Page 10 of Beneath the Surface

“Oh my God,” Quinn whispered.

She jumped up from the table, pacing the small kitchen. Her mind raced, connecting dots, building the story.

Wheeler was laundering money through fake real estate deals. Her father and Thomas Crane discovered it. They were going to expose him. Wheeler had them killed and made it look like accidents.

It was perfect. Horrible, but perfect.

Quinn grabbed her phone, fingers flying over the screen as she typed notes. She needed to verify everything. Talk to people who knew her father. Find out who Crane had been planning to testify against. Get bank records, property records, anything that would prove the connection.

But first, she needed to tell someone. Someone with authority who could actually do something about it.

That grumpy detective from yesterday. What was his name? Mercer. Detective Dax Mercer.

He’d been investigating Crane’s death scene. He’d taken it seriously, even though everyone else was calling it suicide. Maybe he’d listen to her theory. Maybe he’d actually investigate instead of dismissing her like everyone else always did.

Quinn was naturally optimistic—her friends often joked that she could find a silver lining in a thunderstorm—but she’d learned the hard way that not everyone appreciated her enthusiasm. Especially cops. They tended to see journalists as nuisances at best, enemies at worst.

But she had to try.

She checked on her grandmother—still sleeping—then grabbed her bag and headed out. The Blackridge Police Department was a ten-minute drive from her grandmother’s house. Quinn had been there exactly once as a teenager when she’d found a lost wallet and turned it in, but it was easy to find.

The building looked the same as she remembered: squat brick structure, American flag fluttering in the breeze out front, parking lot half full even at eight in the morning.

Quinn pulled into a visitor spot and gave herself a quick pep talk in the rearview mirror.

“You can do this. You have evidence. You have a solid theory. Just present the facts calmly and professionally. Don’t let anyone intimidate you.”

Even if that someone was six-foot-three of solid muscle and bad attitude.

She grabbed her bag containing copies of her father’s key documents and headed inside.

The reception area was small and utilitarian. Beige walls. Hard plastic chairs. A bored-looking woman behind a thick glass partition.

The receptionist sat behind a desk cluttered with file folders and coffee-stained paperwork, her fingers flying across the keyboard without pause. She was maybe fifty, gray-streakedhair pulled back in a tight bun that looked like it gave her a permanent headache. She didn’t look up.

“Can I help you?” The question came out automatic, bored.

Quinn’s palms were already sweating. “I need to speak with Detective Mercer. It’s about the Thomas Crane case.”

The woman’s fingers froze mid-keystroke. She lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing as they swept over Quinn—taking in her jeans and rumpled blazer, the canvas bag slung over her shoulder stuffed with file folders. Her expression shifted from glazed disinterest to sharp curiosity, with a hint of wariness around the edges.

“You family?” Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

“No, I’m—” Quinn shifted her weight, the canvas bag suddenly feeling heavier. “I have information relevant to his investigation.”

The receptionist reached for the phone without taking her eyes off Quinn, like she might bolt if she looked away. “Name?”

“Quinn Barrett.”

The woman’s manicured nail sporting chipped red polish jabbed at the phone buttons. She turned slightly away, voice dropping to a murmur Quinn couldn’t quite make out. Through the receiver she caught a male voice, clipped and impatient.

The receptionist hung up. Her gaze flicked back to Quinn, then away. “Someone will be out in a minute.”

Quinn nodded, throat tight, and moved toward the row of plastic chairs bolted to the wall. The overhead fluorescents hummed, casting everything in that harsh institutional light that made everyone look slightly ill. She sat down, gripping the strap of her bag, and tried not to think about what she’d say when Detective Mercer actually appeared.

Ifhe appeared.

Quinn tried not to fidget as she waited for what felt like forever. Around her, the station hummed with activity. Phones ringing. People in uniform moving past. The smell of burnt coffee and old paperwork.