Page 35 of Beneath the Surface

“My father’s files have names,” she said quietly. “People he interviewed. Witnesses who saw things. Some of them might have information that could help.”

“I’ll follow up with them.”

“They won’t talk to a cop. Not about this. Wheeler’s powerful. He has connections. People are scared.” Quinn moved closer. “But they might talk to me. David Barrett’s daughter. A journalist who’s trying to finish what he started.”

Dax’s jaw clenched. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Everything about this is dangerous. At least let me try.” Quinn pulled out her father’s folder she’d brought with her from the house. “There’s a woman here. Clara Mendez. She worked atone of the properties Wheeler bought. My father interviewed her three times. She must have known something important.”

Dax took the folder from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly, and flipped through it. The pages rustled as he found Clara’s interview notes, his eyes scanning quickly.

“She said the sale was suspicious. That the buyer offered way more than the property was worth. That her boss seemed scared to refuse the sale.” Dax looked up, his dark eyes sharp. “Your father noted that Clara seemed nervous. Kept looking over her shoulder. Wouldn’t meet in public.”

“Exactly. She was scared. But she talked to my father anyway.” Quinn felt her conviction solidify, her spine straightening. “I need to talk to her. Find out what else she knows.”

“Not happening.” His jaw set, immovable.

“Dax—”

“No. Final answer.” He set the folder down with deliberate care, his palm pressing flat against it as if physically closing the discussion. “I’ll contact Clara Mendez myself. As a police officer conducting an official investigation. You will stay here.”

Quinn wanted to argue. Wanted to push back. But she could see in his expression—the hard line of his mouth, the unyielding set of his shoulders—that this wasn’t negotiable.

“Fine,” she said, her arms crossing over her chest. “But I want to know what she says.”

“We’ll see.” He turned away, dismissing her.

“That’s not good enough.” Her voice rose, sharper.

“It’s what you’re getting.” Dax moved toward the couch and the blanket he’d set up there, his footsteps heavy, deliberate. “Now go back to bed. It’s late.”

Quinn didn’t move, her feet planted on the floor. “You know, pushing me away isn’t going to keep me safe. It’s just going to make me more determined to investigate on my own.”

“You’re not investigating on your own.” He stopped, his back still to her, his shoulders tensing. “You’re in protective custody.”

“Which isn’t the same as arrest. I can leave anytime I want.” She lifted her chin even though he wasn’t looking at her.

Dax turned, his expression dangerous. “Try it. See what happens.”

It should have scared her. Instead, Quinn felt a thrill run through her. She was pushing his buttons, and she knew it. But damn it, she wasn’t going to be sidelined. Not when her father’s murder was finally being investigated.

“I’m not your prisoner,” she said, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“No. You’re a civilian under police protection who’s going to follow orders if she wants to stay alive.” Each word came out clipped, controlled.

“Or what? You’ll arrest me?”

“If I have to.” He closed the distance between them.

They were standing close now. Too close. Quinn had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tension coiling through his shoulders. He was furious with her.

Good. At least fury was honest.

“You can’t arrest me for wanting to help,” Quinn said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper in the charged air between them.

“I can if you interfere with an investigation.” His voice matched hers, low and rough.

“I’m not interfering. I’m offering assistance.”