Page 24 of Beneath the Surface

“I’m pulling up now,” he said. “Stay inside.”

Quinn went to the front window—carefully, avoiding the glass—and peered through a gap in the curtain. A beat-up truck pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the growing dusk. Mercer got out, his eyes scanning the street with the kind of alertness that came from military training, his hand resting near his hip where his weapon would be.

He was at the door in seconds, knocking hard. “It’s me. Open up.”

Quinn unlocked the door. Mercer pushed inside immediately, his shoulder brushing past her, closing and locking it behind him with a decisive click. His eyes went to the shattered window, the brick, the glass everywhere. Then to her face.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Peachy.” But her hands were still shaking.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “This is what I was trying to prevent.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I know. You were right. I was wrong. Can we skip the lecture and figure out what to do now?”

Mercer studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers. Then he nodded. “Show me everything. Every threat you’ve received.”

Quinn pulled up the phone calls, the emails, the messages. Mercer documented each one, taking photos with his phone, making notes.

When he got to the photoshopped image of her father’s car, his expression went dark. “He’s escalating. Phone calls and emails are one thing. But this—” He gestured at the brick. “This is physical. He’s getting bolder.”

“What do I do?”

“You leave. Tonight. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

“I can’t leave my grandmother.”

“I’ll arrange protection. Harper Sinclair—FBI agent, works profiling—she owes me a favor. I’ll have her send someone to stay with your grandmother. Medical care, security, everything.”

Quinn wanted to argue. Wanted to say she could handle this herself. But looking at the shattered window, at the threatening messages, at Mercer’s grim expression…she knew she couldn’t.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Mercer’s eyebrows rose. “Okay? Just like that? No argument?”

“I’m stubborn, not stupid,” she said with a small sneer, her lip curling. “Wheeler’s serious. He’s going to kill me if I stay here.”

“Finally, some sense.” Mercer pulled out his phone, his thumb already scrolling. “Pack a bag. I’m calling this in, getting some people over here to secure the scene and watch your grandmother.”

Quinn nodded and headed to the guest bedroom. She pulled out her old duffel bag—the one she’d used for moving to Portland, canvas worn soft at the handles—and started throwing in clothes. Not enough for a long stay, but enough for a few days.

She grabbed her laptop, chargers, toiletries. The essentials. Her hands moved on autopilot, her mind already three steps ahead.

Then she went to her grandmother’s room.

Gran was awake, watching her with knowing eyes. “You’re leaving.”

“Just for a little while. Until things settle down.”

“Things like whoever threw that brick?”

No point lying. “Yes.”

Gran reached out a thin hand, the skin papery and spotted with age. Quinn took it, sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath her.

“Your father would be proud of you,” Gran said softly. “He’d also tell you to be careful.”

“I’m trying.”