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“The report,” I say. “Let’s write it.”

We work together at my kitchen table, her laptop open and my notebook beside it.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, tapping her pen. “We don’t lie. Not one word.”

“Okay.”

“The north bank came down. True. The north loop is structurally unsafe and will remain that way for years. True. We have photos from the tower, and James saw the north trail cracks himself, so he’ll back us up.” She writes as she talks. “We recommend a permanent closure of the north loop, with a habitat buffer around the entire interior. No public access, for safety and conservation. That’s true as well.”

“And the moths?”

“They get a full confidential species record,” she says. “All my notes, location, sketches. Filed with the state natural heritage program under restricted access. That’s standard practice for rare species.”

“Who reads it?” I ask.

“A tiny, boring, moth-loving few. The public report and visitor map show only the closure and habitat buffer.”

I grip my pen. “The consultant already put a gold star up there on his slide.”

“That’s exactly why the closure has to be permanent and enforced,” she says.

“You’ll sign that?”

“It’s a gray area. I know.” She looks at me. “But a redacted map for tourists isn’t a redacted record. I won’t leave anything out of that record. I’ll sign my name to it.”

In two days, she’s found the answer I couldn’t uncover on my own.

“Then we give the committee a south loop so good that nobody ever thinks about the north again,” she says. “The best trail this town has ever seen.”

“Is that possible?”

She grins at me, wicked and bright.

“Watch me.”

CHAPTER 9

PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN

WREN

I’m sitting in Prue’s office with my knees together and my clipboard in my lap, like a kid waiting to see the principal.

Holt sits in the other chair, on the far side of the desk, because chairs are always too small for him and this one is no exception. His knees are up around his elbows, and he’s wearing his ranger face, the stony one that makes tourists cross the road.

Nobody would ever guess that four hours ago, that face was buried in my neck.

Act normal, Wren. You pinkie swore.

Prue turns another page of our report. She reads everything twice, and I know that because I’ve watched her do it with my timesheets.

Is she frowning? Or is that just her reading face?

I checked every line of that report three times before we filed it. The north bank came down in the storm, and the whole north loop is unstable and will stay that way for years.

We’ve recommended permanent closure, with a habitat buffer around the interior, for safety and for conservation. Every word is true. The moths are in the confidential record, not this public report.

Prue sets the report down and takes off her reading glasses. “The committee met last night,” she says.