Beneath the Surface (Blackridge Detectives #3)

Chapter 1

The first thing Quinn Barrett noticed when she crossed the Blackridge city limits was how nothing had changed. The same faded welcome sign. The same towering pines lining Main Street. The same brick buildings that looked like they’d been there since the town was founded a hundred years ago.

Ten years away, and it was like she’d never left.

Except everything was different now. Because she was different. And because she was coming home to say goodbye.

Quinn’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as she drove through downtown.

Her stomach twisted with each familiar landmark.

The Brew & View coffee shop where she’d spent every Saturday morning in high school.

The old movie theater that showed films six months after they premiered everywhere else.

The tiny library where she’d discovered her love of investigative journalism, reading every true crime book on the shelves.

She’d run from this place the second she turned eighteen. Couldn’t wait to shake off the small-town dust and make something of herself in the city. Portland had been everything she’d dreamed—fast-paced, exciting, full of stories that mattered.

But none of that mattered now.

Quinn pulled into the gravel driveway of her grandmother’s house and killed the engine. The little yellow cottage looked smaller than she remembered. The paint was peeling. The garden that had once been her grandmother’s pride and joy was overgrown with weeds.

Ten years. She’d stayed away for ten years, visiting only twice. Too busy chasing stories, building her career, proving she was more than just another small-town girl.

The guilt was a physical weight in her chest.

She grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat and forced herself out of the car. July heat radiated off the pavement. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck as she walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

Her key still worked. Of course it did. This was Blackridge, where nothing ever changed.

“Gran?” Her voice echoed through the quiet house.

The living room was exactly as she remembered. Floral couch. Doily-covered side tables. Photographs covering every available surface—most of them featuring Quinn at various ages, smiling gap-toothed or in a graduation cap or holding a trophy from some long-forgotten achievement.

“In here, sweetheart.”

The voice from the bedroom was weak. Thready. Nothing like the strong, commanding tone Quinn remembered.

She dropped her bag by the door and hurried down the hall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d known it was bad—the hospice nurse had been clear on the phone—but knowing and seeing were two different things.

Her grandmother lay in the hospital bed that now dominated the small bedroom. She looked so small. Like she’d shrunk into herself, her body barely making a dent in the mattress. Her skin was paper-thin and bruised from IVs. Her hair, once thick and dark, was now white wisps on the pillow.

“Oh, Gran.” Quinn’s throat closed up. She moved to the bedside and took her grandmother’s hand, careful of the IV line. “I’m here. I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Hush now.” Her grandmother’s grip was surprisingly strong. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Quinn sank into the chair beside the bed. She’d been holding it together on the drive—two hours of white-knuckling the steering wheel and forcing herself not to think about what she’d find when she arrived. But now, sitting here, holding her grandmother’s fragile hand, the tears came hot and fast.

“I should have visited more. I should have—”

“You were living your life. Just like you were supposed to.” Her grandmother’s eyes were still sharp despite the illness eating away at her. “I’m so proud of you, Quinn. That article you wrote about the housing corruption—it won an award, didn’t it?”

Quinn’s brows pinched together. “How did you know about that?”

“I read everything you publish. Have your articles all saved.” She nodded toward the dresser. “Top drawer.”

Quinn looked and saw the stack of clippings, neatly organized in a folder. Her chest ached. All those years she’d been so focused on moving forward, and her grandmother had been following every step.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Quinn told stories about Portland—the good ones, the funny ones, leaving out the lonely nights and the cutthroat competition and the feeling that no matter how many bylines she got, it was never quite enough.

Her grandmother listened, smiled, squeezed her hand. But Quinn could see her energy fading. Her breathing became more labored. Her eyelids drooped.

“You should rest, Gran.”

“In a minute.” Her grandmother’s eyes opened, suddenly urgent. “There’s something I need to tell you first. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

The tone sent a chill down Quinn’s spine despite the summer heat. “What is it?”

