Page 102 of Beneath the Surface

She almost didn’t answer. But Manny had been patient with her through all of this—through her father’s investigation consuming her time, through the delays, through everything.

It had been his idea, really—back when she'd called him in a panic after the bombing, needing someone outside the chaos to talk to. She'd told him everything, the whole story spilling out because she couldn't hold it alone anymore. He'd gone quiet on the other end of the line, and when he finally spoke, his voice had that particular pitch she recognized from a dozen pitch meetings.

“Quinn. This is bigger than an article. This is a book.”

She'd laughed at the time, told him she had no time to write a book while she was busy not dying. But the idea had taken root anyway.

“Quinn!” Manny’s voice was warm and concerned. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay.” Quinn saved her document, just in case. “Working on the manuscript. Should have it to you by end of week.”

“That’s...fast. Are you sure? I don’t want you to rush—”

“I’m sure.” Quinn looked at the pages and pages of text on her screen. “It’s ready. It needs to be out there.”

“Okay.” Manny’s voice shifted to business mode. “I’ve been in touch with some publishers. The interest is huge, Quinn. Massive. This story—Wheeler’s arrest, the charges, your personal connection—it’s exactly the kind of thing that breaks through.”

Quinn felt a flutter of something in her chest. Not quite hope. Not quite fear. Something in between.

“There’s already talk of a bidding war,” Manny continued. “And I’ve had three separate production companies reach out about adaptation rights. They’re calling it the next ‘Serial.’”

“It’s not entertainment,” Quinn said, her voice harder than she’d intended. “It’s my father’s life. His death.”

“I know. I know that.” Manny’s voice gentled. “But Quinn, this story matters. And if telling it in multiple formats means more people understand what Wheeler did, what he got away with for so long, isn’t that worth it?”

Quinn closed her eyes. Thought about her father. About all those witnesses on the USB drive. About Clara hiding for eleven years.

About Leesa Fine, who’d tried to expose Wheeler and died for it.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “It’s worth it.”

After she hung up, Quinn sat at the table and stared at her manuscript file.

This was real. This was happening.

Her story—her father’s story—was going to be published. Read by thousands, maybe millions of people.

Wheeler wouldn’t be able to hide anymore. Wouldn’t be able to charm his way out of it or buy his silence or threaten people into submission.

The truth would be out there, permanent and undeniable.

Quinn felt something fierce and hot burn in her chest.

Good.

Let Wheeler see what happened when you pushed someone too far. When you took everything from someone and left them with nothing to lose.

She opened her manuscript again and kept writing.

The sun was setting by the time Nathan came to check on her again.

“You should eat something,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

Quinn looked up, blinking in the gathering darkness. When had it gotten dark? “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

Eight. She’d been writing for ten hours straight.