Page 23 of Beneath the Surface

“It’s nothing, Gran. Just some kids being stupid. Threw something at the house.” The lie tasted bitter.

“That didn’t sound like kids.”

No, it didn’t. It sounded like a man who’d killed twice and was preparing to kill again.

But Quinn plastered on a smile—the same bright smile she’d used her whole life to hide fear and pain and uncertainty. Her face felt stiff with it. “I promise it’s fine. Detective Mercer is on his way over. He’s going to make sure everything’s okay.”

“That nice detective you mentioned? The grumpy one?”

“That’s him.”

Gran relaxed slightly, her grip on the blanket loosening. “Good. Your father always said cops stick together. If this detective is helping you, you must be doing something right.”

Quinn’s throat tightened, her eyes burning. If her father could see her now—publishing articles about his murder, getting threatening phone calls, putting herself in danger—would he be proud? Or would he be horrified?

Probably both.

“Try to rest, Gran. I’ll handle this.” She smoothed the blanket with trembling hands.

But as Quinn returned to the living room and stared at the shattered window, a steady stream of air already seeping through the gap, she wondered if she could actually handle this. She was an investigative journalist, yes. She’d broken tough stories before, sure. But she’d never had someone threaten her life. Never had bricks thrown through windows. Never felt truly, genuinely unsafe.

Until now.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. Another email. Quinn almost didn’t open it.

But the same curiosity that made her a good journalist won out.

This email had no subject line. Just an attachment.

Quinn clicked it.

And immediately wished she hadn’t.

It was a photo of her father’s crashed car. The one from ten years ago. The one that had killed him. But someone had photoshopped her face onto the driver’s seat. And added text across the bottom. LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.

Quinn’s legs gave out. She sat down hard on the couch, glass crunching beneath her, sharp edges pressing through her jeans. She stared at the image, her vision tunneling. Tears blurred everything.

They were going to kill her. Just like they’d killed her father. And there was nothing she could do about it.

No. No, that wasn’t true. She could stop. Could delete the article. Could publish a retraction. Could run back to Portland and pretend none of this ever happened.

Let Wheeler win. Let her father’s murder go unsolved. Let Thomas Crane’s death be called suicide. Let evil triumph.

Quinn looked at the photo again, her hands white-knuckled around the phone. Her father’s car. Her face.

Then she looked at the brick on the floor. The note. STOP OR YOU’RE NEXT.

Something hardened in her chest. Something that had been soft and optimistic and always looking for the bright side. It crystallized into pure, stubborn determination. Her jaw set. Her breathing steadied.

No.

She wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to back down. Wasn’t going to let fear win.

Wheeler wanted her scared? Too bad. Quinn Barrett had faced foster care as a little girl. Lost both her parents. Had built a career in one of the most competitive industries in the world.Had learned to survive on her own when everyone said she wouldn’t make it.

She could survive this too.

Her phone rang. Mercer again.