Kelsey had warned would linger for weeks.
Still, it felt good to move again after days of inactivity, to feel the rhythm of her footfalls against the packed earth of the island’s back roads from the cottage past the harbor and back.
The small grocery store appeared through the mist as Kaitlin slowed to a walk, her breathing more labored than she wanted to admit. Lighthouse Market served as the island’s primary source for essentials, a quaint building with weathered shingles and a hand-painted sign that swayed in the gentle morning breeze.
A cup of tea would soothe her irritated throat, she decided, and perhaps something for breakfast.
The market’s interior was warm and smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon, a welcome contrast to the damp chill outside. Only a handful of customers browsed the narrow aisles at this early hour: a fisherman in waterproof overalls examining canned goods, an elderly couple deliberating over produce, and a woman in a gray cardigan standing at the dairy case with her back to the entrance.
Kaitlin headed for the small coffee counter, ordering a hot tea from the teenage girl who looked half asleep behind the register. As she waited, her gaze drifted back to the woman at the dairy case. There was something familiar about her—the rigid posture, the silver hair pulled back in a severe bun.
Mrs. Holloway. The town clerk, whose office held the island’s official records. Their previous interactions had been businesslike but not unfriendly, the older woman’s nosiness tempered by a certain professional courtesy.
Kaitlin accepted her tea with a smile of thanks, then made a decision. Mrs. Holloway might have insights about Robert Holloway, the foundation administrator Mrs. Jenkins mentioned. A casual encounter here might yield information more naturally than a formal interview.
She approached the dairy case, cradling her tea in both hands. “Good morning, Mrs. Holloway.”
The woman stiffened, then turned. Her usual sharp eyes appeared bloodshot, her complexion paler than Kaitlin remembered. A blue surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, and her right hand was wrapped in a white bandage that extended past her wrist and disappeared into her sleeve.
“Ms. Mathews.” Her voice emerged hoarse and muffled through the mask, eyes alight with surprise.
“So sorry, you sound ill.” Kaitlin took a small sip of her tea, buying a moment to compose her thoughts. She didn’t want to bother someone who was clearly not feeling well, but here was her chance. “I’m helping to catalog some records for the mansion, and came across a name of someone…”
“Robert Holloway. My brother-in-law. Died quite a few years back.” Mrs. Holloway’s eyes narrowed above her mask. “What of him?”
The question carried an accusatory edge that caught Kaitlin off guard. She’d need to handle this conversation gently. “I’ve been looking to talk to people who might have insights about the mansion’s operations before it closed.”
“Insights.” Mrs. Holloway selected a carton of eggs with her unbandaged hand and placed it carefully in her basket. “Funny. How ‘insight’ includes interrogating people with dementia with the sheriff.”
Kaitlin felt a prickle of unease at the clerk’s tone.
