Page 135 of Beneath the Surface

It wasn’t perfect. They had a long way to go. Therapy probably. Hard conversations. Learning to trust each other in new ways.

But it was real. And it was theirs.

Quinn pulled out her phone and turned it back on. The messages flooded in. Manny asking if she was okay, if the book was still happening. Nathan checking in from the hospital where he was being treated for his concussion. Carson sending updates about the case.

And one from an unknown number with a 212 area code.

Quinn opened it.

Ms. Barrett, this is Casey Flores fromTheNew York Times. I’d like to talk to you about your investigation into James Wheeler and tonight’s events. Are you available for an interview?

The New York Times.

Quinn stared at the message for a long moment. Then she started typing.

Yes. But the story doesn’t run until the book is finished. And I want final approval on the piece. Those are my terms.

The response came back almost immediately.

Deal. When can we talk?

Quinn smiled—small, but real.

After I finish visiting someone in the hospital. I’ll call you tomorrow.

She put the phone away and stood, muscles protesting after hours of sitting. She needed sleep. Needed food. Needed to go home and shower and change out of her blood-stained clothes.

But first, she was going to sit with Dax for a few more minutes. Rules be damned. The nurse could throw her out if she really wanted to.

Quinn walked back through the corridors, back to the ICU, back to Dax’s room.

He was sleeping now, his breathing deep and even, the monitors beeping their steady rhythm. The color was a bit better in his face. The fever hadn’t spiked.

He was going to be okay.

They were both going to be okay.

Quinn pulled the chair close to his bedside and settled in, her hand finding his again.

“We did it,” she whispered to his sleeping form. “We got him, Dad. We got Wheeler. Justice for you. Justice for all of them.”

Outside the window, dawn was breaking over Blackridge. The first light of a new day washing away the darkness.

Quinn watched the sunrise and held Dax’s hand and let herself believe, finally, that the nightmare was over.

That they had a future.

That love—real, imperfect, hard-fought love—was worth all of it.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “Through the recovery. Through the trial. Through all of it. Stay with me, Dax Mercer. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

His fingers tightened around hers—just barely, but enough.

Enough to tell her he heard.

Enough to tell her he wasn’t going anywhere.

Enough to tell her they were going to be okay.