Curiosity won over. Carefully, she brushed off the dust, untied the string, and opened it up. She found some papers, fragile but intact, and unfolded them. A yellowed newspaper clipping fell to the ground. She picked it up and read the headline.

Then her gaze slid to a handwritten note on the top of the clipping.

Her pulse quickened. Her eyes went back and forth between the headline on the newspaper and the...what could it be? A confession, that's what. It sent a chill from head to toe, and she folded up the papers and tucked them back into the brown envelope, tying it hastily with the string. This was the property of the National Park Service, and she shouldn't be reading it.

But someone should know about it.

She stuffed the envelope into her jacket and zipped it up, then ran down the path to the beach.

And that's where she was now, waiting for Frankie Franklin to notice her absence. She squinted again and saw the skiff was tied to the tourist boat as the last group loaded onto it.

Scout waved and waved, but no one waved back. She tried her walkie-talkie, but there was no response, which meant Frankie had his turned off. More than likely, he'd never turned it on. He said he didn't like it. Too much static.

Surely, the tourist boat skipper would realize she had gone missing. Surely, he had the good sense to do a head count before leaving for Bar Harbor. Frankie certainly wouldn't. She had to remind herself that it was a privilege to be given the responsibility to shape the character of Frankie, the deputy director's son. It came with the honor of serving the NPS. And Acadia truly was worth it.

Sometimes Scout could hardly believe she was here. This park had always been her goal. Four years patching together seasonal ranger work—summers in one park, winters in another—she'd been working her way sideways, climbing the ladder one park at a time. Landing a permanent status position at a heavily trafficked park like Yellowstone or Yosemite or Acadia was the NPS equivalent of winning the lottery. Each year, Scout had applied to openings in Acadia. So far, her postings had been Petrified Forest in Arizona. Voyageurs in Minnesota. Badlands in South Dakota. Each one special in its own way, but under-the-radar national parks. That's how things rolled in the NPS.

Then, this year: Acadia National Park. Interpretive ranger. Permanent status. A dream come true! When the email came through, she stared at it for a solid minute, convinced it was sent to her in error. Interps were the most competitive, most sought-after jobs in the NPS. Someone, somewhere, must've said a prayer for her—though definitely not her mother. Mother's prayers were laser-focused on getting her back to Atlanta to meet a Southern boy and "settle down."

Scout had never wanted the kind of Southern debutante life that her mother wanted for her. Not her style. It was a constant rub of friction with Mother—one of the reasons Scout kept her applications strictly outside the South. Not Great Smoky, not Shenandoah, definitely not the Everglades.

Way too close to Mother's reach.

Scout had been given a love of the great outdoors from her gone-missing father. He was the one who gave her the nickname Scout, a blessed escape from the cringeworthy name her mother had chosen: Magnolia Pearl. Lord, help me, just no.

Shielding her eyes from the summer sun, Scout let out a long sigh and plopped onto a smooth granite boulder, its surface warm from the afternoon sun. The rhythmic sound of the tide filled the quiet, interrupted only by the distant cries of gulls. She squinted out at the skiff, still tied to the tourist boat. "Take your time, Frankie," she said aloud to no one. "No rush or anything."

 

Around Scout, the beach was a patchwork of stone, slick with seaweed and glistening with brine. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and spruce from the island's edge. Seagulls soared past her. She hardly noticed. The envelope inside her jacket kept poking and prodding—like it was downright begging to be read more thoroughly.

She unzipped her jacket and pulled it free, cradling it in both hands. She really shouldn't open it—it was like snooping through someone's diary, and Scout wasn't raised to be that kind of nosy.

Her fingers drummed against the paper.

But then again...one quick skim couldn't hurt, right?