Page 136 of Beneath the Surface

Together.

CHAPTER 24

Six weeks later, Quinn sat in the front row of the courtroom and watched James Wheeler’s face as the jury foreman stood to deliver the verdict.

Six weeks since that night in the warehouse. Six weeks since Dax had nearly died saving her. Six weeks of recovery and physical therapy and legal proceedings that had consumed every waking hour.

The courtroom was packed—standing room only, reporters lining the walls, cameras outside waiting for the moment Wheeler would be led away in handcuffs or walk free on some technicality his expensive lawyers had manufactured.

But Quinn wasn’t worried about technicalities.

She’d spent the past six weeks watching DA Sanders build an airtight case. Watching witness after witness take the stand and dismantle Wheeler’s carefully constructed facade of respectability. Watching the mountain of evidence grow until it was undeniable, irrefutable, overwhelming.

Wheeler sat at the defense table in another expensive suit, his silver hair perfectly styled, his expression calm and confident. But Quinn could see the tension in his shoulders. Could see the way his hands gripped the edge of the table just a bit too tightly.

He knew.

Judge Patricia Keppler—the same judge who’d granted Wheeler bail all those weeks ago—looked stern and unforgiving now as she addressed the jury foreman.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.”

The courtroom went silent. So silent Quinn could hear her own heartbeat, could hear the rustle of fabric as reporters leaned forward, could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Beside her, Dax’s hand found hers. His left arm was still in a sling—would be for another month, the doctors said—but his right hand was steady and warm as it wrapped around hers.

He’d been released from the hospital after two weeks. Had spent another four weeks in outpatient physical therapy, relearning how to move his shoulder, how to cope with the nerve damage that might never fully heal.

But he was here. Alive. Hers.

“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of David Barrett, how do you find?”

The foreman—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense expression—looked directly at Wheeler as she spoke.

“We find the defendant guilty.”

Quinn’s breath left her in a rush. Beside her, she felt Dax’s hand tighten.

Guilty. For her father’s murder. After eleven years. Finally, finally—

“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Leesa Fine, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

Dax made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob. Quinn squeezed his hand harder.

“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Thomas Crane, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of George Preston, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

It went on. Charge after charge. Murder after murder. Conspiracy. Kidnapping. Attempted murder of a police officer. Witness tampering. Fraud. Bribery.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.