I sigh out my relief. “Thank you.”
“A girl?” my mother repeats, setting her elbows on either side of her plate to lean toward me. “Now, who is this? Does Jordan know?”
“It’s none of Jordan’s business,” I say, earning an inquisitive look from my mother. “And the girl…” I continue, “is just a…”Friend? Chaser? Love of my life?“A girl I know,” I finish.
“Interesting,” my mother says, exchanging a conspiratorial look with my sister, who giggles in return. “And what’s this girl’s name?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, but at the same time Astrid says, “Noa. She said her name is Noa.”
“Noa?” my mother repeats. “Pretty. And where is Noa from?”
I roll my eyes. Although my mother knew I spent all my time at the beach, she wasn’t aware of my relationship with Noa. I kept that part of my life private because it was mine. Because I didn’t want her or my father to mess up the relationship or keep us apart. Looking back, Ithink I knew they wouldn’t approve, even if I never asked.
“Noa’s a local,” I admit.
“Nice,” my mother replies. “Which part of Cape Hope is her family in?”
Here we go. I know she’s not expecting this next part. “She actually lives on the beach,” I tell my mother. “She and her dad own the surf-and-boat business down there.”
“Oh,” she says, and then grows quiet. “Oh, okay.”
She smiles at me, but I can see that she’s disappointed because she was hoping I was more interested in Jordan—or at least someone of her caliber. She lets the topic drop, and when we’re done eating, we leave the restaurant and head back to the resort. She doesn’t bring her up again.
By the time we arrive, it’s close to sunset. I look down at the beach and see the little Shack, wondering if Noa is there. She did ask me to stop by to talk.
“I’m going to…” I motion toward the beach with my good arm, and my mother glances that way. She hesitates, as if wanting to tell me not to go. But ultimately, we’ve had a good day together. I don’t think either of us wants to ruin it. She nods, and I wave goodbye to my sister and walk toward the beach.
I’m a bit paranoid while on the path, checking to make sure no one’s following me. I’m on edge considering I saw the faces of the men who shot at me. At the same time, I’m also worried about running into Jordan and her friends. Not as life-threatening, of course, but still socially dangerous. Because next time I see Matteo Mancini, I’m going to knock him the fuck out.
Around me the world is quiet, just the sound of the waves and the thumping of my feet in the sand. My arm is aching, the pain climbing up to my shoulder and down to my fingertips.
As I step onto Paradise Beach, I’m immediately relieved to see myboat waiting at the dock. I can’t tell from here, but I’m assuming the blood has been washed up by now. Or at least, I hope so. I’ll definitely check on that later.
There is no one in sight as I walk past the counter of the Surf Shack toward the door, but before I can knock, I notice the note. Hanging from a nail on the doorframe is a folded piece of paper with my name on it. Confused, I glance around again, making sure this isn’t a prank.
I grab the piece of paper and unfold it. Inside is a crudely drawn map, anXmarking the spot—as if I’ve forgotten where it was. Underneath is a message written in cute block lettering.
If you get this, come meet us at Bonfire Beach after sundown. We need to talk.
I’m sure we do. I’m hoping they have updates about today, because if not, I need to call the sheriff myself. I can’t just ignore what we saw today. I can’t ignore that I’m likely now a target.
As I turn toward the dock, the screen door to the Surf Shack creaks open.
The man in a blue T-shirt doesn’t seem startled to find me standing on his doorstep. Then again, he clearly saw the note earlier. He opens his mouth to speak, but then pauses and tilts his head, as if trying to figure something out.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
I smile politely at Noa’s father, my heart beating quickly. “Hello, sir,” I tell him. “Uh… yeah, I’m James Matthews. Jamie,” I add.
He nods, because of course he already knows this. He glances toward the dock. “That’s right,” he says. “And that means theSweet Carolineisyourboat. The one my daughter stole.”
“I mean, technically, it’s my boat,” I say. “It was docked here, and it… yes, it belongs to me.” There is no point trying to soften it. She did, in fact, steal my boat.
“James,” he starts, then corrects to “Jamie. I really am sorry about your boat. We are taking care of all damages, and I appreciate you not pressing charges. Noa made a bad decision and accepts full responsibility.”
“It was an honest mistake,” I say. I’m not entirely sure how much he knows about today, but it doesn’t seem like much. Either way, I’m not going to make anything worse for her. I have an instant reaction to avoiding parental disappointment—even other people’s parents.
“And the ambulance on my dock?” he says. “That was you, too?”
