Page 19 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

"I didn’t."

"You could have died." Silence. Heavy. His hands are still on me, holding me tight enough to feel it in my bones. "Don’t do this alone again," he says. It's not a command. It's a plea.

My breath stutters. "I’m used to doing things alone."

"Well, you’re not alone anymore. Not in this. Not in anything."

The air crackles. I can’t look away from him. His voice, low and rough, wraps around something inside me I didn't realize had been waiting—for steadiness, for safety, for someone who gives a damn despite barely knowing me. And the terrifying part? I believe him.

I nod. "Okay. Sorry."

His hand brushes mine, fingers sliding down, linking. Just for a second. But it’s enough. It anchors me—not to the moment, but to him. And even though we’ve barely known each other for ten days, even though this should still feel new and unsteady, it doesn’t. It feels inevitable. Like a door closing quietly behind us, locking into place.

I’m not just chasing the past anymore. I’m chasing something with him. Something more, I sense, than just theLa ReinaI sense—a future perhaps?

As we step out into the daylight, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching us. That prickling awareness between the shoulder blades—the one that says you're not alone, even when you should be. Cruz feels it too; I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his body shifts instinctively to put himself between me and the shadows. Somewhere behind us, buried in the ruin of creaking boards and forgotten secrets, something groans—not just age or weather, but intent. It’s subtle, almost dismissible. Almost. But not quite.

And suddenly, I know with absolute certainty—this isn’t over. Not even close. Whoever set that trap is still out there. Maybe it’s the wind shifting through the broken slats, or the faint crunch of footsteps that aren’t ours—but something malevolent lingers here, thick and patient like the scent of rust and old blood. My skin prickles, nerves stretched tight, and deep in my gut, a warning settles cold and undeniable. We’ve disturbed something. And it will not let us walk away unchallenged.

8

CRUZ

The boardwalk creaks behind us as we head back to Serenity, Crystal’s hand tucked in mine, her silence clinging to the space between us like fog. Not the kind that says she’s pissed—no storm brewing in her jaw, no clipped sass on the tip of her tongue. This is different. This silence is hollowed out and heavy, shaped like the shadow of a narrow escape. I know it. Too well. It’s the kind that sits in your chest after the dust clears and you realize how close you came to never walking away.

"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low, steady. Like I’m not two seconds from losing my mind that she almost didn’t make it out.

She nods, but it’s automatic, reflexive. Her grip on my hand tightens, just slightly. "Yeah. Just... processing."

I let her have the silence a bit longer, but not too long. Not when she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the shadows are whispering her name.

"You were lucky," I say quietly.

Her laugh is hollow and sharp. "Yeah, well. Luck’s just probability wearing a mask, right?" She lifts her hand to brush her hair back, but it’s shaking. She shoves it into her hoodie pocket instead.

"That was no accident," I say, slowing our pace as Serenity comes into view. "That rig was meant to collapse."

She swallows hard. "I know. I felt it. Just… the way it gave, the way it waited. It wasn’t natural."

"Which means someone knew you’d be there."

She stops walking, turns to face me. "So what do we do? Hide? Run?"

"No," I say. "We prepare."

Back at the boat, I break off from her, trying not to look like I want to wrap her in every kind of protection I can offer and never let her out of arm’s reach. Instead, I get to work. Trail cams go up fast—covering the dock, the approach paths, and the gear boat slip. I add infrared to one, motion-triggered alerts to another, the paranoid kind of setup that only comes from experience and knowing exactly how fast things can go sideways.

Crystal perches on the edge of Serenity’s stern, silent but watching. Not interfering, just… present. Sharp eyes cataloging everything.

Denny shows up a few hours later, drone case under one arm, his posture stiff in a way that screams something’s wrong. He doesn’t greet us with a joke or a smirk—just a nod and a clipped, "Got footage for you." He leads me inside, opens the laptop, fingers flying. "Didn’t want to say anything until I cleaned it up. Been up all night. Watch."

Grainy footage fills the screen—a drone’s-eye view, shot in infrared. The marina at night, eerily quiet. Then, movement. A figure in a hoodie, slipping through the shadows like a ghost with purpose.

I lean in. Heart rate ticks up. Gait’s familiar. Slouched. Deliberate. Left foot drags ever so slightly.

"Slow it down," I say.

Denny does. Frame by frame. Closer. Clearer.

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