“Your father.” Her grandmother’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. Quinn had to lean in close to hear. “He didn’t die in an accident.”

The world seemed to tilt sideways.

“What?” Surely, she hadn’t heard right.

“He was murdered, Quinn. I’m so sorry. I should have told you years ago, but I was scared. Scared of what would happen if anyone knew I suspected. Scared of losing you too.”

Quinn’s mind reeled. Her father had died when she was twenty—a car accident on a rainy night, lost control on a curve, went off the road into a ravine. Tragic but simple. An accident.

“Gran, I don’t understand. The police said—”

“The police were wrong. Or maybe they weren’t wrong.

Maybe they just didn’t look hard enough.

” Her grandmother’s grip tightened with surprising strength.

“Your father was investigating something. Something dangerous. He kept files hidden in the attic. I found them after he died, but I was too afraid to do anything with them. I hid them back. But you—” She looked at Quinn with eyes that held both love and desperation.

“You’re a journalist. You find the truth. You can do what I couldn’t.”

“What was he investigating?”

“I don’t know all the details. Real estate deals, money laundering, corruption. He said people were getting hurt. He was going to expose it all.” A tear slid down her weathered cheek. “And then he died.”

Quinn’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her father had been a quiet man. An accountant. She’d never known him to be involved in anything remotely dangerous. But her grandmother wasn’t delirious—her gray-blue eyes were clear, her voice steady despite its weakness.

“Where are the files?”

“Attic. Hidden in a box marked ‘Christmas decorations.’ The blue one in the back corner.” Her grandmother’s breathing became more labored. “Promise me, Quinn. Promise me you’ll find out what happened. Give your father the justice he deserved.”

“Gran, I—”

“Promise me.” The words came out fierce despite her weakness.

Quinn swallowed hard. Every instinct she had as a journalist was screaming at her to see those files, to chase this story. But the daughter in her just wanted to stay by her grandmother’s side, to soak up whatever time they had left.

“I promise.”

Her grandmother relaxed back into the pillows, a small smile on her lips. “Good girl. Now, I think I’ll rest for a bit.”

Within minutes, she was asleep. Her breathing was shallow but even. Quinn sat holding her hand, her mind racing.

Murdered. Her father had been murdered.

The hospice nurse arrived an hour later—a kind woman named Janell who spoke in soft tones and moved with practiced efficiency. She checked Gran’s vitals, adjusted her medication, and assured Quinn that everything was progressing as expected.

“She’s comfortable,” Janell said gently. “That’s what matters now. It could be days or weeks, but she’s not in pain.”

Quinn nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

After Janell left, Quinn forced herself to eat something—a sandwich she barely tasted. She checked in with her editor in Portland, officially requesting an extended leave of absence. She’d been planning to stay a few days, maybe a week. Now she had no idea how long she’d be here.

As evening fell and her grandmother continued to sleep peacefully, Quinn found herself climbing the narrow stairs to the attic.

The space was exactly as she remembered from childhood—dusty and hot, filled with boxes and old furniture and memories. She picked her way carefully toward the back corner, using her phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path.

There. The blue box marked “Christmas decorations” in her grandmother’s neat handwriting.

Quinn’s hands shook as she lifted the lid. Inside, beneath a layer of old ornaments, was a thick manila folder.

She carried it downstairs to the kitchen table. Made herself a cup of tea she didn’t want. Sat down. Took a deep breath.

Then she opened the folder.

The first page was a handwritten note in her father’s familiar scrawl: If you’re reading this, something has happened to me. The people involved in this are dangerous. Please be careful.

Her throat tightened. She turned the page.

What followed was a journalist’s dream—or nightmare.

Dozens of documents, carefully organized and annotated in her father’s precise hand.

Real estate transactions that didn’t add up.

Shell companies. Money moving through accounts in complex patterns clearly designed to hide its origin and destination.

