Page 101 of Beneath the Surface

And she was here, in this house, with a federal agent sleeping in the guest room and a murderer out there somewhere planning his next move.

Quinn dragged herself out of bed. Her eyes felt gritty and swollen from crying. Her head ached. Every muscle in her body was tight with tension she couldn’t seem to release.

But she got up anyway.

Downstairs, she found Nathan in the kitchen, fully dressed despite the early hour, a cup of coffee in his hand and his weapon visible in its holster.

“Morning,” he said. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Quinn poured herself a cup, wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, and let the normalcy of it settle over her. This was okay. She could do this.

“What’s the plan today?” Nathan asked.

Quinn took a sip of coffee—hot and strong and exactly what she needed. “Work. I need to finish my book. Get it to my editor.”

“The book about your father’s investigation?”

“Yeah. The whole story. Wheeler’s crimes. The cover-up. Everything.” Quinn set down her cup. “If something happens to me—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“But if it does,” Quinn continued firmly, “the story needs to be out there. The truth needs to be on record.”

Nathan studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. But you work here, in the house. No trips to the library or coffee shops or anywhere else without me.”

“Deal.”

“And if I say we need to move, we move. No arguments.”

Quinn thought about arguing just on principle, then decided against it. Nathan was being reasonable. Professional. Treatingher like an adult who could make her own decisions within the bounds of basic safety.

It was everything Dax hadn’t been.

“Deal,” she said again.

After a small breakfast, Quinn set up her workspace at the dining room table—the same table where she and Dax had sorted through her father’s evidence, where they’d found the letter and the key to the Portland safe deposit box.

She spread out her notes, opened her laptop, and for the first time in a week, felt like she could breathe.

This. This was what she needed. Not isolation and protection and controlled environments.

Work. Purpose. The ability to do something instead of just waiting.

Quinn opened her manuscript file and started to write.

The words came slowly at first, rusty from disuse. But then they started flowing. Faster. Smoother. Her fingers flying across the keyboard as she poured everything onto the page.

Her father’s investigation. Clara’s testimony. The pattern of Wheeler’s crimes stretching back decades.

The truth.

Hours passed. Quinn barely noticed. She was in that zone writers talk about—where time stops mattering and the world narrows to just the words and the story and the desperate need to get it all down before it slips away.

Nathan checked on her periodically, moving through the house with quiet efficiency. She heard him on the phone once, speaking in low tones to someone—probably Torres, coordinating Clara’s protection detail.

Around two in the afternoon, Quinn’s phone rang.

Manny. Her editor.