Page 100 of Beneath the Surface

She fished the keys out of her pants pocket and opened the front door. She stepped inside and stopped. The house smelled wrong.

Quinn stood in the doorway of her grandmother’s house—her house now—and breathed in the stale air. It had only been a week, but already the place had taken on that empty quality of spaces left too long without people. The lavender sachets her grandmother had loved had faded to almost nothing. Thecoffeemaker on the counter was cold and clean. Even the dust motes floating in the moonlight coming through the windows seemed suspended, waiting.

Everything was exactly as she’d left it a week ago.

And yet nothing was the same.

Quinn set her duffel bag down on the hardwood floor with a soft thump. The sound echoed through the quiet house, too loud, and she flinched.

Now, Nathan moved past her and through the house with professional efficiency, checking windows and doors the same way Dax had at the cabin. But there was something different in the way Nathan did it—less possessive, more procedural. This was his job. Not his need.

“Back door lock’s still broken,” Nathan called from the kitchen. “I’ll fix it tomorrow. And that window in the spare room.”

Quinn just nodded, not trusting her voice yet.

Nathan appeared in the living room doorway. His expression softened. “You okay?”

“No.” Again, honest, because she didn’t have the energy left to pretend. “But I will be.”

He nodded, understanding. “I’ll be in the guest room,” Nathan said, not asking. She wasn’t arguing either. It would be good to not be alone. “You need anything, I’m here. And Quinn?” He waited until she looked at him. “I’m not Dax. I’m not going to tell you what to do or lock you in or treat you like evidence that needs securing. But I am going to keep you safe. That’s not negotiable. Understood?”

Quinn felt something loosen in her chest. “Understood.”

“Good. Now get some sleep. You look like hell.”

Despite everything, Quinn almost smiled. “Thanks.”

After Nathan disappeared into the guest room, Quinn stood in the living room and just...breathed.

The house settled around her—familiar creaks and sighs she’d grown used to. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The old radiator ticking as it cooled. The faint rustle of wind in the trees outside.

Normal sounds. Home sounds.

Quinn picked up her bags and carried them to her childhood bedroom. The room where she’d spent some of her more formative years, where she’d done homework and dreamed of being a journalist and planned her escape to Seattle.

The room where Dax had held her after her grandmother died. Where they’d made love. Where she’d felt safe and wanted and seen.

Quinn set her bags down and sat on the edge of the bed and let herself cry again.

Not the ugly, gasping sobs from the car. Just quiet tears that tracked down her face and dripped onto her hands folded in her lap.

She’d done the right thing.

She knew she’d done the right thing.

So why did it hurt so much?

***

Quinn woke the next morning to the smell of coffee.

For one disoriented moment, she thought it was her grandmother. That she’d go into the kitchen and find Gran at the table with the crossword puzzle, reading glasses perched on her nose, muttering about “these damn cryptic clues.”

Then reality crashed back.

Gran was dead.

Dax was...gone. Not dead, but gone from her life in a way that felt almost as permanent.