Page 6 of Beneath the Surface

A woman stood in the backyard, pointing a camera at the house. She was taking pictures of the office window. Of the exact spot where Crane’s body had been found.

What the hell?

Dax was out the back door in seconds.

The woman didn’t notice him at first. She was focused on her camera, adjusting settings, taking shot after shot. She was young—maybe thirty—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Casual clothes—jeans and a light-blue T-shirt. Pretty, if you noticed that kind of thing.

Dax noticed. Then immediately wished he hadn’t.

“This is a crime scene,” he said, his voice hard.

She jumped, nearly dropping her camera. When she turned to face him, her eyes were wide. Light brown, almost amber in the sunlight.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“That’s why you’re trespassing? Because you didn’t think anyone would catch you?” His tone was sharp, forbidding.

Her expression shifted from startled to defensive. “I’m not trespassing. I’m standing on public property.” She gestured to the property line. “This is city easement.”

Technically true. Dax’s jaw tightened. “And taking photos of a private residence because...?”

“I’m a journalist,” she said, matching his tone.

Of course she was. Dax felt his already thin patience evaporate completely. Journalists. They were all the same—vultures circling tragedy, exploiting grief for clicks and ratings.

“Then you know you need permission to photograph private property. And you definitely need permission to photograph a death scene.”

“I’m not photographing the scene. I’m photographing the house.” But her expression said she knew exactly what she’d been doing.

Dax took a step closer. He was a big man—six-three, two hundred pounds of muscle and scar tissue. He knew how to use his size to intimidate when necessary. Usually, he felt bad about it.

Right now, he didn’t.

“Delete the photos.”

“Excuse me?”

“Delete them. Now. Or I arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”

She raised her chin, meeting his glare with surprising defiance. “There is no investigation. The medical examiner ruled it suicide. Case closed.”

How the hell did she know that? The ruling had only come down an hour ago.

“That doesn’t give you the right to—”

“I have every right to photograph anything visible from public property. First Amendment. Look it up.” She clutched her camera protectively. “And I’m not deleting anything.”

Dax’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to argue. Wanted to pull rank. Wanted to do something to wipe that stubborn expression off her face.

But she was right. Legally, she hadn’t done anything wrong. He had no grounds to arrest her or confiscate her camera.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Quinn Barrett. I write for thePortland Tribune.” She said it like he should be impressed.

He wasn’t.