Page 13 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I nod, slowly, watching the horizon like it might answer for me. “Part of it. I didn’t want to become the guy who blindly checked boxes until one day he realized he couldn’t live with where the path had led him. So I stepped off it—while I still could.”

She says nothing—just sits with the breeze lifting strands of her hair, her gaze fixed somewhere past the horizon but her focus clearly still on me. There's a stillness to her, but not the kind that comes from having nothing to say. She listens, absorbs, and respects the weight of what’s been shared. Her silence feels like an invitation, not a dismissal, and it makes me want to keep talking, to hand her more pieces of myself just to see how gently she'll hold them.

We stand to check the gear boat—a kind of raft with sides that carries backup equipment with extra tanks and a satellite beacon—and something’s immediately off. It’s drifting oddly, sitting low in the water like it’s sulking or wounded. A slow creep of unease starts in my gut. I hop over, land with a thud, and crouch near the stern. One glance at the lines and I know. Not wear. Not bad luck. I grip the frayed rope and curse under my breath. This wasn’t an accident. Someone did this.

“This line was cut,” I say, holding up a frayed end between my fingers. The fibers are clean—no weathering, no fray from strain or tide. Just a single, precise slice. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. My jaw tightens as I turn it toward the light. "This wasn’t time or tide. This was intentional."

Crystal frowns, her gaze flicking to the open water like she’s trying to spot a shadow where none should be. “You think it was a rival? Some other treasure hunter chasing the legend; maybe someone who’s been trailing us longer than we realized?”

“Maybe,” I say, eyes still scanning the edges of the horizon. “But if it was, they’re not just watching. They’re testing the waters—seeing how close we’re getting, and whether we’re smart enough to back off.” I glance down at the clean cut again. “Thing is, I don’t back off.”

Her gaze sharpens and darts around as she swivels her head—almost as if she thinks someone might be watching. “Sabotage?”

“Could be.” I nod slowly, seriously. I think she could be right, but I don't want to kick start some kind of paranoia on her part. “And it means someone knows we’re getting close.”

She crosses her arms, hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists, but there’s a tension in her stance that wasn’t there before—like she’s bracing for the next wave of bad news. “So what now?” she asks, voice low but steady, like she already knows the answer might change everything.

I meet her eyes. Steady. Serious. “This stopped being academic the second someone took a knife to our line. Whoever’s out there isn’t just after gold—they’re willing to play dirty to get it. This is real now, Crystal. Dangerous. And we need to be ready.”

She doesn’t flinch. But her fingers curl around the hem of the hoodie like she suddenly feels the chill again—like the air shifted and brought something colder with it. Her eyes flick to the horizon, then back to mine, and something unspoken passes between us.

She gets it now.

This isn’t just about treasure. Or history. Or even proving herself.

It’s personal. And it’s getting dangerous.

She turns away first, but not before I catch the flicker in her expression—that moment when adrenaline fades and something heavier creeps in.

5

CRYSTAL

By the time Cruz sails us back to the marina, the sky's turned into that dusky kind of gold that always feels like an ending. We don’t talk much on the way in. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because neither of us quite knows what to do with the weight of everything that just shifted between us.

Back in my rental, I shower, change, and try to shake off the memory of cold water and closer-than-it-should’ve-been danger. I can’t. So I go where I always go when the noise in my head is too loud to ignore: the books, the charts. History has never let me down. It always grounds and centers me and allows me to make sense of whatever maelstrom in which I might find myself.

The thing about secrets? They’re rarely buried all that deep. They wrap themselves in everyday things—in maps no one reads, in buildings no one remembers, in the cracks between what we think we know and what we never thought to question. They hide in plain sight, daring someone smart enough—or stubborn enough—to look twice.

The upstairs floor of the lighthouse creaks beneath my sandals, the kind of wood that remembers every step it’s ever held. The archives smell like old paper, salt air, and a little bit of mildew. I love it instantly.

“Careful,” a voice calls from somewhere behind a tall shelving unit. “That back corner still leaks when it rains sideways.”

A woman steps into view—late twenties, maybe early thirties with reading glasses pushed up into a dark braid and a canvas apron covered in post-it notes, pens, and at least two paperclips stuck in the hem. She’s efficient but not unfriendly, like someone who’s dealt with enough chaos to be selective about what she reacts to.

“Heather Winslow,” she says, offering a hand. “Town librarian and unofficial archivist. You must be the historian.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Honey, Pelican Point is a small town. Besides, I love your blog. You make history seem not only alive and relevant, but accessible. Word is you’re here looking forLa Reina.”

“Crystal Evans,” I reply, taking her hand. “Thanks for letting me in. This is… amazing.”

“Not yet, but it will be. I was able to procure a grant from Sapphire Development to turn the lightkeeper’s cottage into a first-class library and take all of this—” she said gesturing with her hand “—and use the upper portion of the lighthouse for an archive and historical learning center. It’ll take time, but I’ll get it there.”

“That’s impressive.”

She snorts. “That’s generous and kind. This place is a collection of what the town forgot it had and couldn’t afford to throw away. But there are gems in the mess. You just have to squint and not breathe too deeply.”

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