Page 21 of Beneath the Surface

Quinn stared at it, her thumb hovering over the answer button. Let it go to voicemail. Then it rang again. And again.

By the fifth call, she stopped picking up the phone. Just watched the screen light up over and over, the vibrations rattling against the counter. Different numbers each time. Some left voicemails—heavy breathing, distorted threats, one that just said “dead girl walking” over and over until the message cut off.

Quinn’s chest felt tight. Her sunny disposition was taking a serious beating, replaced by something cold and sharp in her stomach that might have been fear or maybe even anger. She couldn’t quite tell anymore.

She blocked each number as it appeared, her fingers moving mechanically across the screen, but they kept coming. Whoever was doing this had access to multiple phones. Or was spoofing numbers. Either way, they wanted her scared.

It was working.

Quinn forced herself to breathe. In through the nose—her breath shuddered on the inhale. Out through the mouth. The technique her therapist had taught her for managing anxiety. She’d needed it a lot after her father died. Needed it even more now. Her hands pressed flat against the counter, grounding herself.

Her laptop chimed from the living room. Email notification.

Quinn’s head snapped toward the sound, her whole body tensing.

She opened it with a heavy sense of dread, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

The subject line:You’re next.

The body of the email contained a single photo. Her grandmother’s house. Taken from across the street. Today, based on Quinn’s car in the driveway.

Someone was watching her.

Quinn jumped up from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. She rushed to the front window and peered out through the curtains.

The street looked normal. Quiet. A few parked cars. Mrs. Henderson watering her garden two houses down. Nothing suspicious.

But someone had been out there. Taking photos. Watching.

“Quinn?” Her grandmother’s weak voice drifted from the bedroom. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Quinn forced herself to sound calm. “Everything’s fine, Gran. Just got startled by a noise. Go back to sleep.”

She heard the bed creak as her grandmother settled back down. Good. Gran didn’t need to know about this. She was already dying. She didn’t need to spend her last days terrified.

Quinn checked all the doors, her fingers testing each lock twice. Locked. Windows. Also locked. She closed all the curtains, moving from room to room with quick, jerky movements, turning the sunny cottage into a dim cave.

Her phone rang again. This time it was Detective Mercer.

Quinn answered, her heart already pounding. “I know you’re mad—”

“What the hell did you do?” His voice was tight with anger, barely controlled. “I told you to stay put. To not do anything without clearing it with me first.”

“I’m a journalist. I published a story. That’s my job.” She paced the kitchen, unable to stand still.

“Your job is going to get you killed!” She could hear him moving, probably pacing too. Footsteps, a door slamming. “Wheeler knows now. He knows you’re investigating. He knows you have evidence. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means the truth is out there. It means people will start asking questions. It means—”

“It means you just painted a target on your back!” Mercer’s voice rose, sharp enough to make her flinch. “Wheeler’s killed twice. What makes you think he’ll hesitate to kill again?”

Quinn’s bravado wavered. She stopped pacing, one hand gripping the counter. “I’ve been getting threats. Phone calls. Emails.”

“Jesus Christ.” A long pause. She could hear his breathing, heavy and frustrated. “Since when?”

“Since about ten minutes after the article went live. Different numbers, different messages, but all basically saying the same thing—I should have kept quiet.”

“Any physical threats? Anyone approach you in person?”