Chapter 5
5
CRYSTAL
B y the time Cruz sails us back to the marina, the sky's turned into that dusky kind of gold that always feels like an ending. We don’t talk much on the way in. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because neither of us quite knows what to do with the weight of everything that just shifted between us.
Back in my rental, I shower, change, and try to shake off the memory of cold water and closer-than-it-should’ve-been danger. I can’t. So I go where I always go when the noise in my head is too loud to ignore: the books, the charts. History has never let me down. It always grounds and centers me and allows me to make sense of whatever maelstrom in which I might find myself.
The thing about secrets? They’re rarely buried all that deep. They wrap themselves in everyday things—in maps no one reads, in buildings no one remembers, in the cracks between what we think we know and what we never thought to question. They hide in plain sight, daring someone smart enough—or stubborn enough—to look twice.
The upstairs floor of the lighthouse creaks beneath my sandals, the kind of wood that remembers every step it’s ever held. The archives smell like old paper, salt air, and a little bit of mildew. I love it instantly.
“Careful,” a voice calls from somewhere behind a tall shelving unit. “That back corner still leaks when it rains sideways.”
A woman steps into view—late twenties, maybe early thirties with reading glasses pushed up into a dark braid and a canvas apron covered in post-it notes, pens, and at least two paperclips stuck in the hem. She’s efficient but not unfriendly, like someone who’s dealt with enough chaos to be selective about what she reacts to.
“Heather Winslow,” she says, offering a hand. “Town librarian and unofficial archivist. You must be the historian.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Honey, Pelican Point is a small town. Besides, I love your blog. You make history seem not only alive and relevant, but accessible. Word is you’re here looking for La Reina .”
“Crystal Evans,” I reply, taking her hand. “Thanks for letting me in. This is… amazing.”
“Not yet, but it will be. I was able to procure a grant from Sapphire Development to turn the lightkeeper’s cottage into a first-class library and take all of this—” she said gesturing with her hand “—and use the upper portion of the lighthouse for an archive and historical learning center. It’ll take time, but I’ll get it there.”
“That’s impressive.”
She snorts. “That’s generous and kind. This place is a collection of what the town forgot it had and couldn’t afford to throw away. But there are gems in the mess. You just have to squint and not breathe too deeply.”
I glance around. Boxes stacked like a haphazard maze, filing cabinets with handwritten labels, binders that look like they haven’t seen daylight since the turn of the century. It’s chaos. It’s perfect.
“Is that an 1812 customs log?” I ask, stepping toward a worn leather book on a side table.
Heather grins. “Careful. That one bites. The binding’s cracked, and the ink runs if you breathe too hard.”
“I’ll try not to exhale.”
She studies me for a beat and laughs. “So what are you looking for, exactly? Shipwrecks? Skeletons? Land disputes that ended in a duel?”
“Spanish trade routes. Colonial activity in the early 1700s. Anything tied to La Reina de Oro. ”
Heather’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. “Ah. Treasure.”
“I prefer ‘historical artifact of immense academic interest.’”
She laughs. “Sure, honey. And I prefer bourbon over boxed wine, but here we are.”
She leads me to a back table, clearing off a stack of coastal development maps and setting a fan to oscillate in my direction.
“Help yourself,” she says. “Just don’t move the red tags, and if you find anything cursed, we don’t talk about it until after lunch.”
“Is that town policy?”
“It's mine.”
I smile and pull on a pair of gloves from my bag. She watches me for another second, then nods once, satisfied, and disappears behind a cabinet humming some old blues tune under her breath.
I settle in, already feeling the pull of buried stories waiting to be uncovered.
I’m elbow-deep in brittle ledgers and forgotten plats when I spot it—a folded parchment tucked behind a mislabeled file. My pulse kicks up. Carefully, I unroll it. A hand-drawn sketch, dated 1682. It’s labeled Pelican Point Outpost, and though the lines are crude, one thing is unmistakably clear: tunnels. An entire network carved beneath the bluff, likely for smuggling, possibly worse. One tunnel leads straight to the shoreline. I trace the route with my finger, and my heart does this ridiculous little skip like it already knows I’m not going to be able to walk away from this quietly.