Names of people involved. Dates. Amounts.

And at the center of it all: a man named James Wheeler.

Quinn’s journalist brain kicked into high gear, analyzing and cataloging even as her emotions churned.

Her father had been building a case. He’d discovered a major real estate fraud scheme—properties being bought and sold at inflated prices, money being laundered through a local car dealership, investors being bilked out of millions.

The detail was incredible. Bank statements. Property records. Photographs of meetings between Wheeler and various associates. Her father had been thorough. Methodical.

And then he’d died.

Quinn flipped through more pages. Found a list of victims—people who’d invested in Wheeler’s schemes and lost everything. One name jumped out at her: Thomas Crane.

She grabbed her laptop and did a quick search. Thomas Crane, local real estate developer, had died just two days ago. The news article called it a suspected suicide.

Her pulse quickened. She dug deeper, searching for more information. Crane had been about to testify in a fraud case when he died. The case had fallen apart without his testimony.

Another “accident.” Another convenient death.

Quinn sat back in her chair, her mind spinning. This wasn’t just about her father anymore. People were still dying. Wheeler was still out there, still stealing, still destroying lives.

And someone needed to stop him.

She thought about her grandmother’s words. You’re a journalist. You find the truth.

This was what she did. This was who she was. She exposed corruption. She told the stories that needed to be told. She gave voices to victims who couldn’t speak for themselves.

But this was different. This was personal. Her father had been murdered for digging into this. Thomas Crane had likely died for knowing too much. Nothing she’d investigated had ever been this close to home.

If she pursued this story, she could be next.

Quinn looked down at her father’s neat handwriting. At the evidence he’d died collecting. At the truth he’d never gotten to tell.

She thought about Thomas Crane’s family. About all the people who’d lost their money to Wheeler’s schemes. About justice and truth and the job she’d sworn to do when she became a journalist.

Then she thought about her grandmother sleeping down the hall, using her last days to make sure Quinn knew the truth. To make sure someone would finally do something.

“Okay, Dad,” she whispered to the empty kitchen. “Okay.”

She pulled out her phone and started taking pictures of every document in the folder. She’d upload them to her secure cloud storage tonight. Make copies. Send them to trusted sources. Whatever happened, this information wouldn’t disappear again.

Then she opened a new document on her laptop and started typing. Names. Dates. Connections. Questions that needed answers.

She worked until midnight, until her eyes burned and her back ached. Her grandmother slept peacefully in her room. The house creaked and settled around her as the wind kicked up outside. Outside, a storm was brewing. And Blackridge was quiet—the kind of small-town quiet she’d forgotten existed.

But Quinn’s mind was anything but quiet. It raced with possibilities and plans and the burning need to know the truth.

Her father had been murdered. Now Thomas Crane had been murdered. And James Wheeler had gotten away with it.

Not anymore.

Quinn saved her document and closed her laptop. She’d start fresh tomorrow. Talk to people who knew her father. Track down anyone who’d worked with Crane. Build the case her father had started.

She just had to be careful. Smarter than her father had been. More cautious than Thomas Crane.

Because if they’d been killed for what they knew, she was walking into the same danger.

But Quinn had never backed down from a story. And she wasn’t about to start now.

She checked on her grandmother one more time. Gran was still sleeping, her breathing steady. Quinn kissed her forehead gently.

“I’ll find the truth,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Then she went to the guest bedroom and lay down, though she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Her mind was too full. Her heart was too heavy with grief and anger and determination.

Tomorrow, she’d start asking questions. Tomorrow, she’d become the thorn in James Wheeler’s side that her father had been.

Tomorrow, she’d find out what really happened the night her father died.

But tonight, she lay in the darkness of her childhood home and let herself feel everything—the loss, the fear, the rage, and underneath it all, a fierce resolve that burned like a flame in her chest.

Justice was coming for James Wheeler.

And her name was Quinn Barrett.