Page 49 of Beneath the Surface

“Financial records.” His voice was rougher than before.

“Financial records. Good. Yes.” She clicked through screens without really seeing them, the words blurring. “I think we should also look at Wheeler’s business associates. See if any of them have suspicious deaths or disappeared witnesses.”

“Good idea.” Dax stood and moved back to the kitchen table, his chair scraping loudly in the quiet cabin. Distance. Safety.

Quinn told herself she was glad. This was professional. They were working a case together. Nothing more.

Even if her body was screaming that it wanted to be more.

The afternoon passed with them focused on research. Quinn cross-referenced names while Dax made phone calls and sent emails, his voice a low murmur in the background. By dinnertime, they’d identified three more suspicious deaths connected to Wheeler’s business dealings.

“This guy’s a serial killer,” Quinn said, staring at the timeline she’d created on her notepad, the dates and names forming adamning pattern. “Not in the traditional sense, but still. He’s killed at least six people that we can prove. Probably more.”

“And gotten away with it for over a decade.” Dax pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, the cool air wafting out. “We need something ironclad. Something his lawyers can’t explain away.”

“What about Clara Mendez? If we could find her, get her to testify—”

“I’m working on it. But if she’s been hiding for what, ten years? She’s not going to be easy to find.” Dax started chopping vegetables, the knife hitting the cutting board in a steady rhythm. “And even if we find her, she might not be willing to testify. Fear makes people do a lot of things. Including stay silent.”

Quinn watched him cook, her chin propped on her hand. He moved with the same methodical precision he brought to everything. Measuring ingredients, checking temperatures, timing everything perfectly. No wasted movements.

“You’re good at that too,” she observed.

“Cooking?” He glanced up briefly, his hands never pausing.

“Being self-sufficient. Taking care of yourself. Most guys I know can barely make toast.”

“Army teaches you to be resourceful. Can’t always rely on a mess hall or MREs.” He glanced at her, his expression lighter. “You cook?”

“I can. Not as well as you, probably. But I won’t starve.” Quinn moved to the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her hip pressed against the edge. “Want help?”

“You can set the table.”

It was such a domestic request. Normal. Like they were a couple living together instead of a detective and witness hiding from a murderer.

Quinn pushed that thought away and gathered plates and silverware, the ceramic cool in her hands. The table was small, just big enough for two. Intimate.

“My grandmother used to cook dinner every night,” Quinn said, setting down the plates with soft clinks. “Even when my dad was alive. She’d insist we all eat together. No TV, no phones. Just family.”

“Sounds nice.” The oil in the pan sizzled as he added the vegetables.

“It was. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. Thought it was boring. But now—” Her voice caught, her throat tightening. “Now I’d give anything for one more dinner with them.”

Dax set the spatula down and turned off the stove, the flame dying with a soft whoosh. “How’s your grandmother doing?”

“Agent Torres says she’s stable. Comfortable. The nurse practitioner has been great.” Quinn blinked back tears, her vision blurring. “I should be there with her. These are her last days and I’m hiding in a cabin.”

“You’re staying alive. That’s what she wants.” He turned to face her fully, his expression gentle.

“I know. But it doesn’t make it easier.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Dax turned off the stove and plated the food—stir-fry with chicken and vegetables, simple but good, the steam rising in fragrant curls. He set a plate in front of Quinn and sat across from her, the chair creaking.

"Tell me about her," he said, his voice quiet. "Your grandmother."

Quinn was surprised by the request, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. Dax wasn't usually one for small talk.

"She's strong," Quinn said, setting her fork down. "Raised my dad by herself after my grandfather died. Worked two jobs to keep food on the table. Never complained. Never gave up."She took a bite of food, chewing slowly. "When my dad finally found me and brought me home, she just…opened her arms. No hesitation. No resentment that this little damaged kid was suddenly her responsibility too. She just made room."