Page 27 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

Do they not realize there's a second door? Amateurs. I take a deep breath, steady my hands, and slip out quietly—one step, then two. This isn’t exactly stealth ops, but it’ll do. I do the one thing no one expects from a historian: I become invisible. Historians usually stand out—too tweed, too nose-in-book—but I’ve learned how to vanish in plain sight. I grab an old apron from a hook on the wall, streak a smear of dirt across my cheek, and tousle my bun so I look more harried than hunted. When Freezer Guy yells about a radio check and the other one turns his head, I dart past the shelves like I’ve done this a hundred times, duck into the produce section, and walk out the front with a crate of wilted lettuce like I belong to the damn building. No one stops me. No one even blinks. Sometimes being underestimated is the sharpest weapon in the room.

No one sees me. No one stops me. But that buzzing in my ears? That’s not adrenaline anymore—it’s dread, coiling tighter with every step.

Ten minutes later, I round the curve of the marina path and freeze.

Cruz is limping down the edge of the dock, his stride uneven, blood trickling from a gash above his eyebrow. His shirt is torn, knuckles bruised, jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone. His expression isn’t just furious—it’s scorched-earth.

He looks like someone who’s been to war. Like someone who lost and clawed his way back out. And the way his eyes rake over the dock like he’s ready to take on an army?

Yeah. Someone lit a fuse, and Cruz Devlin is about to burn the world down.

“You okay?” we ask at the same time.

I almost cry. He almost smiles.

Back on Serenity, we patch each other up in silence. Until finally, he speaks and tells me everything. About Remy. About the guilt. The sabotage. The trail of burned trust. I don't flinch and I don’t walk away. I take his hand, bruised knuckles and all, and say the only thing that matters:

“We finish this. Together.”

* * *

CRUZ

I exhale—long and heavy—like a dam finally cracking under the pressure. The air in the cabin feels different now, like it’s been holding its breath right alongside me. But the quiet doesn’t last. A sharp burst of static snaps through the radio, loud enough to make both of us flinch, and then the voice cuts through—jagged, urgent, unmistakably real.

"Boss… you might want to see this,” Denny says in an urgent, tight voice.

The monitor lights up, casting an eerie green glow across the cabin as static flickers for a heartbeat, then clears. Grainy drone footage stutters across the screen—windswept trees bending in gusts, the drone’s mechanical shadow skating like a ghost over the underbrush. Then it jerks. Freezes. Zooms in, frame by frame, like it’s holding its breath just as we do.

A figure—not Remy. Smaller. Hooded. Standing motionless on the bluff above the cove, just beyond the tree line, a silhouette half-eaten by shadows. Watching the Serenity. Not moving. Not approaching. Just… observing. Like a predator sizing up a kill, or worse—marking territory.

The drone buzzes overhead, its mechanical whine slicing through the air—but the figure doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look up. Just stands there, unnervingly still. The kind of still that sends every instinct screaming. Then, like something out of a nightmare, the figure turns. Not startled. Not afraid. Just... deliberate. Measured. A slow pivot, cloaked in shadow, as if acknowledging the watcher behind the lens. They hold the frame a second longer than any normal person would—too long. Then, without a word or sign, they vanish into the trees, swallowed by the dark like they were never there.

Except we both know they were. And they wanted us to see them.

Whoever it is… they knew we were watching. And they wanted us to know they saw, and they’re already one step ahead.

11

CRYSTAL

It starts with a whisper in the back of my mind—a hunch wrapped in centuries-old ink and salt-crusted parchment, anchored by a sketch I dismissed three days ago because it was drawn in charcoal on fish paper and looked more like a teenager’s failed tattoo design than historical evidence. But now, in the dead of night, the fragments snap together like a magnetic puzzle I can't unsee.

I jolt upright in bed, pulse pounding, the fragments of a half-formed theory rushing into place like floodwaters breaking through a dam. My breath catches. Cruz lies next to me—bare-chested, golden-skinned, thoroughly sleep-tousled and the kind of distracting that should come with a warning label. His arm is heavy and warm across my waist, a subconscious tether that makes me pause. He shifts slightly, murmuring something unintelligible in that deep sleep voice, the kind that curls around your spine and makes poor decisions sound like good ideas.

But the thought hammering at my brain is louder than the siren call of his bare chest and lazy heat. It's loud enough to override even the memory of what that mouth did last night. Barely. This hunch, this possibility—it’s not just an academic itch. It’s an answer I can feel in my bones.

I slip out from under the sheet like a ninja on a sugar crash, barely managing not to trip over one of his boots by the bed. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘murder kittens’ or ‘map goblins’ and turns over. I pause, lips twitching. If he knew I was up at 2 a.m. to chase a hypothesis involving limestone erosion, colonial pacts, and sea totems, he’d probably just hand me a flashlight and say, ‘try not to drown.’ It's one of things I like best about him.

Down in the galley, I spread my notes out like I’m solving a cold case. Maps. Sketches. Translations scribbled in margin-cramped shorthand. The table looks like it belongs on a true crime docuseries—if the crime was committed by a 17th-century noble with a god complex and a penchant for hiding things in limestone.

And then I see it again—that weird little journal page I almost wrote off. Coffee stains, smeared ink, and what I’d thought was a doodle of a rabbit in the corner. Only, it’s not a rabbit. Not even close.

The elongated ears and spiral markings match a ceremonial totem used by the Calusa—indigenous guardians of tidal lore, seasonal cycles, and sacred burial chambers. It’s not just a doodle. It’s a symbol. A marker. Maybe even a warning. My stomach does that swoop it always does when history clicks into place like teeth on a gear.

And the ring? It’s not just treasure… it’s a seal.

The Mar Azul wasn’t made for wealth or vanity—it was forged for a purpose. A symbol of alliance between a Spanish noble and a Calusa leader, meant to unite two worlds that were about to be torn apart. The pact didn’t last, of course—thanks to betrayal, disease, and a brutal colonization campaign that reduced dreams to ruins.

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