Page 20 of Beneath the Surface

He grabbed his phone and keys, shoving open the truck door with more force than necessary. The metal creaked in protest. His boots hit the pavement hard as he strode toward the station entrance, his shoulders squared, his jaw set.

This was happening. No turning back now.

Chapter 5

Quinn hit “publish” on her laptop and immediately wanted to throw up.

The article was live. On thePortland Tribune’swebsite. Available for anyone to read.

Including James Wheeler.

She sat back in her grandmother’s kitchen chair and stared at the screen. The headline glared back at her:BLACKRIDGE BUSINESSMAN LINKED TO DECADE OF FRAUD: IS THOMAS CRANE’S “SUICIDE” REALLY MURDER?

Her byline sat right underneath. Quinn Barrett, Investigative Reporter.

Target acquired.

“What did I just do?” she whispered to the empty kitchen.

Her phone buzzed against the counter, making her jump. A text from her editor, Manny.Hell of a story, Barrett. Expect this to blow up. You sure about your sources?

Quinn’s hands shook as she typed back.Positive. Everything’s documented.

Good. Because Wheeler’s lawyers are going to come at us hard. Make sure you can back up every claim.

I can.

She set the phone down, her fingers lingering on the screen before she pulled them away. She read through the article one more time, her eyes scanning each paragraph, looking forany weakness, any hole Wheeler’s team could exploit. She’d been careful. Hadn’t directly accused Wheeler of murder—just raised questions. Presented the financial evidence her father had collected. Noted the suspicious timing of two deaths. Let readers draw their own conclusions.

But everyone would know what she was saying. Wheeler would know.

Quinn’s stomach churned. She pressed a hand against it, trying to settle the nausea. She’d spent the past three days working on this article—ever since Detective Mercer had grudgingly agreed to work with her. Well, “work with” was generous. More like he’d given her strict instructions to stay put while he investigated, and she’d decided to publish her findings anyway.

He was going to be furious.

The thought made her feel guilty for about half a second. Then she remembered how he’d dismissed her at the police station. How everyone had dismissed her. How her father and Thomas Crane had died and nobody cared.

This article would make them care.

Her phone rang, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Unknown number.

Quinn’s pulse spiked. She answered, bringing the phone to her ear with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. “Hello?”

Heavy breathing. Then a voice—male, distorted, like someone speaking through a filter. “You made a mistake.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. The kitchen suddenly felt too big, too empty. “Who is this?”

“You should have stayed quiet. Like your father should have stayed quiet.”

The line went dead.

Quinn stared at her phone, her hands trembling so badly the screen blurred. That had been—that was a threat. An actual threat. Her breath came faster, shallow.

She should call the police. Call Detective Mercer. Tell someone.

Instead, she pulled up her article again and read it, forcing her eyes to focus on the words even as her hands shook. Every word. Every carefully documented fact. Her father had died collecting this evidence. She wasn’t going to let some anonymous phone call scare her into silence.

Her phone rang again. Different number.