Page 2 of Beneath the Surface

The tone sent a chill down Quinn’s spine despite the summer heat. “What is it?”

“Your father.” Her grandmother’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. Quinn had to lean in close to hear. “He didn’t die in an accident.”

The world seemed to tilt sideways.

“What?” Surely, she hadn’t heard right.

“He was murdered, Quinn. I’m so sorry. I should have told you years ago, but I was scared. Scared of what would happen if anyone knew I suspected. Scared of losing you too.”

Quinn’s mind reeled. Her father had died when she was twenty—a car accident on a rainy night, lost control on a curve, went off the road into a ravine. Tragic but simple. An accident.

“Gran, I don’t understand. The police said—”

“The police were wrong. Or maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe they just didn’t look hard enough.” Her grandmother’s grip tightened with surprising strength. “Your father was investigating something. Something dangerous. He kept files hidden in the attic. I found them after he died, but I was too afraid to do anything with them. I hid them back. But you—” She looked at Quinn with eyes that held both love and desperation. “You’re a journalist. You find the truth. You can do what I couldn’t.”

“What was he investigating?”

“I don’t know all the details. Real estate deals, money laundering, corruption. He said people were getting hurt. He was going to expose it all.” A tear slid down her weathered cheek. “And then he died.”

Quinn’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her father had been a quiet man. An accountant. She’d never known him to be involved in anything remotely dangerous. But her grandmother wasn’t delirious—her gray-blue eyes were clear, her voice steady despite its weakness.

“Where are the files?”

“Attic. Hidden in a box marked ‘Christmas decorations.’ The blue one in the back corner.” Her grandmother’s breathing became more labored. “Promise me, Quinn. Promise me you’ll find out what happened. Give your father the justice he deserved.”

“Gran, I—”

“Promise me.” The words came out fierce despite her weakness.

Quinn swallowed hard. Every instinct she had as a journalist was screaming at her to see those files, to chase this story. But the daughter in her just wanted to stay by her grandmother’s side, to soak up whatever time they had left.

“I promise.”

Her grandmother relaxed back into the pillows, a small smile on her lips. “Good girl. Now, I think I’ll rest for a bit.”

Within minutes, she was asleep. Her breathing was shallow but even. Quinn sat holding her hand, her mind racing.

Murdered. Her father had been murdered.

The hospice nurse arrived an hour later—a kind woman named Janell who spoke in soft tones and moved with practiced efficiency. She checked Gran’s vitals, adjusted her medication, and assured Quinn that everything was progressing as expected.

“She’s comfortable,” Janell said gently. “That’s what matters now. It could be days or weeks, but she’s not in pain.”

Quinn nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

After Janell left, Quinn forced herself to eat something—a sandwich she barely tasted. She checked in with her editor in Portland, officially requesting an extended leave of absence. She’d been planning to stay a few days, maybe a week. Now she had no idea how long she’d be here.

As evening fell and her grandmother continued to sleep peacefully, Quinn found herself climbing the narrow stairs to the attic.

The space was exactly as she remembered from childhood—dusty and hot, filled with boxes and old furniture and memories. She picked her way carefully toward the back corner, using her phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path.

There. The blue box marked “Christmas decorations” in her grandmother’s neat handwriting.

Quinn’s hands shook as she lifted the lid. Inside, beneath a layer of old ornaments, was a thick manila folder.

She carried it downstairs to the kitchen table. Made herself a cup of tea she didn’t want. Sat down. Took a deep breath.

Then she opened the folder.