Page 63 of Beneath the Surface

At eleven-thirty, Quinn emerged from her grandmother’s room. She’d changed into black slacks and a burgundy blouse—professional armor. Her hair was down now, falling in waves past her shoulders. She’d put on minimal makeup, but it couldn’t quite hide the shadows under her eyes.

She looked beautiful and exhausted and so far away it hurt.

“I’m going to organize my notes for the DA meeting,” she said to the room in general. Not looking at Dax specifically.

“I’ve compiled the financial evidence,” Dax offered. “Cross-referenced the shell companies with property transactions.”

“Good.” Quinn sat at the far end of the table. Pulled out her laptop. “Send me the file.”

“I can walk you through—”

“Just send it. Please.” Her tone left no room for argument.

Dax sent the file. Watched her open it and start reviewing, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Taking notes in that precise way she had. Completely focused. Completely closed off.

They worked alongside each other for an hour. Not together. Just...near each other.

Carson called around noon. “DA’s ready. Two o’clock sharp. She’s interested, Mercer. Really interested.”

“Good. We’ll be there.”

After he hung up, Quinn spoke without looking up from her laptop. “I’ll drive separately. Meet you there.”

“We should go together. Safety in numbers.”

“I’ll be fine. FBI agents are still watching the house.” Her tone was final. “I need...I need some space.”

The words stung more than they should have.

“Okay.” Dax’s voice came out rougher than intended. “But call me when you’re five minutes out. I want to know you got there safe.”

Quinn’s fingers paused on the keyboard. For a moment, he thought she might soften. Might look at him.

But she just nodded and kept typing.

At one-thirty, Quinn grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Dax followed her outside—couldn’t help himself.

“Quinn, wait.”

She stopped on the porch, her back to him. Shoulders tense.

“Be careful. Wheeler knows we have evidence. He might make a move.”

“I know how to be careful.” She turned slightly, not quite facing him. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, Detective.”

Detective. That formality was a knife between his ribs.

“I know you have. I just—” He struggled for words. “I care if something happens to you.”

“Do you? Because last night you said you can’t even try to—” She broke off, shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you at the DA’s office.”

She walked to her car without looking back. Dax watched her go, hands clenched at his sides.

He wanted to call her back. Wanted to say he was sorry. That he was an idiot. That he’d been thinking about her words all night—about trying, about taking risks, about life being too short for fear.

But fear was all he had. Fear and the certainty that caring about people got them killed.

So he let her drive away.