Chapter Seven
—NOA
James Matthews. I can’t believe Jamie is back in my town, and more than that, I can’t believe I accidently stole his boat.
It’s strange to see him, a mix of anger and nostalgia.
Butterflies and tears. Endless tears. And sure, maybe I would be more regretful if I hadn’t seen him cozied up with Jordan Miles. What a traitor.
“Noa, are you even listening to me?” the sheriff demands.
I look across the desk, the air between us thick with tension. The lights hum, casting everything in a yellowish glow. Sheriff Castillo—my uncle—is suffocating me with his disappointment.
When we were growing up, he was our favorite uncle—the one who’d tell stories about my mom’s wild teen years or beat my dad in a game of cards on the dock.
I remember him tossing me and Ellis around in the ocean when we were little, his easy charm making everything feel lighter.
He never seemed to take life too seriously, always ready with a quick joke.
But now, that softness feels like it’s been swallowed up by his uniform, his duty, and the lines he’s drawn between us.
The sheriff I see now, the one who’s too busy to look for my brother or care about the things that really matter, feels like a stranger.
“What the hell were you thinking?” the sheriff demands, leaning across his desk. “Your father is going to kill you.”
I sit back in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m supposed to be talking my way out of this, but I’m too angry. I just can’t decide if I’m mad at him, mad at myself, or both.
“We were thinking it was time for a change,” I tell him. “I know you see how the Collective treats us. How they’ve always treated us.” His eyes weaken slightly. “So,” I add, “we decided to do something about it.”
“Like what?” the sheriff asks. “Get locked up on a random island in the Everglades? You all could have died.”
I also could have died on the roof today, and I debate telling him about Creed coming to Tech’s house. Throwing a bottle and cutting my arm. Or the fact that he’s been coming back every year to harass the Mendez family.
But I don’t bring it up. I’ve tried to get my uncle’s help before and it always just seems to make things worse. He pays a visit, and then the Collective retaliates. A vicious circle.
“We were looking for Rum Runner Island,” I admit instead. His eyes widen at the mention. “Once we find it,” I continue, “we’re going to prove that what happened at the Starline Hotel wasn’t Gabriel’s fault. The truth will change things around here. And it’s about damn time.”
The sheriff’s jaw tightens. “You really think going after the Collective—the Augustus Resort,” he corrects, “is a good idea? Noa, their lawyers have lawyers. They have senators in their pockets. They are quite literally untouchable, and you think—”
This is exactly why I didn’t tell him about Creed. It’s like… he’s on their side more than ours. I shake my head, fighting back my frustration. I keep my voice steady, but the weight of everything sits on my shoulders.
“This is about your sheriff’s election?” I ask.
He scoffs, looking deeply offended. “Oh, don’t do that.” He points at me. “You know this isn’t about getting votes.”
“Then what is it about?” I snap. “Because you’re just watching the Collective cheat us out of our homes, our businesses—and you do nothing.
And we’re up next. The Surf Shack is barely scraping by.
I’m not going to let that happen,” I say stubbornly.
“It was my mother’s dream, and I’m not letting them take it away from us! ”
At the mention of my mother, silence fills the room. The sheriff’s eyes flicker to the window behind me, like he’s somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
“You think your mother’s dream was the Shack?” he asks, his voice low. “Or was it the family? Was the dream about being together?” When he looks at me again, I can see that he misses his sister. He misses Ellis. He misses me and the way things used to be around Cape Hope.
“In that case,” I say, the grief flooding in, “we’ve failed her on that front too. Our family is barely standing. Who’s going to leave us next?”
His gaze softens for a moment, but then the sheriff rubs roughly at his face. And there it is, the rift between us. The impasse. This is about my brother.
Because I can’t shake the fear that something happened to Ellis. I don’t believe he abandoned us, no matter how many people claim that he did. Whenever I tried to convince myself, I came back to the belief that my brother would never willingly leave us.
“He’s still out there,” I say quietly, expecting pushback. And right on cue, the sheriff sighs, deep and heavy.
“Ellis ran away, Noa,” he says simply. “He just left.”
