22. Noah
Chapter twenty-two
Noah
M argaret nudges the door open with her hip, arms full of a cardboard box that smells faintly like sugar cookies and woodsmoke.
“Delivery for the fundraising elves,” she calls.
I’m across the bay, wiping down the table we’ve been using as a drop-off point. “You’re looking at the whole damn elf brigade,” I say, walking over. “Here, let me get that.”
She hands it off with a grunt. “This is the last of what came in from Ava’s. Couple envelopes, a tin of peanut brittle from Dottie; probably another passive-aggressive gift, and one very generous check.”
I raise a brow. “Yeah?”
She leans against the table, rubbing her shoulder. “Didn’t recognize the name. Figured I’d leave that one to you.”
I nod and start sorting through the box.
Margaret peels off to grab coffee from the break room, and I thumb through the pile.
There are small envelopes with names I know scrawled across the front, a Ziploc baggie of change, a homemade thank-you card from a second-grader with glitter still falling off it.
And then… One envelope. Cream-colored. Smooth.
Nothing fancy, exactly, but heavier stock than the others.
The paper's weight, the off-white tone—something about it tugs at the edges of my memory.
It's familiar in a way I can't name. I brush my thumb across the crease, trying to place it, but the thought slips away before it lands. I open it.
There is a check enclosed, and my eyes skim the number first and do a double take. Ten thousand. I let out a low whistle.
Then I look at the name.
Katherine Sinclair.
Doesn’t ring a bell. Probably not local, I’d bet. Not with handwriting like that. It’s all angles and control, like someone used to writing in front of other people.
I stare at it a second longer, then glance toward the breakroom. “Hey, Margaret?”
She reappears, cup in hand. “Yeah?”
“Sure, you’ve not heard this name before?” I hold up the check.
She squints, then shrugs. “I’m positive. Maybe an out-of-towner who saw the flyer or something?”
“Maybe. With a number like this, I’d like to reach out and thank her.”
She gives me a nod. “Go ask Ava. She sees more names and faces than the rest of us combined.”
Ava’s café smells like roasted hazelnut and cinnamon — warm and familiar. The kind of scent that sinks into your bones and makes you breathe a little slower. She’s behind the counter, stacking fresh scones on a tray when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say, pulling the envelope from my back pocket. “Got a minute?”
“For you? Always.” She grabs a towel, wiping flour from her hands as I approach. “What’s up?”
She waves me over. I set the envelope down and slid the check out. “This came in with the fundraiser stuff. Thought maybe you’d recognize the name.”
She squints, lips pursing, and her eyes widen. “Damn.”
“Exactly.”
She leans in. “Katherine Sinclair. Huh.”
“Know her?”
Ava shakes her head. “Name sounds like something out of a Charleston country club directory, not Porthaven.”
“That’s what I thought.” I nod, tapping the envelope against the counter. “I thought, with a donation this big, we ought to know who it came from. Feels wrong to cash it and not say thanks.”
“Responsible and good-looking. You’re really raising the bar for small-town heroes,” she teases, but then her face softens. “But, I haven’t heard of a Katherine Sinclair around here. Maybe she’s just someone who cares about the cause.”
She smirks. “You want me to run it through some of my locals?”
Ava’s about to answer when a shadow stretches long across the windows, and we both glance outside and watch as a car pulls up to the curb with a slow, gliding grace.
Black as ink, polished to a mirror shine, and not a speck of dirt on it. The kind of sleek luxury sedan you only ever see in movies or magazines, all muscle and money, humming with quiet power. I’d bet the thing was air-lifted onto the island just for the flex.
Even the tires look expensive. The kind of vehicle that doesn’t belong on Porthaven’s streets. Doesn’t even look right next to the post office’s chipped paint and uneven sidewalk.
Then I see the plate: SINCLAIR1
My stomach dips. The name we just said aloud now gleams in chrome letters ten feet away.
“Ava…”
She’s already staring.
“Noah,” she says slowly, “you don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think.” But my pulse is climbing.
That kind of money. That name. And now this car, humming like it owns the block.
I shift, hand resting on the edge of the counter, eyes on the car as it idles like it’s measuring the place. Like it’s not sure it should’ve come this far into a town like Porthaven.
Then the door opens.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” I reply.
I watch a man climb out looking like he owns the damn horizon. He’s tall. Clean-cut. Tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His coat clings to his frame like it was made for him, and it probably was. Silver threads at his temples. Designer sunglasses.
Even the way he shuts the car door has this… finality. As if his arrival should mean something. He takes a moment to survey the street, his chin lifting like the view disappoints him. Or like he expected this place to still be frozen in time.
