Page 3 of The Sentinel

Fuck, she was good. That glint burned—the best I’d seen in a journalist. But it was a threat too close to what I guarded. I didn’t move, tilted my head, and sized her up. She’d keep coming.

“You’re a long way from home, Dixon,” I said, her name slow, catching her breath. “Charleston’s not kind to strangers who like to dig deep.”

The air thickened—her pulse, and my warning. Her fingers tightened on that recorder, knuckles white. She smelled it—the war—same as me.

“Guess I’ll take my chances,” she said, steady, chest pounding. “I’ve got a knack for finding what’s buried.”

Her eyes dared me. They were too damn bright. I closed the gap—two strides, heat brushing her.

“Keep digging, Claire,” I murmured, my breath on her cheek, “and you’ll need more than a mic to save you.”

She didn’t back off. She held my gaze, her pulse loud. She’d unravel us if I let her.

I wouldn’t.

3

CLAIRE

The second I left the pier, the weight of Charleston’s humidity clamped down on me, thick and smothering, curling against my skin like something alive.

The ocean breeze barely cut through it as I stalked toward the main road. My shoes kicked up sand, my recorder still clenched in my fist, Marcus Dane’s voice ringing in my ears.

Prick.

I yanked open the door of the first Uber idling near the beachside bars, ignoring the way the driver—an older guy with a salt-and-pepper beard—eyed me like I was trouble.

“Where to?” he asked, slamming the trunk shut after tossing in my bag.

“The Palmetto Rose,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

As the car pulled away, I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. The heat, the damp air, the too-quiet streets—it was all pressing in, making me feel out of my element.But none of it compared to the storm still unraveling inside me.

Because I hadn’t just met some local with a chip on his shoulder back there.

I’d met Marcus Dane.

And he was going to be a problem.

As we pulled away from the curb, I rested my elbow on the window’s edge, taking in Charleston’s postcard-perfect scenery. The historic homes with their pastel facades, the wrought-iron balconies, the moss-draped oaks lining the streets—it was charming in that old-money, Southern hospitality kind of way I’d read about. But I wasn’t here to play tourist.

I was here because something wasn’t adding up.

An explosion at Folly Beach Pier didn’t just happen. Not in a place like this. Someone, somewhere, was pulling strings. And if there was one thing I was good at? It was pulling them right back.

The cab rolled onto Meeting Street, the heart of downtown Charleston, and the city unfolded before me like something out of a history book. Cobblestone streets stretched beneath grand live oaks, their sprawling branches draped in veils of Spanish moss. Pastel-colored townhouses lined the sidewalks, their wrought-iron balconies adorned with flickering gas lanterns that seemed to burn even in the daylight.

A horse-drawn carriage clattered past, its wheels rattling against the uneven stones as the driver, dressed in suspenders and a straw hat, gestured animatedly to his passengers. A group of tourists sat wide-eyed in the back, cameras ready, drinking in the charm of a city that felt untouched by time.

On the sidewalks, people moved at a different pace than I was used to—leisurely, as if they had all the timein the world. No one shoved past in a hurry, no one barked into their phones while power-walking to the next obligation. A couple strolled hand-in-hand, pausing to admire a flower box overflowing with pink camellias. A woman in a sundress leaned against a historic marker, sipping from a sweating cup of sweet tea like she had nowhere else to be.

And the smell—God, the smell.

Salt water, thick and briny, but cleaner than the air back home. The scent of it mixed with something warm and rich, the aroma of fresh pralines wafting from a nearby candy shop, mingling with the earthy, slightly bitter smell of old brick that had soaked up centuries of sun and rain.

The cab passed a corner where a street musician played a slow, lazy tune on his saxophone, his case open for tips. The deep, velvety notes curled through the humid air, adding to the languid, dreamlike quality of the city.

This wasn’t New York.

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