Page 46 of You Can Run

“Pelican Club. Back booth.”

The line went dead.

“Pelican Club,” Jessica said. “You know where that is?”

Dante shook his head, already getting out.

He walked to the edge of the parking level and braced one hand against the low wall, looking out over the harbor. The marina stretched below—docks, low buildings, a strip of bars strung along the waterfront. The Pelican Club would be down there somewhere.

He came back to the car. “We're walking.”

Jessica studied him. “You don't want to drive?”

“I don't want that car anywhere near wherever this guy operates out of. If Miller's real, he's survived this long because people can't find him. We roll up in a car like this, we're telling everyone on the waterfront exactly where to look.”

She nodded once, accepting it.

He headed for the stairwell and she fell into step beside him, her hand finding his without hesitation.

The ring pressed cold against his skin.

Dante looked down at their hands for half a second. Then he laced his fingers through hers and kept walking.

Jessica expected the Pelican Club to be some shady dive bar hidden down a fishy back alley, but to her surprise it was one of the larger establishments on the waterfront, with bright signage, a wide deck overlooking the marina, and a steady stream ofpeople coming and going like it was just another busy lunch spot.

Nothing about it saidhideout. If anything, it felt exposed.

“That’s it?” she murmured.

Dante slowed beside her, his gaze moving over the building, the crowd, the open sightlines. “That’s what the sign says.”

He didn’t sound convinced.

They stood there for a second longer than necessary, both of them taking it in: the families, the boaters, the waitstaff weaving through tables with trays held high. It was loud, open, and ordinary.

Which somehow made it worse.

“Maybe that’s the point,” Jessica said quietly.

Dante didn’t answer. He just reached for the door and pulled it open.

Inside, the heat wrapped around her immediately. The smell hit next: fried seafood, beer, salt air drifting in from the deck. The place was busy but not chaotic, the kind of afternoon crowd that didn’t pay much attention to anyone who wasn’t part of their table.

Still, Jessica felt it. The way a few heads turned. The way her reflection flashed back at her in a mirror behind the bar, sequins catching the light, completely out of place. Dante’s shirt helped, but not enough to make her invisible.

Beside her, Dante shifted slightly closer.

“Back booth,” he said under his breath.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” he said. “He said it. That’s all we’ve got.”

They moved deeper into the room, past the bar, past a cluster of high tables, toward the quieter stretch along the far wall where the lighting dimmed and the noise dropped just enough to make conversations feel more private.

There were three booths at the back. Two were occupied. The third had a man sitting alone, a hat pulled low, a drink in front of him. He wasn’t doing anything unusual, he was just sitting there like he belonged.

Jessica hesitated for half a step.