Page 22 of Beneath the Surface

“No, but someone sent me a photo of Gran’s house. Taken today.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

The silence on the other end was heavy. When Mercer spoke again, his voice was different. Calmer, but somehow more frightening. “Pack a bag. Now.”

“What?”

“Pack a bag. Clothes for a few days. Medication if you need it. Important documents. Do it now.” Each word was clipped, precise.

“I’m not leaving my grandmother—”

“I’ll arrange for round-the-clock care. But you can’t stay there. If Wheeler knows where you live, you’re not safe.”

Quinn looked around the kitchen. At the photos on the walls—her father young and smiling, her as a child. At the table where she and Gran used to do puzzles. At the home she’d grown up in.

“I can’t just leave.” Her throat felt tight.

“You can and you will. Unless you want to end up like your father.” Mercer’s tone softened slightly. “Look, I get it. You published the article because you want justice. Fine. But justice doesn’t matter if you’re dead. Let me protect you.”

“I don’t need protection. I need—”

A crash from the front of the house cut her off. The sound was massive, violent—glass exploding inward.

Quinn dropped the phone and ran to the living room, her feet sliding on the hardwood. The front window was shattered, jagged edges clinging to the frame like teeth. Glass covered the couch and floor, glittering in the dim light. And lying in the middle of it all was a brick with a note wrapped around it.

Quinn’s hands shook as she picked it up, glass crunching under her shoes. The note was simple, printed in block letters: STOP OR YOU’RE NEXT.

“Barrett? Barrett!” Mercer’s voice shouted from the dropped phone, tinny and distant.

Quinn retrieved it, her fingers numb. “Someone just threw a brick through the window.”

“I’m five minutes away. Don’t go outside. Don’t open the door for anyone. Just stay inside and stay away from the windows.”

“How did you—”

“I was already on my way over when you published that damn article. Stay put.”

He hung up.

Quinn stood in the living room, glass crunching under her shoes with each slight shift of weight. She surveyed the damage with the same analytical eye she’d use at any crime scene she was covering—cataloging details, looking for evidence. The brick. The note. The trajectory of the throw. Professional. Methodical.

But her hands were shaking.

She’d broken stories on corrupt city officials who’d threatened lawsuits. Exposed a human trafficking ring that had resulted in actual death threats to her apartment in Portland. She knew how this worked—publish something that hurts powerful people, and they push back.

But this was different. This wasn’t some politician’s lawyer sending cease-and-desist letters. This was a brick through her grandmother’s window. This was her father’s case. This was personal in a way that made her reporter’s objectivity impossible.

She’d thought publishing the article would help. Would bring attention to her father’s case. Would force the police to investigate.

Instead, she’d just made herself a target.

And maybe—maybe that was exactly what she’d intended. Draw Wheeler out. Make him react. Force his hand.

Well. Mission accomplished.

“Quinn?” Her grandmother’s voice was frightened now, thin and trembling. “What was that noise?”

Quinn straightened her shoulders, pulling on the same composure she used when interviewing grieving families or confronting corrupt officials. She could fall apart later. Right now, Gran needed her steady.

Quinn hurried to the bedroom, careful not to track glass. Gran was sitting up in bed, her thin face pale with worry, her hands clutching the blanket.