Page 21 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

By the time I ease back into the water to check the underwater cams, every sense I have is dialed up to eleven. It’s not just suspicion anymore—it’s instinct. Hunter-level, bone-deep awareness that we’re not alone out here. That the ocean’s hiding more than secrets.

And I’m right.

One camera is missing. Not drifted off with the current, not shaken loose by tide or storm surge. Ripped. The tether is frayed in a way that isn’t natural—clean, calculated, and cruel. Like someone wanted me to notice. Wanted to send a message.

I dive deeper, throat tightening as I spot the busted cam half-buried in a crevice, its casing cracked. But it’s what’s inside that stops me cold.

A note.

Sealed in waterproof casing. Thick paper. Blocky handwriting. Black ink bleeding into the plastic like a warning from something already drowning.

Six words:Turn back, Devlin. This is mine.

The ocean sways around me, but the chill that races down my spine isn’t from the water. It’s from the certainty that this isn’t just a race for gold anymore. It’s a war. And someone just fired the first shot.

I surface slowly, the sky above me pitch-dark now. And for the first time since this expedition started, I feel it—not just the threat, but the promise of what’s coming. There's no doubt in my mind who left the message, Remy. He's closing in.

9

CRYSTAL

Cruz is quiet.

Not his usual post-dive quiet—the focused kind that comes when he’s replaying a maneuver in his head or cataloging data behind those sharp eyes. No, this quiet is heavier. Charged. The kind that settles in your chest like a storm’s about to hit, and the air’s holding its breath in anticipation.

It’s not broody. Not distracted. It’s tactical, which means something is very, very wrong.

He moves like he’s listening to thoughts he doesn’t want to hear, flipping through dive logs with a little too much purpose, like if he turns the pages fast enough, whatever’s crawling under his skin will give up and leave him alone. His shoulders are tight, jaw set in that infuriatingly stubborn line I’ve come to recognize as his version of “don’t ask.” But I know better.

When Cruz goes silent like this, it’s not because he has nothing to say—it’s because he doesn’t want me to hear it.

I hate secrets.

It’s why I became a historian in the first place—to crack them open. Secrets are meant to be dragged into the light, studied, understood. They aren’t supposed to live between two people who are supposed to be partners. And yet here we are, his silence coiled around us like barbed wire.

Worse? I know this one’s about me.

So I stand in the doorway of Serenity’s cabin, arms folded tight, the sound of the teak floor creaking beneath my sandals announcing every step as I cross into his space.

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps flipping through the log like it’s going to give him an answer I won’t. The overhead light casts harsh lines across his face, shadowing his eyes. It makes him look harder. Sharper. More guarded than usual.

“Okay, Devlin,” I say, voice low, not angry—yet. “Wanna tell me what the hell is going on, or should I start building my conspiracy board?”

That gets a twitch from his mouth. Not quite a smile. But I’ll take it.

He exhales slowly, still staring at the log. “That obvious, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “You’ve got ‘guilty man with a secret’ written all over you. And bad news—your poker face sucks.”

He finally looks up, eyes flicking toward me with that familiar mix of deflection and affection. “Not ‘guilty.’ Just… selective.”

“Selective is what I do with breakfast pastries. Not the truth.”

He huffs out a dry laugh, then leans back against the bench, like whatever he’s holding onto just got too heavy to carry upright.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You want the truth?”

“No, Cruz. I want you to keep treating me like a fragile intern who needs to be protected from shadows and half-truths.”

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