Page 97 of Beneath the Surface

“It’s not ideal,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm, “but—”

“Not ideal.” Quinn laughed, and the sound was sharp. Jagged. “That’s what you’re calling this? Not ideal?”

She moved toward him, and her whole body was trembling now. Not just her hands. All of her. Like she was vibrating apart at the molecular level.

“I know it’s hard—” Dax started.

“Do you?” Quinn cut him off. “Do you really? Because you get to leave. You go to work every day. See people. Do your job. Havea life. Have conversations that aren’t about how long I have to stay locked up. Have thoughts that aren’t about four walls and forty-three trees and knots in the fucking wood paneling!”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Dax’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t feel safe,” she hissed.

The words came out before Quinn could stop them. Before she could think about what they meant or how they’d land.

But once they were out, she couldn’t take them back.

And she didn’t want to.

“I don’t feel safe,” she said again, quieter now but somehow more intense. “I feel buried. I feel like I’m already dead and just waiting for it to be official.”

Dax’s eyes widened slightly. Hurt flashing across his face before he could hide it.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said.

And there it was.

The thing that made Quinn’s hands curl into fists.

The dismissal. The condescension. The implication that her feelings—her very real, very valid terror and claustrophobia and slow-building hysteria—were just histrionics.

Just drama.

Just Quinn being difficult.

Something cold settled in Quinn’s chest. Something hard and sharp-edged.

“Dramatic,” she repeated, her voice deadly quiet.

Dax seemed to realize his mistake. “I didn’t mean—” He set down the can of soup he’d been holding, his movements careful. Too careful. “Quinn, I know this is difficult. But it’s temporary. Once the trial—”

“Six months isn’t temporary.” Quinn’s voice was still quiet, but it cut like a blade. “And you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Because if Wheeler really wants me dead, he’s going tofind a way. Ankle monitor or not. Trial or not. Me being locked in this cabin doesn’t change that.”

“It makes it harder for him—”

“Does it?” Quinn felt something building in her chest. Something huge and unstoppable. “Or does it just make me an easier target when he finally does make his move? Because I’m in the middle of nowhere. No neighbors. No witnesses. One road in and out. If Wheeler sends someone here, I’m trapped.”

She could see it suddenly. See it with horrible clarity. Wheeler’s people finding this cabin. Coming up that gravel driveway. And her inside with nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.

“I’m here—” Dax started.

“You’re not here!”

The words exploded out of Quinn, loud enough to make Dax flinch.

“You’re here for an hour, maybe two, and then you leave for your shift. Eight hours. Ten hours. Twelve hours sometimes. And I’m alone. Completely alone.”