Page 27 of Beneath the Surface

“That is my bedroom. I just won’t be using it while you’re here.”

Quinn set her bag down with a soft thud and looked around, those amber eyes taking in the sparse furniture, the security monitors on the side table, the lack of personal touches. Her expression was hard to read. Not quite scared, not quite comfortable. Something in between.

Dax understood. Being in a strange man’s home, miles from anywhere, completely dependent on him for safety—it would make anyone nervous. Even stubborn journalists who thought they could handle anything.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly uncertain what to do with them. “But it’s safe. That’s what matters.”

“I know. I’m just...processing.” Quinn wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching slightly. “This morning Iwas at my grandmother’s house, working on an article. Now I’m in hiding because someone wants to kill me. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah. It is.” Dax moved to the kitchen, his boots heavy on the wood floor, and started making coffee. He needed something to do with his hands, needed the familiar ritual to settle his thoughts. “But you’re alive. That’s what counts.”

“For how long?”

The question hung in the air. Dax measured coffee grounds into the filter, the rich scent filling his nose as he focused on the precise movements. Taking his time before answering.

“As long as it takes to build a case against Wheeler and put him away. Could be days. Could be weeks.” He started the coffeemaker, the machine hissing to life. “But you’ll be safe here. I promise you that.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” Dax turned to face her, his shoulders squaring. “I’ve kept people alive in war zones. I’ve defused bombs while under fire. I’ve survived things that should have killed me. Keeping one journalist safe in a secure location is something I can do.”

Quinn studied him for a long moment, her head tilting slightly. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m very good at my job.”

“And humble too.”

Despite everything, Dax felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Almost a smile. The muscles felt rusty, unused to the expression. “Humility’s overrated. Results matter.”

The coffeemaker gurgled and sputtered. Dax pulled down two mugs from the cabinet—mismatched, chipped, but clean. Poured coffee into both, the dark liquid steaming, and handed one to Quinn. Their fingers brushed as she took it.

She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Thank you. For this. For protecting me. For taking me seriously when no one else would.”

Dax shrugged, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with gratitude. “Your theory was solid. Your father did good work. Someone needed to follow up on it.”

“But you’re the only one who did.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve never been good at following orders when the orders are wrong.” He took a sip of coffee—strong and bitter, the way he liked it, scalding his tongue. “Captain wanted the Crane case closed. I disagreed. Simple as that.”

“Will you get in trouble? For investigating anyway?”

“Probably.” Dax didn’t particularly care. He’d been in trouble before. Would be again. It was part of who he was—the guy who couldn’t let things go, even when he should. He rolled his shoulders, releasing tension.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, thumb swiping across the screen. A text from Harper Sinclair.

Agents are at the grandmother’s house. She’s secure. Nurse says she’s comfortable and stable.

Dax turned the phone so Quinn could see the message. Relief flooded her face, the tension in her jaw releasing.

“Thank God. I was so worried about leaving her.”

“She’s in good hands. Harper wouldn’t send anyone but the best.” Dax drained his coffee in two long swallows, the heat burning down his throat, and set the mug in the sink. “I need to head back into town. Check on a few things. You’ll stay here.”

“What things?”

“Your car, for one. Want to make sure Wheeler didn’t tamper with it before we moved you.”

Quinn paled, the color draining from her cheeks. “You think he might have?”