Page 40 of Beneath the Surface

Dax shook that thought from his head. He didn’t need to notice her that way.

She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, squinting against the morning light filtering through the windows.

Then she spotted him and her expression hardened into defiance, her spine straightening, shoulders pulling back. Not so vulnerable after all.

“Morning,” Dax said neutrally, his voice rougher than usual.

“Morning.” Quinn moved to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup with unsteady hands, the liquid sloshing slightly. She took a long drink before speaking again, her eyes closing briefly as the caffeine hit. “Are you still mad?”

“I wasn’t mad.”

“You seemed pretty mad.” She leaned against the counter in a way that drew Dax’s attention with her meaning to, wrapping both hands around the mug as if she needed the warmth.

“I was concerned. There’s a difference.” Dax distracted himself and pulled eggs and bread from the refrigerator, the cold air a shock against his face. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually.” Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, and color rose in her cheeks.

He started cooking. Scrambled eggs, toast. Simple but filling. A task he could do even when distracted. The eggs sizzled inthe pan, butter melting and foaming. Quinn sat at the table and watched him work, her chin propped on her hand, steam from her coffee curling up toward her face.

“You’re a good cook,” she observed.

He snorted. “I can make about five things. This is one of them.” He stirred the eggs with practiced efficiency, the spatula scraping against the pan.

“What are the other four?”

“Spaghetti. Chili. Steak. And something that’s supposed to be chicken parmesan but usually ends up being chicken with cheese on it.”

Quinn smiled—actually smiled, her whole face lighting up. The first real smile he’d seen from her since the brick through the window. It transformed her face, softened those sharp edges of fear and determination, made her look less like a scared journalist and more like a woman who could find joy even in difficult circumstances. Her amber eyes caught the morning light, warm and bright.

Dax looked away quickly, focusing on the eggs with more attention than they needed. He didn’t need to notice things like that. Didn’t need to think about how her smile made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

She was a witness under his protection. That was all.

“I need to go into town this morning,” he said, plating the food with deliberate movements, the fork scraping against the ceramic. “Meeting with my captain. He knows I’m investigating against orders.”

“Are you in trouble?” Her smile faded, concern replacing it.

“Probably.” Dax set a plate in front of her, the toast landing with a soft clink against the eggs. “But I’ve got evidence now. The bomb changes things. This is attempted murder. He can’t ignore that.”

Quinn picked at her eggs with her fork, pushing them around without eating. “What if he orders you to stop investigating anyway?”

“Then I have a choice to make.” He sat across from her with his own plate, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Which is?”

Dax sat across from her with his own plate, his elbows on the table. “Follow orders and let Wheeler get away with murder. Or keep investigating and lose my badge.”

“You’d really risk your career for this?” She finally took a bite, chewing slowly.

“I’ve already risked my career for this. Took you into protective custody without authorization. Called in FBI favors. Investigated a closed case.” He took a bite of toast, the crunch loud in the quiet cabin. “I’m already committed. Might as well see it through.”

Quinn studied him with those observant eyes, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? You could have let it go. Let the Crane case stay closed. Let me figure it out on my own.” She set her fork down and leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. “But you didn’t. You investigated. You protected me. You’re risking everything for a case nobody wants you to solve. Why?”

Dax chewed slowly, considering his answer, the taste of eggs and butter bland on his tongue. He could give her the easy one—that it was his job, that he’d seen evidence of murder, that any good cop would do the same.