Page 37 of Beneath the Surface

And Clara had disappeared. Gone into hiding. Probably still running, ten years later.

Quinn wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her cheeks wet, and read the note again. Then she reached for her phone on the nightstand, remembered it was dead and dismantled, and cursed under her breath, the word sharp in the quiet room.

She needed to find Clara Mendez. It was a physical ache in her chest, pressing against her ribs with every breath. Needed to know if she was still alive, still safe, still running after all these years. Needed to hear her story, hear what her father had died trying to protect.

But she couldn’t do that from this cabin. Couldn’t do anything locked away in these woods while Wheeler walked free.

Quinn looked at the closed bedroom door, a thin line of light visible underneath, that sliver of yellow the only thingseparating her from Dax. He was on the other side, probably still awake, still working on the case with that relentless focus she’d seen. She could hear the faint sound of his laptop keyboard—irregular clicks and pauses, the occasional creak of the couch as he shifted his weight.

He’d said she couldn’t leave. Said he’d arrest her if she tried.

But he was also exhausted. Had been running on adrenaline and duty for days now. Eventually, he’d have to sleep. The keyboard sounds would stop. The cabin would go quiet.

Quinn knew it was a bad idea. Knew Dax would be furious. Knew she was putting herself in danger—Wheeler had just tried to kill her with a bomb, for God’s sake.

But she also knew she couldn’t just sit here doing nothing while her father’s murder went unsolved. While Clara Mendez stayed hidden, terrified, alone with the truth.

Her father had died for this. Had died trying to help Clara escape. The least Quinn could do was finish what he’d started.

She was a journalist. Finding people, getting them to talk, exposing the truth—that was what she did. What she was good at. What gave her life meaning.

Even when it was dangerous.

Especially when it was dangerous.

Quinn set the folder aside, her fingers lingering on the worn cover, and lay down. But she didn’t close her eyes. She listened. Waited. Her heart thumped steadily against her ribs, adrenaline making her hyperaware of every sound. After an hour, the sounds from the main room stopped. No more typing. No more footsteps. No more shifting weight on the couch springs.

Just silence. Heavy and complete.

She waited another thirty minutes to be sure, counting her breaths, watching the line of light under the door. Then slowly, it went dark. He’d turned off the lights.

Quinn lay still for ten more minutes, her muscles tense, before she finally moved.

She got up, dressed quietly in jeans and a sweater, her movements slow and deliberate. Every sound seemed amplified—the whisper of fabric, the soft pad of her feet on the floor. She gathered her things with shaking hands. Her father’s folder. Her wallet.

This was stupid. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing Dax had warned her not to do.

But Clara Mendez was out there somewhere. Scared. Hiding. Maybe with information that could finally bring Wheeler down. Maybe still waiting for someone to finish what David Barrett had started.

Quinn couldn’t let that go. Wouldn’t let her father’s death be for nothing.

She opened the bedroom door slowly, inch by careful inch. The hinges didn’t creak. In the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains in from the kitchen window, she could see Dax on the couch, his back to her, one arm hanging over the edge. His breathing was deep and even, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep.

Asleep. Finally.

Quinn felt a stab of guilt, sharp and uncomfortable. He’d been taking care of her, protecting her, working himself to exhaustion to keep her safe. Had given up his bed, made her dinner, sat with her through a panic attack.

And she was about to betray that trust.

Her throat tightened. Her chest ached with something that wasn’t quite fear.

But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t be the person who just waited while others did the work. That wasn’t who she was. Wasn’t who her father had raised her to be.

She moved silently toward the door, her socked feet barely whispering against the floor. Took the truck keys from the hook— They jingled softly and she froze, holding her breath, but Dax didn’t stir. Reached for the locks with trembling fingers.

“Don’t.”

Dax’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Not sleepy. Not groggy. Fully alert.