Cruz would tell me to wait. To loop him in, make a plan, maybe even set up cameras and gear. But Cruz isn’t here. And this? This feels like my thread to pull. My piece of the puzzle. The part of the story that doesn’t need permission to be followed.
So I pack up—journal, flashlight, and a pocketful of stubborn resolve—and head out before I can talk myself out of it. My heart’s thumping with adrenaline and the thrill of the find, overriding every lecture I’ve ever given myself about patience or protocol. I’m not thinking like a historian right now—I’m thinking like a hunter. And this clue? It feels like it’s been waiting for me to chase it down.
Textbook hero move. Also? Textbook idiocy. I know better—and I do it, anyway. That’s the dangerous thing about being right on the edge of something huge. It makes you forget how easily the ground can shift beneath you.
* * *
Time and neglect have half-swallowed the tunnel’s entrance, hiding it behind a tangle of palmetto and salt grass. A half-collapsed arch leans into the shadows like it’s daring someone to disturb it. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I weren’t looking—or if the map wasn’t burned into the back of my brain. The air shifts the second I duck inside. It’s cooler, damp with the weight of something old. The stone walls press in on both sides, rough and weather-worn, with carvings etched into the surface—Spanish script, a few faded symbols. Possibly religious. Possibly warnings. They crawl along the rock like forgotten voices. I snap a few quick photos, heart beating too fast, and step deeper, the incline subtle but steady, the light behind me bleeding out with every step forward.
Halfway in, the earth groans—a deep, bone-rattling sound that vibrates through the soles of my boots and up my spine. It's not the kind of sound that echoes—it hunts. Ancient and heavy, like the tunnel itself is breathing, alive and judging. Like it’s been waiting centuries for someone to disturb its silence, and now it’s awake. I freeze. Every instinct I have flares red. This isn't just history underfoot—it's a predator, coiled and waiting to strike. And me? I just stepped into its den.
It’s a low, grinding sound—like the tunnel itself is waking up angry, debating whether to swallow me whole or just crush me where I stand. Then a crack, sharp and vicious, splits the silence like a gunshot. A spray of pebbles pelts my arm, and my foot slips on unstable soil slick with damp decay. The ceiling groans again, louder this time, followed by a splintering crack as a chunk of rock shears off and slams to the ground behind me. Dust and grit choke the air. My instincts don’t just scream—they roar, full volume, primal and absolute. I bolt without hesitation. Survival overrides everything else.
I run. My sandals slam against the uneven stone, each step a gamble on ground that might give way. The flashlight beam bounces off the narrow walls, throwing jagged shadows that dance like warning signs. I don’t look back—I don’t need to. The grinding roar behind me grows louder, hungrier, like something ancient has finally decided it’s had enough. The tunnel isn’t just collapsing—it’s coming for me. And if I slow down even for a second, I know it’ll win.
Rocks crash behind me in a thunderous roar as I lunge for the arch, diving out a split second before the tunnel implodes in a violent avalanche of stone and earth. The ground shakes beneath me, a shockwave rolling through the floor like an aftershock. A cloud of choking dust blasts from the tunnel mouth, blinding me, clawing down my throat like sandpaper. I can’t breathe. My lungs seize. My heart’s not just pounding—it’s thrashing, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. I collapse to my knees, coughing and gasping, vision swimming, every muscle wired and trembling with adrenaline. I’m out. I made it. Barely. But the danger’s still drumming in my ears like it’s not done with me yet.
And then I hear him—sharp, furious, and unmistakably alive. His voice cuts through the trees like it’s chasing the dust right off my skin, pulling me back from the spiral of fear still clawing at my chest. Relief hits me so hard my knees threaten to give out all over again. I blink up through the haze, the sound of him anchoring me to the here and now, to the fact that I’m alive—and he’s here.
