Page 83 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
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 acrossthe 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.”
“Responsibleandgood-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
