Page 92 of Beneath the Surface

James Wheeler was arrested at 8:47 PM on a Tuesday night—three days after Dorothy Barrett’s funeral.

Quinn watched it on the news from Dax’s cabin, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She’d been here for three days now, ever since the funeral. Three daysof staring at the same four walls, cut off from everything. Three days of wondering if this would finally be when they arrested Wheeler, and finally it had happened.

The footage showed Wheeler being led out of his downtown office in handcuffs, his expensive suit wrinkled, his face a mask of cold fury.

The reporters swarmed him, shouting questions.

“Mr. Wheeler, did you order the murder of David Barrett?”

“Mr. Wheeler, what do you say to allegations of fraud?”

“Mr. Wheeler, do you have any comment?”

Wheeler stopped, turned to face the cameras despite the officer trying to guide him forward. And he smiled.

It was the smile of a predator. A man who knew he had power even in handcuffs.

“David Barrett was a fine journalist,” Wheeler said, his voice smooth and sincere. “A man dedicated to the truth. It’s tragic that he died pursuing a story eleven years ago. And it’s equally tragic to see his daughter follow in his footsteps—making the same mistakes, chasing the same dead ends.” He paused, his eyes finding the camera. “I hope Ms. Barrett doesn’t meet the same unfortunate fate her father did. These obsessions can be so dangerous.”

Quinn’s blood turned to ice.

To anyone else, it sounded like concern. Like sympathy for a grieving daughter gone off the rails.

But Quinn heard the real message:Back off, or you’ll end up like your father.

The officer pulled Wheeler forward, but he called over his shoulder, “I’ve always believed people should be held accountable for their actions. False accusations have consequences. Serious consequences.”

The screen cut to a reporter. “Wheeler is being charged with multiple counts of fraud, bribery, conspiracy to commit murderin the death of George Preston, and witness intimidation. More charges may be pending as the investigation continues.”

Quinn’s phone rang. Dax.

“Did you see it?” she asked, hating how her voice shook.

“Yeah. I’m at the station now. Wheeler’s being processed.” Dax’s voice was tight with barely controlled rage. “That son of a bitch just threatened you on live television.”

“He made it sound like concern.”

“That’s what makes it effective. To the public, he’s the wronged businessman worried about a grieving daughter. To us, it’s a clear threat.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m still here, at the cabin…like Rapunzel locked away in her tower. But without the tower. Just the isolation. Doors locked, curtains drawn.” Quinn looked around the isolated living room, feeling the walls close in. “How much longer do I have to stay here, Dax?”

“He’ll be arraigned in forty-eight hours. His lawyers will argue for bail.”

“Can they get it? For murder conspiracy charges?”

“I don’t know. He’s got no priors, deep community ties, half the city council in his pocket. Judge might grant house arrest with electronic monitoring.” Frustration bled through every word. “And if he gets out—”

“Then I stay here.”

“Exactly. At least until trial.” He paused. “I know this is hard, Quinn. But you’re safe there. No one knows about the cabin except me, Carson, and Nathan.”

Quinn stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see the dark woods surrounding the property. Miles from town. Miles from anyone. No cell service. The landline Dax had insisted she keep nearby her only connection to the outside world besides the TV and his laptop.

She felt like a prisoner.

“I hate this,” she said quietly. “Being stuck here. Cut off. I should be working on my book, doing interviews, following up on leads—”

“You can write from there. That’s why I brought my laptop.”