Page 1 of Beneath the Surface

Chapter 1

The first thing Quinn Barrett noticed when she crossed the Blackridge city limits was how nothing had changed. The same faded welcome sign. The same towering pines lining Main Street. The same brick buildings that looked like they’d been there since the town was founded a hundred years ago.

Ten years away, and it was like she’d never left.

Except everything was different now. Because she was different. And because she was coming home to say goodbye.

Quinn’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as she drove through downtown. Her stomach twisted with each familiar landmark. The Brew & View coffee shop where she’d spent every Saturday morning in high school. The old movie theater that showed films six months after they premiered everywhere else. The tiny library where she’d discovered her love of investigative journalism, reading every true crime book on the shelves.

She’d run from this place the second she turned eighteen. Couldn’t wait to shake off the small-town dust and make something of herself in the city. Portland had been everything she’d dreamed—fast-paced, exciting, full of stories that mattered.

But none of that mattered now.

Quinn pulled into the gravel driveway of her grandmother’s house and killed the engine. The little yellow cottage looked smaller than she remembered. The paint was peeling. Thegarden that had once been her grandmother’s pride and joy was overgrown with weeds.

Ten years. She’d stayed away for ten years, visiting only twice. Too busy chasing stories, building her career, proving she was more than just another small-town girl.

The guilt was a physical weight in her chest.

She grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat and forced herself out of the car. July heat radiated off the pavement. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck as she walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

Her key still worked. Of course it did. This was Blackridge, where nothing ever changed.

“Gran?” Her voice echoed through the quiet house.

The living room was exactly as she remembered. Floral couch. Doily-covered side tables. Photographs covering every available surface—most of them featuring Quinn at various ages, smiling gap-toothed or in a graduation cap or holding a trophy from some long-forgotten achievement.

“In here, sweetheart.”

The voice from the bedroom was weak. Thready. Nothing like the strong, commanding tone Quinn remembered.

She dropped her bag by the door and hurried down the hall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d known it was bad—the hospice nurse had been clear on the phone—but knowing and seeing were two different things.

Her grandmother lay in the hospital bed that now dominated the small bedroom. She looked sosmall. Like she’d shrunk into herself, her body barely making a dent in the mattress. Her skin was paper-thin and bruised from IVs. Her hair, once thick and dark, was now white wisps on the pillow.

“Oh, Gran.” Quinn’s throat closed up. She moved to the bedside and took her grandmother’s hand, careful of the IV line. “I’m here. I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Hush now.” Her grandmother’s grip was surprisingly strong. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Quinn sank into the chair beside the bed. She’d been holding it together on the drive—two hours of white-knuckling the steering wheel and forcing herself not to think about what she’d find when she arrived. But now, sitting here, holding her grandmother’s fragile hand, the tears came hot and fast.

“I should have visited more. I should have—”

“You were living your life. Just like you were supposed to.” Her grandmother’s eyes were still sharp despite the illness eating away at her. “I’m so proud of you, Quinn. That article you wrote about the housing corruption—it won an award, didn’t it?”

Quinn’s brows pinched together. “How did you know about that?”

“I read everything you publish. Have your articles all saved.” She nodded toward the dresser. “Top drawer.”

Quinn looked and saw the stack of clippings, neatly organized in a folder. Her chest ached. All those years she’d been so focused on moving forward, and her grandmother had been following every step.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Quinn told stories about Portland—the good ones, the funny ones, leaving out the lonely nights and the cutthroat competition and the feeling that no matter how many bylines she got, it was never quite enough.

Her grandmother listened, smiled, squeezed her hand. But Quinn could see her energy fading. Her breathing became more labored. Her eyelids drooped.

“You should rest, Gran.”

“In a minute.” Her grandmother’s eyes opened, suddenly urgent. “There’s something I need to tell you first. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”