Chapter 7
Quinn couldn’t sleep.
She lay in Dax’s bed—his actual bed that he’d given up for her—and stared at the ceiling.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her car.
Saw herself getting in, turning the key.
Saw the explosion that would have torn through the driver’s seat, through her body, ending everything in a split second of fire and pain.
Her father had died that way. Maybe not a bomb, but a car. A crash. Terror and pain and the knowledge in those final moments that he was going to die.
Had he thought of her? Of her grandmother? Had he been scared, or had it happened too fast?
Quinn rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.
The cabin was quiet, except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hoot of an owl.
Through the closed bedroom door, she could hear Dax moving around—probably checking windows, checking locks, doing whatever protective things ex-soldiers did when they couldn’t sleep either.
She looked at her phone—dead, battery still removed and sitting in Dax’s truck. Cut off from the world. No email, no social media, no way to check if her article was making waves or if Wheeler had responded publicly.
It was driving her crazy.
Quinn threw off the blanket and padded to the door in her pajamas—flannel pants and an old college T-shirt. She opened it quietly.
Dax sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open, a mug of coffee beside him. He looked up when she emerged from the bedroom, his dark eyes taking in her rumpled clothes, the pillow crease on her cheek.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“How did you know?” Quinn padded across the floor in her socks, arms wrapped around herself against the cabin’s chill.
“Because I can’t either. And because you’ve been tossing and turning for the past hour. Thin walls.” He gestured at the chair next to him with his coffee mug. “Might as well join me if you’re awake.”
Quinn grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and sat down, folding her legs like a pretzel on the hard surface, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “What are you working on?”
“Background on Wheeler. Financial records. Property transactions. Building the case.” Dax turned the laptop so she could see, the screen’s blue light harsh in the dim cabin. “Your father was thorough, but he didn’t have everything. I’m filling in the gaps.”
Quinn leaned closer, the blanket slipping from one shoulder, her journalist instincts immediately engaged. The screen showed a spreadsheet with dates, amounts, property addresses. Color-coded cells indicating suspicious transactions, meticulous and organized.
“That’s a lot of money,” she said, pointing to a column, her finger hovering over the screen.
“Seven million over three years. That we can prove. Probably more that’s hidden better.” Dax took a sip of coffee, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Wheeler’s been busy.”
“How are you accessing all this? Don’t you need warrants?”
“For some of it, yes. For public records? No. Property sales are public information. Business registrations. Tax filings.” He set the mug down with a soft clink. “It’s amazing what you can find if you know where to look.”
Quinn studied the spreadsheet, her mind automatically organizing the information, that familiar buzz of a story coming together. Patterns emerged. Clusters of sales around certain dates. Specific shell companies appearing repeatedly.
“These three companies here,” she said, pointing, leaning closer until her shoulder nearly touched his. “They’re all buying properties from Wheeler, right?”
“Right.”
“Have you checked who owns them?”
“Dead ends. Shell corporations registered in Delaware with no actual people listed. Wheeler’s covered his tracks.” Frustration edged his voice.
Quinn chewed her lip, thinking, her teeth worrying at the same spot. This was what she did. This was her job—finding connections, following paper trails, exposing what people wanted hidden.
“Can I borrow your laptop for a minute?”
Dax hesitated, his fingers tapping once against the edge of the table, then slid it toward her. “What are you thinking?”
“That I’m an investigative journalist. This is literally what I do for a living.
” Quinn’s fingers flew over the keyboard, the clicking filling the quiet cabin as she pulled up databases she subscribed to through the Tribune.
“Shell companies have to file paperwork. Annual reports. Tax documents. And even when they try to hide ownership, there are usually clues. Lawyers who file the paperwork. Accountants who prepare the returns. Someone has to sign the documents.”
She dug through filing after filing, cross-referencing names, looking for patterns. Her eyes narrowed with concentration. Dax watched over her shoulder, silent but attentive, his breathing steady behind her.
After twenty minutes, Quinn found something. Her posture straightened, her fingers freezing on the keyboard.
“There.” She pointed at a signature on a tax document, her voice rising with excitement. “Martin Voss. He’s listed as the registered agent for all three shell companies.”
