“I’ll bet. He’ll be able to take you to all the ‘off-limits for tourists’ spots.”
“I hope so,” Maisie said with a laugh. “I haven’t seen much yet, but I can’t wait to explore.”
“You’re in for a treat. Hiking, biking, kayaking—there’s so much to do. Be sure to check out the view from Cadillac Mountain at sunrise. It’s the first place in the US to see the sun in the morning.”
Maisie nodded, already making mental notes. It was hard not to get swept up in his enthusiasm.
The guy glanced down at the envelope on the counter. “What’s that? Looks old.”
“Oh, this?” Maisie hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s ... well ... I don’t know, exactly. Something I found in my grandfather’s desk.” That was a bit of a lie. She had gone looking for it today after last night’s extremely disappointing dinner with Frankie. He’d acted like it was no big deal to see her, after two whole years, and he kept checking out other girls in the burger place. When Frankie let it slip that he’d found a mysterious envelope, and Maisie asked more about it—who wouldn’t?—he told her that it was none of her business and never mind, that he shouldn’t have said anything and that Pops had put it away in a hiding place.
The thing was, Maisie knew all her grandfather’s hiding places. They weren’t that hard to find. If she wanted in on Frankie’s big, mysterious summer discovery, she had to know what it was. That was how she justified slipping Pops’s envelope out of its hiding spot. She’d put it right back, no harm done. Just as soon as she finished her hot chocolate. And read whatever secrets were tucked inside that musty old thing.
“I don’t really know the whole story, but it’s got something to do with a shipwreck and a confession and hidden gold.”
“Gold?” Those eyebrows shot up again, right to the top of his forehead. “A confession?”
“Something like that. I haven’t had a chance to really dig into it yet. That’s why I came to the coffee shop.” Because Pops had said she was on her own today, and Frankie told her not to go on the Baker Island tour. They both made her kinda mad.
“Well, open it up.”
Before she could, her phone buzzed against the counter, making her jump. “Hang on a sec,” she said, grabbing it. “It’s my grandfather.” She swiped to answer and turned away, facing the register. “Hey, Pops.”
“Maisie”—his voice was sharper than she’d ever heard it, sending a flicker of unease through her—“did you take something out of my desk?”
“Your desk? What are you—oh. You mean the envelope?” She stood and took a step or two away from her stool so the L.L.Bean model didn’t overhear the scolding sound in Pops’s voice.
“Yes, Maisie, the envelope. Did you take it?”
“Well ... um, yeah.”
Pops let out a long breath, like he was trying to calm himself. “Where are you now?”
“Um, the coffee shop on Main.” She shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly rattled.
“Stay put. Don’t move. I’m coming to get it.”
“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, the unease growing stronger. “I’ll wait right here.”
The call ended, and she lowered the phone slowly, a thousand questions swirling in her head. Pops wasn’t the type to freak out over nothing. She never should’ve taken that envelope out of his office. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She turned around to discover that the stool next to hers was empty. Her eyes darted to the counter. The envelope was gone.
Her stomach dropped. She spun in a circle, heart pounding, looking around the shop for the L.L.Bean model. Gone.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no, no.” Pops was going to freak.
Chase Fletcher slid into the driver’s seat of his car, the afternoon sunlight streaking across the windshield. He placed the envelope carefully on the passenger seat, his hand lingering on it as if it might shatter under his touch. For a long moment, he stared out the window, his jaw tight, an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his chest like a stone he couldn’t move.
His stomach churned as his gaze drifted to the envelope. It sat there, unassuming yet heavy with the secrets it guarded. The fraying edges, the yellowed pages—everything about it whispered of age and mystery. He’d taken it in a moment of impulse. The phone call had distracted the girl, and the opportunity—frankly, the whole story—had dropped into his lap like it had been meant for him. Like a gift.
No, not a gift—a temptation.
His father’s voice rang in his head, clear as the day he’d first heard it: Even a saint is tempted by an open door.
Chase wasn’t a saint, but he’d always prided himself on being honest, a straight shooter, the kind of reporter who didn’t use cheap tricks or shady tactics to get the story. Yet here he was, sitting in his car with stolen property on the seat next to him. Guilt clawed at his insides, sharp and relentless.
The girl—what was her name? did she even tell him?—had been so eager, so wide-eyed. She was a nice kid. A little naive, a little too trusting. And somehow, that made it worse.
