Page 14 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I glance around. Boxes stacked like a haphazard maze, filing cabinets with handwritten labels, binders that look like they haven’t seen daylight since the turn of the century. It’s chaos. It’s perfect.

“Is that an 1812 customs log?” I ask, stepping toward a worn leather book on a side table.

Heather grins. “Careful. That one bites. The binding’s cracked, and the ink runs if you breathe too hard.”

“I’ll try not to exhale.”

She studies me for a beat and laughs. “So what are you looking for, exactly? Shipwrecks? Skeletons? Land disputes that ended in a duel?”

“Spanish trade routes. Colonial activity in the early 1700s. Anything tied toLa Reina de Oro.”

Heather’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. “Ah. Treasure.”

“I prefer ‘historical artifact of immense academic interest.’”

She laughs. “Sure, honey. And I prefer bourbon over boxed wine, but here we are.”

She leads me to a back table, clearing off a stack of coastal development maps and setting a fan to oscillate in my direction.

“Help yourself,” she says. “Just don’t move the red tags, and if you find anything cursed, we don’t talk about it until after lunch.”

“Is that town policy?”

“It's mine.”

I smile and pull on a pair of gloves from my bag. She watches me for another second, then nods once, satisfied, and disappears behind a cabinet humming some old blues tune under her breath.

I settle in, already feeling the pull of buried stories waiting to be uncovered.

I’m elbow-deep in brittle ledgers and forgotten plats when I spot it—a folded parchment tucked behind a mislabeled file. My pulse kicks up. Carefully, I unroll it. A hand-drawn sketch, dated 1682. It’s labeled Pelican Point Outpost, and though the lines are crude, one thing is unmistakably clear: tunnels. An entire network carved beneath the bluff, likely for smuggling, possibly worse. One tunnel leads straight to the shoreline. I trace the route with my finger, and my heart does this ridiculous little skip like it already knows I’m not going to be able to walk away from this quietly.

Cruz would tell me to wait. To loop him in, make a plan, maybe even set up cameras and gear. But Cruz isn’t here. And this? This feels like my thread to pull. My piece of the puzzle. The part of the story that doesn’t need permission to be followed.

So I pack up—journal, flashlight, and a pocketful of stubborn resolve—and head out before I can talk myself out of it. My heart’s thumping with adrenaline and the thrill of the find, overriding every lecture I’ve ever given myself about patience or protocol. I’m not thinking like a historian right now—I’m thinking like a hunter. And this clue? It feels like it’s been waiting for me to chase it down.

Textbook hero move. Also? Textbook idiocy. I know better—and I do it, anyway. That’s the dangerous thing about being right on the edge of something huge. It makes you forget how easily the ground can shift beneath you.

* * *

Time and neglect have half-swallowed the tunnel’s entrance, hiding it behind a tangle of palmetto and salt grass. A half-collapsed arch leans into the shadows like it’s daring someone to disturb it. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t looking—or if the map wasn’t burned into the back of my brain. The air shifts the second I duck inside. It’s cooler, damp with the weight of something old. The stone walls press in on both sides, rough and weather-worn, with carvings etched into the surface—Spanish script, a few faded symbols. Possibly religious. Possibly warnings. They crawl along the rock like forgotten voices. I snap a few quick photos, heart beating too fast, and step deeper, the incline subtle but steady, the light behind me bleeding out with every step forward.

Halfway in, the earth groans—a deep, bone-rattling sound that vibrates through the soles of my boots and up my spine. It's not the kind of sound that echoes—it hunts. Ancient and heavy, like the tunnel itself is breathing, alive and judging. Like it’s been waiting centuries for someone to disturb its silence, and now it’s awake. I freeze. Every instinct I have flares red. This isn't just history underfoot—it's a predator, coiled and waiting to strike. And me? I just stepped into its den.

It’s a low, grinding sound—like the tunnel itself is waking up angry, debating whether to swallow me whole or just crush me where I stand. Then a crack, sharp and vicious, splits the silence like a gunshot. A spray of pebbles pelts my arm, and my foot slips on unstable soil slick with damp decay. The ceiling groans again, louder this time, followed by a splintering crack as a chunk of rock shears off and slams to the ground behind me. Dust and grit choke the air. My instincts don’t just scream—they roar, full volume, primal and absolute. I bolt without hesitation. Survival overrides everything else.

I run. My sandals slam against the uneven stone, each step a gamble on ground that might give way. The flashlight beam bounces off the narrow walls, throwing jagged shadows that dance like warning signs. I don’t look back—I don’t need to. The grinding roar behind me grows louder, hungrier, like something ancient has finally decided it’s had enough. The tunnel isn’t just collapsing—it’s coming for me. And if I slow down even for a second, I know it’ll win.

Rocks crash behind me in a thunderous roar as I lunge for the arch, diving out a split second before the tunnel implodes in a violent avalanche of stone and earth. The ground shakes beneath me, a shockwave rolling through the floor like an aftershock. A cloud of choking dust blasts from the tunnel mouth, blinding me, clawing down my throat like sandpaper. I can’t breathe. My lungs seize. My heart’s not just pounding—it’s thrashing, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. I collapse to my knees, coughing and gasping, vision swimming, every muscle wired and trembling with adrenaline. I’m out. I made it. Barely. But the danger’s still drumming in my ears like it’s not done with me yet.

And then I hear him—sharp, furious, and unmistakably alive. His voice cuts through the trees like it’s chasing the dust right off my skin, pulling me back from the spiral of fear still clawing at my chest. Relief hits me so hard my knees threaten to give out all over again. I blink up through the haze, the sound of him anchoring me to the here and now, to the fact that I’m alive—and he’s here.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

Cruz charges through the undergrowth like an entire weather system, eyes wild, chest heaving like he ran the entire way here. There’s dirt on his boots, sweat on his brow, and that pulse in his neck is thrumming like a war drum. He looks half ready to shake me and half ready to drop to his knees just to make sure I’m okay. His hands twitch at his sides like he's not sure whether to pull me in or throttle me. I push to my feet, brushing dirt off my jeans and trying to pretend my heart isn’t still racing—though maybe not just from the tunnel.

“I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice comes out scratchy and a little too breathless. It’s the lie I always default to—short, stubborn, and barely convincing. But the way Cruz is looking at me, like he can see straight through it? Yeah. Not buying it.

He says, “You could have been buried alive,” and his voice conveys not only anger, but also raw, palpable fear. The kind that grips you after the danger’s passed, when your brain finally catches up to what could’ve happened. His eyes search mine, like he needs to see for himself that I’m still standing, still breathing.

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