Page 4 of Beneath the Surface

But Quinn had never backed down from a story. And she wasn’t about to start now.

She checked on her grandmother one more time. Gran was still sleeping, her breathing steady. Quinn kissed her forehead gently.

“I’ll find the truth,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Then she went to the guest bedroom and lay down, though she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Her mind was too full. Her heart was too heavy with grief and anger and determination.

Tomorrow, she’d start asking questions. Tomorrow, she’d become the thorn in James Wheeler’s side that her father had been.

Tomorrow, she’d find out what really happened the night her father died.

But tonight, she lay in the darkness of her childhood home and let herself feel everything—the loss, the fear, the rage, and underneath it all, a fierce resolve that burned like a flame in her chest.

Justice was coming for James Wheeler.

And her name was Quinn Barrett.

Chapter 2

The thing about death scenes was that they always told a story. You just had to know how to read them.

Detective Dax Mercer stood in the center of Thomas Crane’s home office, hands in his pockets, and read.

The overturned chair. The rope marks on the ceiling beam. The body—now removed, but he’d seen it. Crane hanging there, face purple, eyes bulging. The medical examiner had ruled it suicide within an hour. Case closed. Move on.

Except nothing about this scene said suicide to Dax.

He crouched down, studying the floor. The carpet showed drag marks—subtle, but there. Someone had moved furniture recently. The desk was positioned wrong, too far from the window. And the rope burns on the beam were inconsistent with the body weight distribution.

Dax had seen plenty of death. Too much of it. Enough that it rarely got to him anymore. But sloppy work? That pissed him off.

This was murder dressed up as suicide. And everyone was buying it.

He stood, his knee clicking—one of many souvenirs from his time in the service. The July heat made his scars itch beneath his long-sleeved shirt. He never wore short sleeves anymore. Didn’t need people staring. Didn’t need their pity or their questions or their thank-you-for-your-service bullshit.

He’d done his duty. Lost friends doing it. Come home with more metal in his body than he’d left with. That was the end of the story.

“Find something, Mercer?”

Dax turned to see Officer Pete Newbery in the doorway. Young guy. Eager. Thought every case was exactly what it looked like on the surface.

“Maybe.” Dax didn’t elaborate. No point until he had proof.

“ME already ruled it suicide. Captain wants us to wrap this up.”

“I’m sure he does,” he said dryly.

Pete shifted his weight. “You think it’s something else?”

“I think Thomas Crane was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man with no history of depression, a successful business, and a wife who says he was in good spirits the night before he died.” Dax gestured at the scene. “And I think this setup looks wrong.”

Pete’s brows pinched in the middle. “Wrong how?”

“Just wrong.” He didn’t know how to explain it, so he didn’t bother trying. Dax moved toward the desk, careful not to disturb anything. “Did anyone check his files? Computer? Phone records?”

“Captain said not to waste resources on a suicide.”

Of course he did. Captain Darius Holloway was a good man, but he was overworked and understaffed. He wanted clean, simple cases that closed quickly. A prominent businessman committing suicide was tragic but tidy. No investigation needed. No media circus. No budget concerns.