Chapter One - Isabella
The pier stretches into the night, pointing toward the Atlantic, its boards glowing under swaying strings of warm white lights. Salt air carries the scent of fried shrimp from nearby food trucks and the distant, mournful horns of shrimp boats heading home. I arrive two hours early to perfect every detail of the Lowcountry collection preview. My emerald silk dress brushes my legs as I move, heels clicking with purpose across the wooden planks.
This exhibit is more than art. It is heritage—Gullah stories rendered in bold strokes of marsh tides and family gatherings, antique sea glass fragments glowing like captured suns. Each piece carries the patient hands of generations who shaped these shores. I left the fast-paced museum world in Charleston for Tidehaven to bring these works home where they belong. Tonight, they will finally shine.
I reposition a tall sea glass sculpture so it catches the light just right, then step back to survey the centerpiece: a rare Gullahpainting whose vibrant colors seem to pulse with life. My fingers brush its edge. A quiet thrill runs through me.
A faint unease has lingered all evening, though, nothing I can name. A collector who inquired too aggressively about the centerpiece last week. A shadow that seemed to linger too long near the power junction box when the crew was setting up. I tell myself it is only nerves.
Margaret, one of the event coordinators, approaches with her clipboard. “Lighting looks perfect now, Isabella. The committee is already buzzing about the crowds this will draw.”
“Thank you,” I say, managing a smile. “These pieces deserve to be seen and understood.”
We speak briefly about champagne stations and the timing of my remarks. As she walks away, I continue my circuit, greeting early arrivals with genuine warmth while keeping one eye on the security team stationed at the edges. Officer Daniels gives me a reassuring nod when I check in.
“Everything secure?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am. Cameras are live. We’ve got eyes on every approach.”
His words should settle me. They don’t.
Guests trickle in as the sky deepens to velvet. Conversation hums pleasantly, champagne flutes clink, and the air fills with jasmine from the planters and the ever-present brine of the ocean. Mrs. Eleanor Thibodeaux arrives on the arm of her grandson, her eyes lighting up at the sight of a sweetgrass painting.
“Isabella, darlin’, this is breathtaking,’ she says, leaning in. ‘My grandmother told stories just like this one. You have brought our history right here to the pier where it should be.”
Her grandson stands politely beside her, offering a charming smile and asking a few thoughtful questions aboutthe centerpiece. He seems genuinely interested—almost too interested
We speak for a moment about family connections in the art. More guests arrive, and the pier fills with the pleasant rhythm of the evening I have planned so carefully.
Then the lights flicker.
One moment, the pier glows golden. Next, complete darkness swallows us. Gasps ripple through the crowd. My stomach clenches.Not now. Not tonight.
Emergency lights snap on, bathing everything in a harsh red glow that turns magic into menace. Three men in black emerge from the shadows like ghosts. One carries a compact duffel. Another grips a pistol. They move with chilling purpose straight toward the centerpiece Gullah painting.
My heart slams against my ribs. This is no random blackout.
The lead thief reaches the display case in three strides. A muffled crack splits the air as glass shatters inward. He grabs the painting by the frame and turns to make his escape. Screams erupt. Tables topple. Champagne spills across the boards in glittering puddles. People scatter.
I don’t think. I seize the nearest sturdy pedestal, a tall sea glass sculpture, and shove with all my strength. It crashes sideways into the path of the second thief, catching him hard across the shins. He stumbles and curses behind his mask. I step in and drive my elbow into the side of his face. The impact jars up my arm.
Before I can pull back, a hot streak of fire slices across my upper arm. A stray shot from the third thief grazes me. Blood blooms against the emerald silk.
Pain flares sharp and bright, but adrenaline keeps me moving. The thieves are already retreating, the stolen painting clutched tightly. The one I tripped limps after the leader, while the third covers their escape with sweeping pistol motions.
A burly security guard launches himself at the rearmost man, tackling him to the boards in a tangle of limbs and shouts. More guards rush in, radios crackling. The remaining two thieves vanish into the shadows near the docked boats.
The main lights surge back on, harsh and unforgiving. I press my palm to the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers and dripping onto the weathered planks. Guests cluster in shocked groups, some crying, others already on their phones. Sirens wail closer from the mainland road, red and blue lights flashing in the distance.
My phone vibrates inside my clutch. With trembling fingers, I pull it free. The screen lights up with a single chilling message from an unknown number:
Return what’s ours, or the next bullet finds your heart.
The words sink into me like ice. My knees threaten to buckle, but I lock them in place. Whoever orchestrated this wants far more than the painting.
Police cruisers pull up in a rush of lights and slamming doors. Uniformed officers swarm the area. A detective in a rumpled sport coat arrives shortly after and introduces himself as Detective Reed. He pulls me aside to a quieter section of the pier.
“Miss Monroe, walk me through exactly what happened from the moment the lights went out.”
