Page 20 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

Shit.

Crystal comes up behind us, breath catching. "Who is that?"

I don’t answer right away. Because I already know. Even before the screen sharpens, even before the resolution cleans up the grain into a silhouette that guts me with recognition.

Remy.

"Someone I used to trust," I say finally, eyes glued to the screen. "Someone who thinks he’s got something to prove."

Her voice tightens. "That’s him? The one you pulled out of the wreck?"

I nod. "Yeah. And he’s not just watching anymore. He’s here to finish something."

The footage shows Remy pausing near the gear boat, crouching low. Hands move quick. Then he’s gone. Out of frame. A shadow disappearing like smoke.

Crystal swears under her breath. "So what now?"

"Now," I say, turning to her, voice low and lethal, "we make sure he knows we’re not the ones being hunted."

But deep inside, I know what this means. Remy’s here. And he’s not just circling. He’s loaded for war. And this time, he wants it personal.

Watching my face, Denny asks, "You recognize him?" His eyes darting to mine.

I nod once, slowly. "Yeah. I do."

My stomach knots with something sour. It’s been years since that op went to hell and Remy froze up inside that wreck. I hauled him out, nearly got both of us killed. He got cleared medically, but never looked at me the same. Like I’d stolen something from him just by surviving.

He left the Navy bitter, reckless—coiled like a live wire with nowhere to ground out. Slid off the grid not long after his discharge, whispers following him like oil slicks in his wake. I’d hear rumors—mercenary jobs in failed states, black ops for private clients with deep pockets and no conscience, maybe even a stint with one of those off-the-books crews who don’t care what they break as long as they get paid. And now he’s here, crawling back out of the shadows like a ghost with a vendetta. Near Crystal. Near me. Which means it’s not just about gold anymore. It’s about me. It’s about what I walked away from—and who never forgave me for it.

"What do you want to do?" Denny asks.

"Nothing yet," I say.

Denny nods, but his eyes say he’s not convinced. We've talked about Remy. He knows some of it, but not all. It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with Remy my way.

Later that afternoon, Crystal and I take the Zodiac back to the coves, and suit up for a dive. The silence between us is weighty—coiled and humming, not hostile but charged, like we’re both waiting for the other to say something that neither of us is ready to hear. Her eyes flicker toward mine once, searching, but I give her nothing. I can’t—not yet. Not until I figure out what exactly we're dealing with. She doesn’t press. She seems to understand that something has happened, but that I need a bit of time to reconcile my own thoughts.

We slip beneath the surface, letting the ocean swallow the unsaid. Down here, in the hush of blue, the tension doesn’t vanish—it sharpens. The water is cooler than I expected; the light dimmed by the churned-up silt from a squall. The cove feels different—tighter, more closed-in, as if the sea itself is holding its breath. My gut churns. Something’s coming. I don’t know what—but I know we’re not alone.

The cove is darker today, like the ocean is trying to hide something. Visibility isn’t good, and there’s an odd pressure behind my ears, the kind that makes your instincts twitch before your brain catches up. But we keep going, deeper, feeling along the walls until the current shifts and we find it—a tunnel outlet, masked by seaweed and time, leading straight inland. A tight, jagged chute carved by both man and nature, opening up toward the collapsed route under the boardwalk. A perfect smuggling channel.

Then I spot it—halfway embedded in a limestone pocket, the outline unmistakable--the remnants of old Spanish cargo crates. Not dozens, but enough. Waterlogged, decayed, barely holding shape, their wood like tissue in the saltwater. They pulse with the tide, fragile and ghostlike, as if a strong exhale might shatter them.

But they’re there. Real. Tangible. Ancient. My heart hammers as Crystal turns to me, eyes wide behind her mask. I take her hand and squeeze—just once. Not just for confirmation. For connection. For the kind of shared truth that changes everything.

And in the back of my mind, a thought flickers like a warning light: if we found this… there's a very good chance somebody else has as well. Butfor a moment, the weight of the world lifts. We found something, and we found it together.

We surface slowly, breaking the still tension of the sea with deliberate calm. As soon as we breach, Crystal rips off her mask and draws in a shaky breath, like she hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding it in. The sun is just beginning to dip, bleeding fire across the horizon, turning the surrounding water into rippling gold. I reach for her tank strap and guide her toward the Zodiac, keeping one hand steady on her back. Her skin is warm from the dive, her breathing sharp but steadying.

We clamber onto the boat in sync, fluid and practiced. I help her strip her gear, then tug off my own. The air smells like salt and dusk and old secrets clawing their way to the surface. We sit on the edge for a second, catching our breath. Crystal’s eyes flick back to where we dove, calculating, hungry with curiosity and adrenaline.

I glance at her, wiping a line of water from my brow. "Still think this is just another tall tale cooked up in some dusty archive? Or are we officially in holy-shit-it’s-real territory now?"

She exhales a breathy laugh, more disbelief than humor. "That was real. The crates, the tunnel outlet… It's all real."

And the look she gives me isn’t just triumph—it’s wonder laced with dread. Eyes wide, mouth parted slightly like she’s caught between breathless awe and the sharp edge of realization. There’s something haunted in it too. Like a truth she didn’t expect to find is now staring back at her. Not just about theLa Reina. Not just about me. But about how close the shadows are getting. How real the threat has become. There’s fear in that look—the kind that lingers even when you tell yourself you’re safe. And I can feel it, too. Tension riding just under my skin like the water itself has teeth. Whatever we just uncovered, we’re not the only ones who know it’s there. And someone out there is willing to bleed for it.

But that night, everything tilts again. The air changes the second the sun drops beneath the edge of the water—cooler, sharper, as if even the breeze knows something’s coming. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around you, not with peace, but with warning.

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