Page 59 of Beneath the Surface

“Sleeping. Comfortable.” Quinn moved to the sink, filled a glass with water. Her movements were mechanical. “Nathan says maybe a few more days. Maybe less.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? You didn’t make her sick.” Quinn drank the water in three long gulps, her throat working. Set the glass down harder than necessary. “Is there coffee?”

“Just made some.”

“Of course you did.” There was an edge to her voice. Not quite anger. Something sharper. “Always prepared. Always in control. Must be nice.”

Dax poured her a mug, slid it across the counter. Quinn took it without meeting his eyes.

The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Full of things neither would say.

“I’m going to organize the evidence,” Quinn said finally. “We should know what we have before we meet with the DA.”

“It’s after midnight. You should sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” A lie. The exhaustion was written in every line of her body—slumped shoulders, tight jaw, the way she held herself like she might break. “Besides, someone needs to do it.”

“I can—”

“I need to do this, Dax.” She finally looked at him, and the hurt in her amber eyes made his chest tight. “I need to focus on something I can control. Something that makes sense. Because today—” She broke off, shook her head. “Never mind.”

She grabbed her coffee and the first evidence box and carried them to the dining table. Spread out papers with sharp, precise movements. Not looking at him.

Dax watched her for a moment. Wanted to go to her. Wanted to apologize for being an emotional coward. Wanted to explain that he was terrified of caring about her because everyone he cared about ended up hurt or dead.

But Quinn didn’t want his explanations. She wanted consistency. Honesty. Things he was apparently incapable of giving.

So he did the only thing he could. He grabbed the second evidence box and sat across from her at the table. Not beside her—that felt too presumptuous after today. But close enough to help.

Quinn’s jaw tightened when he sat down. But she didn’t object. Just pushed a stack of bank statements toward him.

“Start with these. Look for patterns. Large transfers, shell companies, anything suspicious.”

“Got it.”

They worked in silence. The only sounds were papers rustling, Quinn’s pen scratching notes, the occasional clink of coffee mugs being set down.

Dax tried to focus on the documents. Tried not to notice how Quinn tucked that loose strand of hair behind her ear every few minutes. Tried not to watch her bite her lower lip when she was thinking. Tried not to notice when she shifted in her chair and their knees almost touched under the table before she quickly pulled back.

Failed at all of it.

Every detail about her was branded into his brain. The way she tapped her pen against her notebook when she found something interesting. The slight furrow between her eyebrows when she was concentrating. The soft sigh when she stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders to relieve tension.

“Stop staring at me,” Quinn said without looking up.

Dax’s chest tightened. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it.” She finally met his eyes, her expression guarded. “If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, focus on the evidence.”

Dammit, she was right. He sighed. “I’m sorry. About today.”

“Which part? The part where you pulled away in the truck? The part where you told me caring about people is what got my father killed? Or the part where you grabbed me in Seattle and acted like you cared after all?” Her voice was sharp, her anger on a tight leash that he sensed was close to snapping. “Be specific, Detective.”

There was that formality again. That distance.

“All of it.” Dax set down the document he’d been holding. “I’m sorry for all of it. I keep—I’m sending you mixed signals. Pushing you away and then pulling you close. It’s not fair to you.”