Neil propped one palm against Melba’s soft skin. “Don’t listen to her, girl. She’s just a little grouchy this morning.”

“I am not grouchy. I’m being appropriately cautious about an unfamiliar experience, that’s all.”

“She’s a scaredy-cat,” he said into the cow’s ear.

And was rewarded with one of those grins he’d come to enjoy the sight of almost as much as the seaside view from the attic window.

“Afraid you’re going to have to take those floppy wool gloves off, Miss Rose, if you want to get the job done.”

She yanked off one mitten. “I don’t remember ever saying I wanted to get this job done. ‘Come out to the barn,’ you said. ‘We’re going to plan the next step in our hunt for JP,’ you said. Didn’t mention anything about Melba.”

He chuckled. “It was implied. Now, if you would, kindly take a seat on that crate, lass.”

Indi joined Lilian at the stall door, perching with her feet on the bottom ledge and her arms dangling over the top. “Uh-oh, he’s turning on the Scottish charm. Neil always gets what he wants when he goes full Scots.”

Sydney plopped down. “It’s bad enough you’re forcing me to do this, but do I have to have an audience?”

Before he could answer, Maggie’s faraway voice drifted into the barn. “Neil, girls!”

Sydney popped up, shooting him a smirk over her shoulder as she raced after Lilian and Indi. Oh, if she thought she was getting out of this that easily . . . “Don’t worry, Mel. We’ll be back.”

In seconds, he was outside, hurrying after the girls as they caught up to Maggie at the edge of the grove.

Maggie huffed, bending over her knees, holding out her phone. “JP. I think . . .” She gulped for breath and straightened. “I think I might’ve found him.”

“Are you serious?” Lilian came up beside Maggie, placed an arm around her. “And are you all right? You shouldn’t have come running. You could’ve texted and we’d have come back to the house and—”

“Hush, Lil.” Sunlight twirled in Maggie’s eyes as she gazed at Sydney. “I was thinking about that photo, how you said the girls looked like teens. And then I remembered you saying it must’ve been taken in the summer because they were wearing tank tops.” She inhaled again. “And that’s when it hit me. The summer of 1987. Both of them—they were camp counselors at this little camp, only about forty minutes away. I looked at the website on my phone, thinking maybe I could call, ask if they kept any records or lists of counselors from past years.”

She held out her phone. “Look at the name of the current camp director.”

Indi took her phone, peered at the screen. “John Pettinger.”