“Why would you wear high heels on a boat outing, Lucille?” her father asked, his voice full of good humor.
“I didn’t expect to be on a boat, James Henry,” her mother snapped back. “I came here to rescue my little girl.”
“Actually,” Scout said, “I’m not a little girl.” She shouldn’t have bothered. They weren’t listening to her. This was a familiar scene, a replay of her entire childhood.
“Scout doesn’t need rescuing,” Dad said, “but she does need help. And that’s why I’m here.”
Scout stepped between them, hands raised like stop signs. “Dad’s right about that. I don’t need rescuing, Mother.” She turned to her father, her tone equally firm. “And I don’t need your help, either.”
Her father’s expression softened, but his voice was firm. “I think you do, Scout. Some shipwrecks are just history—forgotten wreckage on the ocean floor. But some change everything. This one ... this one is going to matter.”
Scout opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, she knew he was right.
Chase leaned back in his creaky chair, taking a breather from listening to voicemail to savor this moment.
TheBar Harbor Gazetteoffice, which—just a few days ago had been quiet enough to hear the tick of the old wall clock—was buzzing with energy. The newsroom staff was prepping for tomorrow’s edition, shouting over each other about ad placements and page layouts. Lydia was editing updates to the story that had dropped into Chase’s lap this morning, unbidden, ashe stopped by the coffee shop to pick up a to-go cup. Sophie had just heard this news from Frankie: Scout and Naki had located another gold cache at Otter Cliff.
Chase had to give props to the two of them for cracking that clue they’d set aside early in the treasure hunt. Ranger Rivers hadn’t returned Chase’s call to confirm the find, but he wasn’t overly concerned about that. Original sources were always best, of course, but a solid secondary—or third—source was good. Especially when it accompanied a picture of the latest cache, taken by Frankie in Ranger Rivers’s office and sent to Sophie, who AirDropped it to Chase. Too good to pass up.
He hit play on the next message.
“Mr. Fletcher, I’m a reporter forTimemagazine. We’re running a story on the gold discovery at Acadia, and I’d like to interview you. Please call me back as soon as possible.”
Timemagazine. Chase’s eyebrows shot up.
The next message clicked on.
“Mr. Fletcher, this is CBS—60 Minutes. We’re interested in covering the story about the gold found in Acadia. Please return this call immediately. Thank you.”
Chase felt a rush of disbelief. CBS,60 Minutes? TheBar Harbor Gazettehadn’t gotten this much attention since ... well, since ever.
He hit the button for the next voicemail, already bracing himself.
“I’m calling from theBoston Globe. We’re interested in syndicating your coverage of the gold discovery. Please call this number at your earliest convenience.”
Then another.
National Geographic.Interested in exclusive photo rights for the next issue. And they’d like to send a team of scuba divers to the actual wreck site.
And another.
TheNew York Times. Wanting quotes for a feature on the shipwreck and the gold.
TheGazette’s main phone line wasn’t faring any better. He could hear someone in the newsroom repeating the same message each time the phone rang. “No, I don’t have the gold. And no, I can’t transfer you to Chase Fletcher right now! He’s busy! Everyone’s busy!”
Chase rubbed a hand down his face, letting out a low exhale. This was the kind of story that came around once in a lifetime.
He needed to focus, to return these calls and other ones, but his thoughts kept bouncing to Scout. He’d done what he had to do. He’d run the story to save the paper. And it had worked. But it meant breaking a promise. He still hadn’t talked to her—she wasn’t responding to his pleas. Somehow, he needed to make Scout understand that saving the newspaper was worth breaking his promise.
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Lydia’s head peering in around the doorjamb. “What’s up?”
“I was proofing the copy. Are you sure you want to admit that Otter Cliff was the last clue? Seems like we could stretch this story out for a while if we left that open.”
Tempting, but not truthful. He gave her a rueful smile. “It’s the last clue. Our paper stands on facts.” He lifted his hands in the air. “I’m trusting that this story has reminded everyone of the importance of supporting their local newspaper. Ours, especially.”
“I hope you’re right about that.” She pointed a red pencil at him. “You’re a good man, Chase Fletcher.”
Was he? He wanted to be. He tried to be.
