Page 36 of Beneath the Surface

“Assistance I don’t need.” But his hands flexed at his sides, betraying his frustration.

“Liar.” Quinn crossed her arms, a barrier between them. “You need my father’s research. You need my investigative skills.You need access to databases and sources that cops can’t get. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Dax’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching so hard she could see the muscle cord in his neck. “What I need is for you to stay alive long enough to testify against Wheeler when we build this case. Everything else is secondary.”

The words hit Quinn harder than expected, like a fist to her chest. Stay alive. Testify. That’s what she was to him—a witness. Evidence. Not a partner or colleague or even a person, really. Just someone he had to protect because it was his job.

“Right,” she said quietly, her arms falling to her sides. “Because that’s all that matters.”

Something flickered across Dax’s face, his expression softening for just a fraction of a second. Regret, maybe. But it was gone before Quinn could be sure, his jaw setting hard again.

“Go to bed, Barrett.” His voice was tired now, the edge gone.

“Stop calling me that.” The words came out sharper than she intended.

“It’s your name.”

“It’s also what you call suspects and witnesses and people you’re interrogating.” Quinn snapped the folder from the table and moved toward the bedroom, needing distance, needing air. “My name is Quinn.”

She closed the door behind her before he could respond, the soft click of the latch somehow more final than if she had slammed it.

Back in bed, Quinn stared at the ceiling again, her heart still racing. But this time, instead of thinking about bombs and death, she was thinking about Dax Mercer. About his intensity and protectiveness and the way he looked at her like she was simultaneously the most frustrating and most important person in the room.

God, she shouldn’t be attracted to him. He was grumpy and bossy and clearly saw her as a liability.

But there was something about the way he’d moved to catch her when she’d swayed earlier. The way he’d made dinner without asking what she wanted, just providing. The way he’d given up his bed without hesitation.

Actions, not words. That was who Dax Mercer was.

Quinn rolled over, the sheets rustling, and grabbed her father’s folder from the nightstand where she’d set it. The worn manila edges were soft under her fingers. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Might as well read.

Clara Mendez’s interviews were detailed. She’d been an office manager at a commercial property that Wheeler had purchased. She’d seen the transaction documents. Had noticed irregularities. When she’d mentioned it to her boss, he’d told her to keep quiet and forget about it.

A week later, the boss died. Heart attack, ruled natural causes.

Clara had been terrified. Had wanted to go to the police but was too scared. Then David Barrett had found her, convinced her to talk.

The last interview was dated two days before her father’s death.

Quinn’s stomach knotted, acid rising in her throat. Had Clara been the reason Wheeler killed her father? Had her father gotten too close to something Wheeler couldn’t allow to be exposed?

She flipped to the next page, the paper whispering against her fingers, and froze.

It was a note in her father’s handwriting—that familiar slant she’d know anywhere.Clara called. Says someone’s been following her. She’s scared. Going to help her relocate. Meeting her tomorrow at—

The sentence ended there. Unfinished. The pen stroke trailing off like he’d been interrupted.

Because tomorrow never came. Her father died that night.

Quinn’s hands shook, the page trembling as she kept reading. She found another loose page stuffed in the back of the folder, the edges torn. Different handwriting—feminine, shaky, pressed hard into the paper as if fear had guided the pen.

David—if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead too. He knows I talked. I don’t know how, but he knows. I’m leaving town tonight. Taking my kids and running. Don’t try to find me. Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. And David—be careful. These people don’t forgive. They don’t forget. Get out while you still can. Please. —Clara

The note was dated the day after her father’s death.

Clara had known. Had tried to warn him. But it was too late.

Quinn felt tears burn her eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the words. Her father had died trying to help a scared woman and her children. Died trying to do the right thing.