Page 55 of Beneath the Surface

“It caught me off guard—”

“Bullshit. You’ve been pulling away from me for days. Every time we get close, every time there’s a moment, you shut down.”

Now there was an edge to her voice. Anger breaking through the hurt. “Is it because you’re scared? Because everyone you care about gets hurt?”

“Yes.” The word came out harsher than intended. “That’s exactly why. I’m not good for you, Quinn. I’m damaged and broken and—”

“And what? Incapable of human connection? Incapable of being touched without flinching?” Quinn shook her head, a sharp, frustrated movement. “That’s bullshit, Dax. You’re using your trauma as an excuse to push people away.”

His jaw clenched, and then he snapped, “Maybe I am. But at least they stay alive that way.”

“That’s not living. That’s existing.” Her hands curled into fists in her lap. “You can’t protect yourself from pain by shutting everyone out. You just end up alone. And being alone doesn’t keep you safe. It just means you’re suffering by yourself.”

“Caring gets people killed.” The words were harsh. Defensive. “Your father cared. He tried to do the right thing. And Wheeler murdered him for it.”

Quinn flinched as if he’d slapped her. “Wheeler killed my father. He died because he was brave enough to fight for what was right. You’re using his death as an excuse to be a coward.”

Dax grimaced and stared far down the road. “I’m sorry. That was—” Dax rubbed his jaw, frustrated with himself. “That was out of line.”

“Yeah. It was.” Quinn turned back to the window, arms crossed again. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just get this done.”

The silence for the rest of the drive was even worse than before. Tense and angry and full of things neither of them would say.

Dax wanted to apologize. Wanted to explain that he was terrified of caring about her because the thought of losing her was unbearable. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up with years of guilt and self-preservation.

So he said nothing. Just drove and hated himself for hurting her.

***

They reached Seattle just before nine. The city was already awake—traffic building, sidewalks filling with morning commuters. Dax circled the block twice, his eyes scanning every face, every parked car, every window overlooking the bank.

“See anything?” Quinn asked. Her voice was back to cool professionalism.

“Nothing obvious. But that doesn’t mean we’re clear.” He pulled into a parking garage two blocks away. “We walk from here.”

The Bank of the Northwest was modern. All glass and steel, reflecting the morning sun. Security cameras covered every angle.

Dax held the door for Quinn, a habit he couldn’t shake. His hand moved toward her lower back—another habit—thenhe caught himself. Dropped his arm. Maintained that careful distance.

Quinn noticed. Of course she did. Something flickered across her face—hurt, quickly masked.

Inside, morning customers lined up at teller windows. The safe deposit box area was in the back, behind a security door with a card reader glowing red.

They approached the customer service desk. A woman in her fifties smiled at them. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

“We need to access a safe deposit box,” Quinn said. Her voice was steady, professional. You wouldn’t know she was scared unless you noticed how tightly she gripped her documents. “Box 247. It was rented by my father, David Barrett.”

She pulled out the death certificate, her birth certificate. Her hands were only slightly shaky.

The woman examined the documents, then disappeared into a back office.

Dax scanned the bank. A businessman on his phone. An elderly couple at a teller window. A young mother with a stroller. All looked normal.

But normal didn’t mean safe.

He shifted his weight, his hand instinctively moving near his concealed weapon. Quinn stood beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Close enough to smell that floral shampoo.

She tucked that loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her leg bounced slightly.