Page 47 of Beneath the Surface

“Right. But based on the property sales we’ve documented, it should be worth at least five million. Maybe more.” Quinn highlighted the discrepancy. “He’s hiding assets. Undervaluing his holdings to avoid scrutiny.”

“Can we use this?”

“In court? Maybe. It shows a pattern of deception. Combined with everything else…” Quinn shrugged, her shoulder lifting. “It’s another brick in the wall.”

“You’re good at this.”

The compliment caught Quinn off guard, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. Dax wasn’t exactly free with praise.

“Thanks,” she said, trying not to sound too pleased, though she could feel warmth creeping into her cheeks. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

“How’d you get into investigative journalism anyway?”

Quinn saved the document and sat back, the couch cushion settling beneath her. “I’ve always been angry at something. Even as a kid, before I knew why.” She picked at a thread on the couch cushion, her fingers worrying at the loose strand. “A teacher suggested I channel it into something productive. Recommended I join the school newspaper.”

“And you found your calling.”

“Something like that. Turns out I’m good at digging up dirt and asking uncomfortable questions.” She smiled slightly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “My dad wasn’t always thrilled. Wanted me to be a little less confrontational. But I couldn’t help it. When I see something wrong, I have to try to fix it.”

Dax was quiet for a moment, his posture shifting slightly toward her. “You said you’ve always been angry. Where does that start?”

Quinn was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening on the thread. “When I was five, police found me wandering alone outside an apartment in California. My mother was inside, passed out. Drugs.” She kept her voice light, the way she always did when she talked about it, like the distance in her tone could keep the hurt from showing. “CPS stepped in. My mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell them much about my father, so they opened a file and put me in the system while they looked.”

“How long?”

“A couple of years. Different homes, different families. I was too young to understand most of it, but I understood enough.”She finally released the thread. “Eventually, a caseworker tracked my father down. He came immediately. Didn’t hesitate for a single day. Packed us both up and moved in with my grandmother so I’d have stability. So I’d have a woman in my life.”

“Sounds like a good man.”

“He was.” Her throat tightened. “We had this whole life there. The three of us. Dinner every night at the same table, same chairs. Gran would cook and Dad would set the table and I’d complain about doing the dishes.” She almost smiled, the memory warm even through the ache. “I didn’t appreciate it then.”

“But the anger stayed.”

“It never really left.” Quinn looked down at her hands. “I had everything I needed. A father who loved me, a grandmother who showed up for every school play and baked my birthday cakes from scratch. A real home. But I kept waiting for it to fall apart. Kept pushing to see if they’d send me back.” She paused. “And underneath all of it was this question I could never answer. Why didn’t she want me? What was wrong with me that my own mother couldn’t choose me over a high?”

Dax said nothing. Just listened.

“I tried to find her once. When I was working at theTribune, I had access to databases, search tools. Figured if anyone could track her down, I could.” Quinn’s voice flattened. “Found a death record. Vague on cause, but not hard to guess. Sometime in the months after I was taken away.” She exhaled slowly. “So that was that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I made peace with it. Mostly.” She glanced at him, her amber eyes honest. “It just means the anger had nowhere to go. So I put it into the work. Into finding the truth when peopletry to bury it. Into being the person who asks the questions nobody wants asked.”

Dax shifted slightly closer, the couch dipping under his weight. Not touching, but present. His arm rested along the back of the couch. “Is that why you became so sunny? All the positivity and enthusiasm?”

Quinn laughed, a slightly bitter sound that caught in her chest. “You think it’s an act?”

“I think it’s armor. Like my grumpiness.” His dark eyes watched her carefully.

He wasn’t wrong. Quinn had learned early that being cheerful made people like you. Made them less likely to send you back. Made the world feel less hostile.

Even when it was.

“Maybe,” she admitted, her fingers finally releasing the thread. “Or maybe I just decided that if the world was going to be dark and cruel, I’d be the opposite. Be the light people needed.”

“That’s exhausting.”

“So is being grumpy all the time.”