Page 137 of Beneath the Surface

Eighteen separate counts. Eighteen guilty verdicts.

By the time the foreman finished reading, Wheeler’s face had gone gray. His expensive lawyers looked shell-shocked. His hands, gripping the table, were shaking.

Judge Keppler banged her gavel as the courtroom erupted—reporters rushing for the doors, families of the victims crying or cheering, Wheeler’s few remaining supporters looking stunned.

“Order!” Keppler’s voice cut through the chaos. “Order in this court!”

The noise died down gradually. Keppler looked at Wheeler with an expression of cold disgust.

“Mr. Wheeler, you have been found guilty on all counts. Sentencing will be held two weeks from today. Until then, you are remanded into custody without bail. Bailiff.”

Two officers moved forward. Wheeler stood on shaky legs as they cuffed him. No expensive suit could hide the defeat in his posture now, the way he seemed to have aged a decade in the span of minutes.

As they led him past Quinn’s row, Wheeler’s eyes found hers.

For just a moment, they stared at each other.

Quinn saw rage there. Hate. Blame.

She looked back with steady calm. With the certainty of someone who’d survived his worst and come out stronger.

“This is for my father,” she said quietly. Loud enough for only Wheeler to hear. “And for everyone else you destroyed.”

Wheeler’s mouth twisted. He opened it to speak—

“Keep moving,” the bailiff said, pulling him forward.

And then Wheeler was gone, led through the side door toward the holding cells, toward prison, toward the rest of his life behind bars.

Quinn sat down hard, her legs suddenly unable to hold her. Her whole body was shaking—not with fear this time, but with release. With the weight of eleven years finally lifting from her shoulders.

“We did it,” she whispered. “Dad, we did it.”

Dax’s arm came around her—careful of his still-healing shoulder but strong, solid. “You did it,” he corrected gently. “This was your fight. Your investigation. Your father’s evidence.”

“Our fight.” Quinn turned to face him. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You could have. You would have.” Dax’s dark eyes were bright with emotion. “You’re the strongest person I know, Quinn Barrett.”

Around them, the courtroom was emptying. DA Sanders was giving a statement to reporters outside—Quinn could hear her voice through the open doors, confident and clear. Clara Mendez was being escorted out by Agent Torres, finally free to live her life without fear. Carson was shaking hands with other officers, accepting congratulations.

But Quinn only had eyes for Dax.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

Home. The word felt different now. Felt possible in a way it hadn’t for weeks.

Quinn’s home—her grandmother’s house—had been repaired and cleaned. The broken locks fixed. The blood scrubbed away. The memories...those would take longer.

But it was home. And she was reclaiming it. Making it hers. Making it theirs, slowly, as Dax spent more and more nights there during his recovery.

They stood and made their way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and dodging reporters’ questions. Outside the courthouse, the autumn air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of winter.

Nathan was waiting by Dax’s truck. He’d driven them here since Dax still couldn’t drive with one arm in a sling. He looked better now, the bruising from his concussion faded to yellow-green, the stitches removed from where they’d split his scalp open.

“Guilty on all counts,” Nathan said. It wasn’t a question.

“All of them.” Quinn felt giddy suddenly, light-headed with relief and joy and the sheer impossibility of it actually being over. “He’s going to prison, Nathan. For the rest of his life.”