But I didn’t yet know that it was Dr. Leo Lacamoire. I didn’t know why his gaze was fixed out on the water. I only knew that he looked like a man a little older than my dad, with a scratchy beard and pasty skin. I only knew that he seemed incredibly sad, and that now—

He was looking at me.

I ducked. Like a total idiot. Crap! Not good, not good, not good. I wasn’t trying to be a snoop, but I clearly had a freaking telescope pointed at the guy’s cabin. He was going to call the office and report a twelve-year-old creeper, and my mom would kill me.

Our family owned Camp McCourt—a bunch of cabins, a bar, and a dock—in Moose Junction, Wisconsin. Tourists came from all over the Midwest to hunt, fish, and see the stars at night. We’d had a few famous people visit over the years—the governor, some guy who had been in a handful of cheese commercials, and the couple that owned eighty-two frozen custard spots around the country who’d fought louder than firecrackers all weekend. Our fanciest guests stayed in Eagle’s Nest. It had satellite TV and heated floors. Dr. Leo Lacamoire had chosen it online, reading all the reviews and details and photos. He had picked Camp McCourt over Paul Bunyan’s, across the lake, or Cubby Lodge, which had great breakfasts but no direct lake access. He had looked up the cabins on Google Earth, checking out at the views to find out from which he could best see the libr—

No! We aren’t at that part of the story yet. I didn’t know what Dr. Leo Lacamoire was looking at, not that night. I only knew that there was a man at Eagle’s Nest who had seen me spying. I only knew my butt was fried if my mom found out. But I also knew that there was something about his face—that total and utter look of sadness and despair—that I had seen before.

I crept back up to the window as slowly as possible. Dr. Leo Lacamoire—then just a dude, one whose name I didn’t know and thought I never would—was not looking at me anymore. He wasn’t looking at the lake, either. He was staring at the sky.

“Mom?” I slunk into the office, which my grandparents had converted from a garage.

“What, hon?” She kept her eyes focused on the computer. “I thought you were going stargazing with Daddy.”

“I am. I just wanted to know—um—who’s staying in Eagle’s Nest?”

“I don’t know. You can look in the database. Why?”

“Just wondering. I spotted them moving in. He looked kinda familiar.” I pulled out the spare laptop and brought up our guest-tracking software.

“Abigail,” Mom said tiredly, “tell me you were not snooping through that telescope.”

“Some accidental snooping may have occurred,” I muttered, clicking on the Eagle’s Nest file. Mom was the only one who called me Abigail. I hated it.

“We’re going to get the cops called on us one of these days,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Enough with the Peeping Thomasina act!”