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
Cruz charges through the undergrowth like an entire weather system, eyes wild, chest heaving like he ran the entire way here. There’s dirt on his boots, sweat on his brow, and that pulse in his neck is thrumming like a war drum. He looks half ready to shake me and half ready to drop to his knees just to make sure I’m okay. His hands twitch at his sides like he's not sure whether to pull me in or throttle me. I push to my feet, brushing dirt off my jeans and trying to pretend my heart isn’t still racing—though maybe not just from the tunnel.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice comes out scratchy and a little too breathless. It’s the lie I always default to—short, stubborn, and barely convincing. But the way Cruz is looking at me, like he can see straight through it? Yeah. Not buying it.
He says, “You could have been buried alive,” and his voice conveys not only anger, but also raw, palpable fear. The kind that grips you after the danger’s passed, when your brain finally catches up to what could’ve happened. His eyes search mine, like he needs to see for himself that I’m still standing, still breathing.
“I wasn’t,” I say, because it’s technically true—but it doesn’t come out smug, or sharp. It comes out low and uneven, like I’m realizing how close I came to not being able to say it at all. And the look in his eyes says he knows it, too.
His jaw flexes, tension written all over his face. “You said we’d stick together,” he says, and it’s not just a callout—it’s personal. Like I broke more than a promise. Like I broke something fragile he wasn’t ready to admit he’d handed me.
“I got excited,” I say, the words falling out somewhere between apology and defense. It sounds hollow even to me. Not enough to cover the truth—how I let the thrill take over, how I followed the rush instead of the plan. I sound like a kid trying to justify touching the hot stove twice.
He steps closer, heat rolling off him in waves. “You got reckless,” he says, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through my adrenaline haze. Not loud, not dramatic—just honest. Controlled.
The air between us tightens, thick with all the things we’re not saying. My breath hitches, catching somewhere between fight and surrender. His is already shallow, controlled like he’s hanging onto his last thread of restraint. We’re not touching, but it feels like we are—like the space between us is electric, humming with something we both feel but aren’t ready to name.
“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice low—less command, more confession. It’s not anger that sharpens his tone; it’s something heavier. Protective. Possessive. Rough around the edges like gravel, thick with meaning he hasn’t put into words yet. But I hear it. I feel it. And it lands harder than if he’d shouted.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say, and it comes out softer than I expect—not sarcastic, not defensive. Just a truth I cling to. But even as I say it, I know it's not really what I mean. What I want… is someone who shows up. And he did.
“No,” he says, stepping in until there’s barely a breath between us. “But you’ve got me. And if we’re going to survive this—hell, if we’re going to find anything worth dragging out of that water—we do it together. No solo acts. No rogue missions. Just you and me, side by side.”
I nod. Not because I agree. But because he’s close—too close—and my brain is busy replaying the way his hand just brushed mine as I climbed up. How he didn’t pull away. How neither did I.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and everything inside me short-circuits. The air thickens, heat crawling up my spine like a warning—or a dare. I swear I forget how to breathe. One more second and I’m not sure I’d even remember my own name.
“Promise me, Crystal.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “I promise.”
I rarely make promises—they come with expectations, with weight. But I almost mean this one. Almost because part of me still wants to keep one foot out the door. But looking at him, the way he’s all steady fire and quiet steel, I want to mean it. I really do.
And the way he looks at me then? Like I’m not just part of the mission—but the whole damn reason he's still standing here, fighting the pull to run like hell from everything complicated and dangerous. Like maybe finding this treasure isn’t the actual risk—maybe trusting me is. And he’s willing to take it, anyway.
That’s going to be a problem.
Because the second he steps back, the second that connection breaks, I already know—this isn’t just an expedition anymore. It’s a collision course. And neither of us is walking away without damage.