Page 25 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

“We’re not alone,” I say, heart thudding.

Cruz is already moving.

And I know, without turning, that something out there is watching. Waiting. And this time, it’s not just after the gold... it’s after us.

10

CRUZ

The faint tapping of Crystal’s fingers on the dash is the only sound as I steer Serenity toward the dock. The early morning haze is just lifting off the water, and Pelican Point’s silhouette sharpens against the sun. We should still be a few steps ahead of Remy, or if it isn't him, whoever’s tracking us. Emphasis on should.

Crystal’s humming some old sea shanty under her breath, low and absentminded, but her eyes are sharp—sweeping the shoreline like she’s a lighthouse in reverse, casting out beams of curiosity and suspicion. Her fingers drum against the seat rhythmically, like she's trying to keep her nerves in check while she mentally catalogs every suspicious nook and cranny. It’s the kind of focus that says she’s already five steps ahead and looking for the trap she knows is waiting. That laser-focus isn’t just for history anymore—it’s survival. And from the way her brow tightens when she spots a shadow that lingers too long or a figure that ducks behind the bait shop a second too early, I know she feels it too: we’re being watched.

Me? I’m scanning, too—but it’s not the harbor that’s raising the hairs on my neck. It’s her.

Crystal.

The way she’s carrying herself—too steady, too contained. Her grip on that notebook is tighter than usual, her silence wound around her like a second skin. She’s trying to hold it all in, trying to out-stubborn the danger she knows is circling. And it’s working. To anyone else, she looks like confidence wrapped in denim and resolve. But I know better.

I know what quiet looks like when it’s bracing for impact.

She walks beside me like she’s armored up—hair twisted into that high battle-bun she does when she means business, gladiator sandals tied tight like she’s expecting to run. And the notebook? It’s clutched like it’s sacred. Like whatever she’s discovered inside it is more valuable than her own safety.

“Hey,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”

She glances at me, the edge of her mouth twitching like she wants to argue—but doesn’t. Instead, she nods once. Quick. Grateful. Then keeps walking.

We dock quietly, the engine ticking as it cools, tension settling around us like heat before a summer storm. No words pass between us as we disembark. Just movement. Intentional. Focused. The marina workers don’t even glance up. Or maybe we’re moving too fast for it to register.

Her sandals slap lightly against the dock, rhythm steady, but I can feel the pulse of her nerves in the way she walks—precise, almost mechanical. And I hate it. I hate that she’s holding so much inside. That this town, this legend, this danger is pulling her into something dark, and she’s ready to face it head-on without backup.

“We’re close,” she says under her breath, more to herself than to me.

“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Close means we stay sharp. And we stay side by side. No solo hero moves.”

Another nod. Firmer this time.

We’re halfway down the boardwalk when I spot them.

Two guys outside the bait shop—slouched too perfectly, their laughter too loud, too timed. It’s theater. A show meant for us. One nudges the other, subtly tilting his chin in our direction. I don’t stop walking, but my body tenses, muscles coiled and ready.

Then I feel it. The third.

The glint in the glass of the shop window gives him away—a quick reflection, just enough to trigger every alarm in my head. Broad shoulders. Flash of metal. Movement.

“Crystal—” I start, reaching for her.

Too late.

The hit comes fast, brutal. A white-hot burst explodes behind my eyes, and I stagger. I catch one last glimpse of her—eyes wide, struggling, a hand clamped over her mouth—and then the darkness hits like a hammer to the skull.

And the last thought I manage before everything goes under is her name… Crystal.

* * *

My head throbs like it’s been used as a battering ram, and the taste of blood lingers bitter on my tongue. I blink, slow and groggy, vision swimming in and out of focus until the surrounding shadows sharpen into something I recognize—concrete walls, old pipes, the faint stench of mildew and sweat. My wrists burn. Zip ties bite into my skin, holding me captive to a rusted metal chair bolted to the floor.

I’m not just restrained. I’m entombed in muscle memory and ghosts. The worst part? I know exactly where I am—the old SEAL training boathouse, where we learned how to survive things meant to break us. It’s damp, the walls sweating with mildew and the stench of old fear. Every echo carries the weight of barked orders and groans of exertion, the kind of place built to shape men into weapons. But now? It feels like a tomb. Cold, metallic, and full of unfinished business.

---