Chapter 3 #3
Mercer took the folder, flipping through it quickly. His expression gave nothing away. When he looked up, Quinn couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or annoyed.
“Where’d you get this?” He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning quickly but thoroughly.
“My father’s files. He was building a case before he died.” Quinn’s fingers twisted together at her sides.
“And you think his car accident was actually murder.” It wasn’t a question. His tone was flat, skeptical.
“I know it was.” Quinn hated how desperate she sounded, but she couldn’t help it. Her throat felt tight, her voice pitching higher despite her efforts to control it. “Please. Just look at the evidence. If you investigate, I know you’ll find the connection.”
Mercer closed the folder with a decisive snap and handed it back to her. His expression hadn’t changed—still that same impenetrable wall. “Go home, Ms. Barrett.”
Quinn’s heart sank, her stomach dropping with it. The folder felt heavier now, useless in her hands. “You’re not even going to look?”
“I’m telling you to leave detective work to detectives.” He shifted his weight, somehow managing to loom without moving closer. “You’re not trained for this. You’re not equipped for this. And if Wheeler really is dangerous, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
A spark of hope flared in her chest. “So you do think Wheeler’s involved!”
“I think you’re a civilian with no idea what you’re walking into.” His voice was hard, each word sharp-edged. Final. Those dark eyes pinned her in place. “Go. Home.”
“No.” The word came out before Quinn could stop it. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but she held her ground, feet planted on the scuffed linoleum. “If you won’t investigate, I’ll do it myself.”
Something flickered across Mercer’s face—surprise, maybe, or irritation. “Like hell you will.”
“You can’t stop me.” She lifted her chin, her knuckles white where she gripped the folder.
“I can arrest you for interfering with an investigation.” He stepped closer, using his height to his advantage, his voice dropping to something dangerous and low.
“You just said there was no investigation!” Quinn’s voice rose despite herself, echoing off the nearby filing cabinets.
Mercer’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then deliberately relaxed. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Then help me! Investigate Wheeler! Find the evidence!” Quinn’s voice cracked with frustration, her chest heaving. Heat burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let tears fall. Not here. Not in front of him. “Why is that so hard?”
“Because this is police work, not a story for your newspaper.” He leaned in slightly, his voice rough but quieter now, almost urgent. “Real people’s lives are at stake. Including yours.”
“I know that! My father’s life was at stake. Thomas Crane’s life was at stake. They’re dead because someone needs to stop Wheeler, and no one is doing anything!”
They stood there, locked in a battle of wills. Quinn with her fists clenched and her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Mercer with his arms crossed and his expression carved from stone, unmoving as a statue.
The air between them felt charged, electric. Someone’s radio crackled nearby, but neither of them looked away.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “I can’t help you.”
“Won’t.” Quinn shoved the folder hard against his chest, forcing him to uncross his arms to catch it. Her breath came faster, her chest tight with frustration. “You won’t help me.”
“Same difference.” A muscle ticked in his jaw again as he gripped the folder. “Go home, Ms. Barrett. Mourn your father. Forget about Wheeler. Live your life.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” He turned and walked away, his boots heavy on the worn floor, each step putting more distance between them. The folder still clutched in his hand.
Quinn watched him go, anger and disappointment warring in her chest like a physical weight pressing down on her ribs. Her nails bit into her palms. She’d been so sure he would listen. So sure that someone would finally care.
But no. She was on her own. Just like always.
Fine.
Quinn had built her entire career on finding the truth when no one else wanted to. She’d exposed corruption in Portland city government. She’d written stories that led to arrests and resignations and real change.
She could do this. She would do this.
James Wheeler thought he was untouchable. Thought he could kill with impunity.
He was about to learn that Quinn Barrett didn’t give up. Not when someone she loved had been hurt. Not when justice needed serving.
She headed back to her car, her jaw set and her spine straight, already planning her next move. She’d interview people who knew her father. Track down Crane’s associates. Follow the money trail Wheeler thought he’d hidden so well.
And she’d prove it. Every bit of it.
Detective Dax Mercer could go to hell.
Quinn Barrett didn’t need his help.
She could do this on her own.
Even if it killed her.