Page 50 of Beneath the Surface

"She sounds like she was good at that."

"The best." Quinn's throat tightened. "I wasn't easy. I came to them angry and mistrustful and convinced that everyone left eventually. I tested her constantly. Said terrible things sometimes, the way kids do when they're trying to prove they were right to expect the worst." She shook her head slowly. "She never flinched. Never threatened to send me back. Just kept showing up."

"But you still left. Portland."

"When my dad died, I didn't know what to do with myself." Quinn set her fork down, her appetite fading. "Gran was right there, wanting to grieve together, wanting to hold on to what was left. And I just…ran. Told myself it was ambition. A career. A fresh start." She looked at her hands. "But really I did what I always do. Waited for the loss and then got out before I could feel the full weight of it."

"And you didn't come back."

"Twice in ten years." The guilt was a physical thing, pressing against her chest. "She never once made me feel bad for it. Sent cards. Called every Sunday. Saved every article I ever published." Quinn blinked hard, her eyes stinging. "That's why I have to finish this. Because she has spent her whole life loving people who were difficult to love, and she deserves to know her son didn't die for nothing. She deserves to see it mean something before she goes."

Dax reached across the table and covered her hand with his, his palm warm and rough. "We'll get justice. I promise."

Quinn looked at their hands. His was large and scarred and warm. Hers looked small by comparison. Fragile.

But she didn’t feel fragile. Not with Dax here.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “For everything. For believing me. For protecting me. For not treating me like I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. You’re determined. There’s a difference.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth motion.

“Is there? Sometimes, I feel crazy. Like I’m chasing shadows. Seeing patterns that aren’t there.”

“The patterns are there. Wheeler’s just good at hiding them.” Dax squeezed her hand gently, his grip firm but careful. “But we’re better. We’re going to expose him.”

Quinn wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe this would all work out. That Wheeler would go to prison. That her father would get justice. That she and Dax would—

What? Have a future? That was ridiculous. They barely knew each other. Were only together because circumstances forced them to be.

But God, she found a part of herself wanting it anyway.

“We should finish eating,” Dax said, clearing his throat and pulling his hand back again slowly, reluctantly.

They ate in silence. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm. Full of potential energy. Quinn was hyperaware of every sound—the scrape of forks against plates, the quiet chewing, their breathing.

After dinner, Dax washed dishes while Quinn dried, their arms brushing occasionally in the small space. Another domestic moment. Another glimpse of what life could be like if things were different.

“You don’t have to help,” Dax said, his hands deep in soapy water. “I can handle this.”

“I know. But I want to.” Quinn dried a plate and set it in the cabinet with a soft clink. “Besides, I’m going crazy with nothing to do. Research is great, but I need to move around. Feel useful.”

“You are useful. The financial stuff you found today was gold.” He handed her another plate, water dripping from it.

“But it’s not enough. We need more. We need—” Quinn stopped, the towel pausing mid-wipe. “Actually, I have an idea.”

Dax turned off the water, his hands stilling. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”

“Because you assume all my ideas are reckless.”

“Are they?”

“Some of them.” Quinn grinned, her eyes brightening. “But this one’s good. I promise. We need to find Clara Mendez, right?”

“Right.” He turned to face her, his hip against the counter.

“And she disappeared ten years ago. Took her kids and ran. My father’s notes say she was terrified, looking over her shoulder constantly.”

His brows were knitted together. “So?”