Page 4 of The Sentinel

This was something else entirely.

By the time we reached the hotel, my shirt was sticking to my back, and my patience was wearing thin.

The Palmetto Rose was grand in that old-world Charleston way—towering doors, wrought-iron accents, and gas lanterns flickering against the sky. The kind of place dripping with wealth and history.

I strode inside, my shoes squeaking against the marble floor as I approached the front desk. Two women stood behind it, deep in conversation.

The first had sleek dark hair and striking brown eyes, a natural confidence in the way she carried herself. The second—taller, with warm brown skin and loose curls—was idly tapping a pen against the desk, her expressionsomewhere between amused and unimpressed. They looked friendly enough.

Both turned when I reached the counter.

“Checking in?” the brunette asked, her Southern accent soft but unmistakable.

“Yeah.” I slid my ID and credit card across the polished wood. “Claire Dixon. I booked a suite.”

She nodded, typing something into the computer while the other girl studied me, her head tilting slightly.

“You’re not from around here,” she said.

I exhaled. “That obvious?”

Her lips twitched. “A little.”

The first woman slid my key card across the counter. “You’re in the Magnolia Suite. Elevator’s to your left.”

I tucked the card into my bag. “I need something else.”

They both looked at me.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Marcus Dane.”

The atmosphere shifted.

Subtle, but there. A pause too long, a glance too sharp.

Bingo.So they knew him.

The encounter at the pier had been on his terms, his timing—him catching me off guard, throwing me off balance. If I was going to get what I needed, I’d have to be the one setting the rules next time.

I needed to find him again. But this time, on my terms.

The brunette’s fingers tensed, while the other girl’s gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

I leaned forward. “You know him?”

The brunette’s expression stayed polite, but there was a coolness to it now. “Why are you looking for him?”

“I hostThe Unseen,” I said smoothly. “A true crime podcast out of New York.” I let that hang in the air, watching for a reaction. When none came, I pressed on. “I came down to look into the explosion at Folly Beach Pier. My listeners like the truth, and this whole thing smells like a cover-up.” I tilted my head. “I heard the Dane brothers run some kind of high-end security operation … or something like that. Thought Marcus might have some insight. I was told he was the one to talk to.”

The woman with the curls—who I was realizing had a faint New York accent herself—offered a polite, measured smile. “He’s not exactly easy to pin down.”

I arched a brow. “So youdoknow him.”

The brunette behind the desk gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Charleston’s a small town. People talk.”

I exhaled, keeping my tone even. “Look, I just need a meeting. If there’s any way to get in touch with him?—”

The woman with the curls let out a small, knowing smile, shaking her head. “Marcus Dane isn’t the easiest man to find.”

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