“Registered agent doesn’t mean owner.” But Dax leaned closer, his interest clearly caught.
“No, but it means he filed the paperwork. He knows who actually owns them.” Quinn pulled up another database, her movements quick and confident. “Martin Voss. Attorney. Practices in Seattle. Specializes in business formation and asset protection.”
“Asset protection,” Dax repeated, his voice dry. “Fancy term for helping people hide money.”
“Exactly.” Quinn sat back, energized despite the late hour, her exhaustion forgotten. The blanket had fallen completely off her shoulders now. “If we can get to Voss, get him to tell us who actually owns these companies—”
“We can connect Wheeler directly to the fraud.” Dax’s expression was thoughtful, his jaw working as he processed this. “Good work, Barrett.”
The praise warmed her more than it should have. Quinn felt heat rise in her cheeks, tried to ignore the flutter in her chest. Now wasn’t the time to develop a crush on the grumpy detective protecting her life.
“So what’s next?” she asked, pulling the blanket back around herself, needing something to do with her hands.
“Next, I contact Voss. See if he’ll talk voluntarily.”
“And if he won’t?”
“Then I get a warrant and make him talk.” Dax closed the laptop with a definitive click. “But that’s my job. Not yours.”
There it was. The reminder that she was supposed to sit still and let him handle everything.
Quinn bristled, her shoulders tensing. “I just gave you a major lead.”
“And I appreciate it. But you’re not a cop. You’re a protected witness. There’s a difference.” His tone was matter-of-fact, infuriatingly calm.
“I’m also a journalist with sources and research skills you don’t have.”
“Barrett—”
“I’m not saying I want to go confront Wheeler myself.
I’m saying I can help. I can dig into backgrounds, find connections, interview people.
” Quinn leaned forward, the blanket falling away again, her hands gesturing as she spoke.
“My father spent months investigating this. He talked to people, gathered information. I should follow up with them. See what they know.”
“Absolutely not.” The words came out flat, final.
“Why not?”
“Because Wheeler just tried to kill you!” Dax’s voice rose slightly, his hand slapping the table.
The coffee mug jumped. “Because anyone your father talked to is potentially in danger. Because—” He stopped, visibly reining in his frustration, his jaw clenching.
“Because I can’t protect you if you’re running around interviewing witnesses. ”
“Then come with me.” Quinn’s chin lifted.
“I have actual police work to do. I can’t babysit you while you play journalist.”
The words stung like a slap. Quinn stood up, the blanket falling to the floor, her own temper flaring hot in her chest. “Play journalist? I’ve won awards for my investigative work. I’ve exposed corruption that led to arrests and resignations. I’m good at what I do.”
“I don’t doubt that. But this isn’t Portland city politics. This is a murderer who’s already killed twice and tried to kill you today.” Dax stood too, his chair scraping against the floor.
“I know that!” Her voice echoed in the small cabin.
“Do you? Because you’re still talking about interviewing people like this is a normal story.
” Dax stood too, his size suddenly intimidating in the small space.
“This isn’t normal. Wheeler doesn’t just sue for libel.
He kills. He’s good at it. And everyone associated with this investigation is at risk. ”
Quinn’s anger deflated slightly. “I know. I do know that. But I can’t just sit here doing nothing. It’s making me crazy.”
“Then go crazy. But go crazy safely, inside this cabin, where Wheeler can’t get to you.”
They stared at each other. Quinn could see the genuine concern in Dax’s eyes beneath the frustration. He wasn’t trying to sideline her out of sexism or ego. He was genuinely worried about her safety.
It should have been annoying. Instead, it made her throat tight.
“My father’s files have names,” she said quietly. “People he interviewed. Witnesses who saw things. Some of them might have information that could help.”
“I’ll follow up with them.”
“They won’t talk to a cop. Not about this. Wheeler’s powerful. He has connections. People are scared.” Quinn moved closer. “But they might talk to me. David Barrett’s daughter. A journalist who’s trying to finish what he started.”
Dax’s jaw clenched. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Everything about this is dangerous. At least let me try.” Quinn pulled out her father’s folder she’d brought with her from the house.
“There’s a woman here. Clara Mendez. She worked at one of the properties Wheeler bought.
My father interviewed her three times. She must have known something important. ”