Heads turn. Conversations falter. The air shifts, quiets, sharpens.
Ava mutters beside me, “Welcome to Porthaven.” She says, beneath her breath, and wipes her hands on her apron. “Let me see what he wants.”
I follow a step behind as she circles around the counter; she’s reaches the entry by the time he enters and Ava greets him, her voice cool but not unkind. “Can I help you?”
The man removes his sunglasses carefully and slips them into his coat pocket. “Yes,” he says, tone polished and effortless. “I was wondering if you could give me some direction.”
“Okay….” I can hear the curiosity
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
He glances around again, like checking the faces around. Then his eyes settle on us. “A woman. She lives around here. Katherine. She goes by Kate now. Has a little boy, five years old.”
My spine tightens, and the cold edge creeps in.
“I believe she teaches at a school around here,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.
I take a step forward before I realize it. “What’s your name?”
“Richard Sinclair.” He offers a hand like it’s currency. I don’t shake it.
“And you say you’re looking for... Kate?”
“Yes.” His tone sharpens. “She’s my daughter.”
Ava’s eyes flick to mine. I feel her shift beside me.
“You said she has a little boy?” I ask.
“Parker,” he says, like testing the name on his tongue. “I need to see them.”
Something presses hard behind my ribs. I look at this man; the tailored coat, the hundred-grand car, the confident calm of someone who’s used to being listened to.
And then I think of Kate, hair tied up in a messy bun, hands stained with paint, making dinosaur-shaped sandwiches because Parker asked.
She never mentioned a father. Not even once.
“I really don’t know who you are,” I say, stepping forward. “But if Kate wanted to see you, you wouldn’t be here asking strangers.”
The man doesn’t flinch. He just… smiles. A slow, practiced stretch of the mouth that never quite reaches his eyes. He studies me like I’m a junior associate who’s about to embarrass himself in front of the board.
“And you are?” he asks, voice low, polished, smug.
I square my shoulders, feel the weight of the badge in my wallet like a spine. “The town’s Fire chief,” I say. “And someone whom Kate is special to and trusts.”
That gets a slight lift of his brow. The air feels heavier all of a sudden. Hot, thick, like summer just landed square on my chest.
“You’re her boyfriend, I see. However, does that trust,” he says, tilting his head just a hair, “include her family history?”
The words don’t register at first; they hover in the space between us, quiet, loaded.
My hands curl into fists without asking. I shake my head slowly. “If she had a father in her life,” I enunciated each word carefully. “I’d know.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. More air than sound. “You really think she tells you everything?”
His eyes are too calm. As if he’s already seen this play out, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up.
My jaw tightens, and I can feel the muscles in my neck straining.
Then he steps forward, close enough for me to smell his cologne; sharp, citrusy, expensive. A scent that doesn’t belong in a town where most men smell like salt and woodsmoke.
“As I said, I’m Richard Sinclair,” he says.
I stop breathing and stare at him.
“I’m Katherine’s father,” he continues. “And Parker’s grandfather.”
Parker.
My vision dips for a second, and I blink hard.
The blood in my body feels like it’s draining to my boots, leaving a cold, hollow echo in my chest.
Because something inside me starts clicking into place. The check. The name on the envelope. The way Kate tenses when someone asks about her past, like she’s bracing for something awful. The kind of silence that feels less like mystery and more like protection.
Richard watches me. Not with pity. Not even with cruelty.
With amusement.
Like this is fun for him.
“If you’re so close to her,” he says, voice going quieter, like we’re sharing some sick secret, “then surely, you already know about her trust? The Sinclair business. What she walked away from?"
My stomach twists. The ground shifts, tilting enough to feel unsafe.
I want to say something. Anything. But my throat’s a locked box, and every thought in my head is turning on itself.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a slim white card. Holds it up between two manicured fingers like a damn magician revealing the punchline.
“I’m not here to fight,” he says. “I just want to talk to my daughter and grandson. You can let her know I’m in town. Or not. I’ll find her regardless.”
He tucks the card into my hand, and I let him. I don't stop him. I don't even breathe.
The engine starts with a soft, confident hum.
Then the car glides off, tires smooth against the asphalt, not a speck of dust in its wake.
I stand there, frozen.
The business card is still in my palm, its heavy cardstock digging into my skin, but I don’t look at it yet.
Anxiety rises, slow and sick. My pulse hammers like a warning, not from anger — not yet — but from something colder.
The kind of betrayal that sneaks up on you. That makes you question whether anything you’ve built is real.
She lied.
She kissed me goodnight with that secret in her mouth.
And I didn't see it. Not once.
What else haven’t you told me, Kate?
And why does it still matter so damn much?