The house looked like something out of Psycho and absolutely nothing like the “summer home” she’d been led to expect. True, the “grounds” had been recently mowed. A twenty-foot perimeter around the house and a trail to the beach had been chopped down and cleared of waist-high weeds and wildflowers. From where she stood, the lake appeared a mix of light and dark greens. Sun collided with shadow and bounced off ripples as if bits of tinfoil floated on the surface. An aluminum fishing boat was tied to the sandy shore, rocking with the swell of gentle waves.

Hope pushed up her sunglasses and turned her attention to the rugged Sawtooth Mountains practically in her backyard. The view looked just like the postcards her employer had given her of the area. America the beautiful. Thick, towering pines and granite peaks reached straight up and touched the endless sky. She supposed the scented breeze and all that mountain majesty inspired awe in most people. Like God shedding His grace. Like a religious experience.

Hope trusted religious experiences about as much as she trusted Bigfoot sightings. In her line of work, she knew too much to trust tales of hairy wild men, weeping statues, or strychnine-drinking zealots. She didn’t believe anyone who saw Sasquatch running through the forest or who claimed they’d found the face of Jesus on a tortilla.

Hell, one of her most successful articles, “Lost Ark of the Covenant Found in the Bermuda Triangle,” had developed a huge religious following and spawned two equally successful stories: “Garden of Eden Found in Bermuda Triangle” and “Elvis Found Living in Garden of Eden in Bermuda Triangle.”

Elvis and the triangle were always a big hit with her readers.

But mostly when Hope looked at the immense mountains and wide-open space before her, she just felt small. Insignificant. Alone. The kind of alone she thought she had overcome. The kind that threatened to reach out of the dry mountain air and choke her if she let it. The only thing keeping her from feeling like the last person on the planet was the irritating tweak of steel guitar pouring from the neighbor’s radio.