Page 94 of Beneath the Surface

CHAPTER 18

Quinn was staring at the same knot in the pine wood paneling when she heard the crunch of gravel outside.

The sound made her heart kick against her ribs—part anticipation, part dread. She knew that sound. Had heard it twice a day, every day, for the past week. The particular rattle of Dax’s truck taking the turn from the main road onto the long gravel driveway. The way the engine noise changed as he slowed, navigating the ruts and potholes he kept meaning to fill but never did.

Thirty seconds, she’d learned. That’s how long it took from the first crunch of gravel to the sound of his boots on the porch steps.

Quinn counted in her head.One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Her hands were clammy where they gripped the arm of the couch. The worn fabric had a rough texture under her fingertips—she knew because she’d traced the pattern of it approximately eight thousand times in the past seven days. This couch. This same spot. This same knot in the wood paneling directly across from her that looked vaguely like a screaming face if you stared at it long enough.

And Quinn had stared at it long enough.

Seven Mississippi. Eight Mississippi.

The cabin smelled like pine and dust and the faint lingering scent of the eggs she’d scrambled for breakfast. The same breakfast she’d eaten yesterday. And the day before. And theday before that. Because the groceries Dax brought followed the same rotation—eggs, bread, that pre-shredded cheese, the protein bars he thought she liked but really just tolerated because there was nothing else.

Fifteen Mississippi. Sixteen Mississippi.

Outside, a crow cawed. She’d counted forty-three trees from the living room window this morning. Logged it in the notebook she’d started keeping to track...what? Time? Her sanity? The slow erosion of her identity?

The truck engine cut off.

Quinn’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t move. Didn’t turn toward the door. Just kept staring at that knot in the wood, at the grain that swirled around it like water circling a drain.

Car door opening. The distinctive creak of the driver’s side—she knew that sound too.

Her heart was hammering now, her pulse loud in her ears. Because she knew what was coming. Had known since this morning when she’d woken up at 6:47 AM—she knew the exact time because she’d been awake at 6:45, 6:46, every minute ticking by on the digital clock beside the bed—and realized she couldn’t do this anymore.

Couldn’t spend another day in this cabin.

Another hour.

Another minute.

Car door shutting. Footsteps on gravel.

Quinn’s throat was tight. Her chest felt like someone had wrapped bands of steel around it and was slowly tightening them, notch by notch, until she couldn’t expand her lungs fully. She’d felt that way for three days now. Ever since Dax had casually mentioned at dinner that the trial had been pushed back.

Sixty more days.

On top of the four months she’d already been bracing herself for.

Six months total. Minimum.

One hundred and eighty days in this cabin.

Four thousand, three hundred and twenty hours.

Quinn had done the math. Had written it in her notebook with increasingly erratic handwriting because what else was there to do?

Boots on the porch steps now. One. Two. Three.

She knew there were seven steps. Had counted them. Had memorized the way the third one from the top creaked slightly to the left. Had catalogued every sound and sight and smell of this place until she could map it in her sleep.

Which she did. Frequently. Because even her dreams now took place in this cabin, these walls, this same couch and that same knot in the wood.