“But how do you know?” I demand. My anger flashes again, desperate to be heard. “You didn’t even look for him!”
“Yes, I did,” he yells back. “I did,” he adds quieter. “But… after a while, your father told me to let him go. Ellis is nineteen—he had the right to walk away. Your dad said we should give him some peace.”
Let him go. The words echo in my head, banging against my temples.
“And you just gave up,” I murmur helplessly.
I can’t really blame the sheriff, though. Other than my gut, there’s no reason to think my brother did anything other than leave us. He took his money and his personal items. He even locked the door on the way out. I’m the only one who thinks otherwise.
I consider what Shawn told me on the boat today, about Felix. I’m not sure if this helps or hurts my theory, but at this point, I just need to know what really happened to Ellis.
“Did you hear about Felix Mancini?” I ask, bouncing my leg as I wait for his response. “I heard he’s missing.”
My uncle swallows hard, but keeps his eyes down as he begins to move around papers on his desk. “There has been some communication from the family, yes,” he says like I’m a random reporter. “At this time, it appears he’s run away.”
“That seems to happen a lot in your town.”
His eyes snap up to mine like he wants to fight about it, but instead, his lips purse together tightly as if he’s holding something back. He breathes slowly and then nods to me. “We are looking for Felix,” he says calmly.
“Do you think he’s with Ellis?” I ask, wanting him to feel the same.
My uncle shrugs like he hopes so. Which isn’t encouraging. He should know. He’s the damn sheriff.
We sit in silence for a moment, and then my uncle is back to business. He begins filling out a form with my name at the top, occasionally glancing up at me, his anger faded to sympathy. This is the first time we’ve spoken in months.
“You know,” he says. “You’re lucky that kid out there doesn’t want to press charges against you and your friends.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching him fill out the incident report. “It must be nice to not give a shit.”
It’s just after five when Tech’s mom parks behind the Surf Shack to drop me off.
She is, in a word, furious. She called the station after hearing from some of the locals that we’d been arrested.
Luckily, we were not under arrest, but I’m pretty sure Tech will be under Angela’s watchful eye for the next few weeks.
I murmur a thank-you, to which Angela doesn’t respond. She stares straight ahead like she can’t even look at me right now. She has the whole “disappointed parent” thing perfected; it cuts deep.
I glance across the backseat at Shawn, but her hat is pulled down over her eyes. There’s a bruise on her chest from hitting the steering wheel, darkening to an angry purple color. All in all, it’s been a pretty terrible day.
Wearily, I get out of the car and start toward the Shack. I’m here alone. Or at least, I’m supposed to be. My footsteps slow when I notice the tool bag on the porch—my father’s bag that he’d taken with him this morning. Uh-oh.
The sheriff let us all off with a warning today, thanks to Jamie not pressing charges. Honestly, it was the least he owed me. But now that I’m home, it doesn’t appear I got off free and clear.
I glance around the littered beach, the beach I should have cleaned today in preparation for tourists, and wonder what exactly I’m about to walk into. I’m usually pretty good at dodging trouble, so I’m not typically on this end of the argument.
Before I can think too much deeper, the screen door of the Shack opens and my father leans against the doorframe, holding a can of orange soda.
“Hello, Noa,” he says in a sort of controlled anger. “Busy day in Cape Hope?” He takes a loud sip from his can.
My father is on the smaller side, about five foot six with shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair, forever donning his royal-blue Surf Shack T-shirt.
After years on the ocean, his skin is the color of warm leather with a permanent shadow of black stubble along his chin.
Like Angela, he is also fluent in “disappointed parent.”
“I can explain,” I state calmly, holding up my hands.
He offers a sardonic smile but doesn’t stop me. He waits to hear what I have to say. I can’t read his expression. This is so much worse than yelling, and it’s the not knowing that makes me defensive.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” I say, admonishing myself before he can. “I broke your trust. I endangered my friends, myself, and our business. I won’t do it again, but you should still… ground me or something. I deserve it. I’m sorry, Dad.”
He waits a beat before taking another sip of his drink. He steps outside, and the screen door slams against the frame behind him. My dad nods to me.