Chapter 7 #2
Dax took the folder from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly, and flipped through it. The pages rustled as he found Clara’s interview notes, his eyes scanning quickly.
“She said the sale was suspicious. That the buyer offered way more than the property was worth. That her boss seemed scared to refuse the sale.” Dax looked up, his dark eyes sharp. “Your father noted that Clara seemed nervous. Kept looking over her shoulder. Wouldn’t meet in public.”
“Exactly. She was scared. But she talked to my father anyway.” Quinn felt her conviction solidify, her spine straightening. “I need to talk to her. Find out what else she knows.”
“Not happening.” His jaw set, immovable.
“Dax—”
“No. Final answer.” He set the folder down with deliberate care, his palm pressing flat against it as if physically closing the discussion. “I’ll contact Clara Mendez myself. As a police officer conducting an official investigation. You will stay here.”
Quinn wanted to argue. Wanted to push back. But she could see in his expression—the hard line of his mouth, the unyielding set of his shoulders—that this wasn’t negotiable.
“Fine,” she said, her arms crossing over her chest. “But I want to know what she says.”
“We’ll see.” He turned away, dismissing her.
“That’s not good enough.” Her voice rose, sharper.
“It’s what you’re getting.” Dax moved toward the couch and the blanket he’d set up there, his footsteps heavy, deliberate. “Now go back to bed. It’s late.”
Quinn didn’t move, her feet planted on the floor. “You know, pushing me away isn’t going to keep me safe. It’s just going to make me more determined to investigate on my own.”
“You’re not investigating on your own.” He stopped, his back still to her, his shoulders tensing. “You’re in protective custody.”
“Which isn’t the same as arrest. I can leave anytime I want.” She lifted her chin even though he wasn’t looking at her.
Dax turned, his expression dangerous. “Try it. See what happens.”
It should have scared her. Instead, Quinn felt a thrill run through her. She was pushing his buttons, and she knew it. But damn it, she wasn’t going to be sidelined. Not when her father’s murder was finally being investigated.
“I’m not your prisoner,” she said, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
“No. You’re a civilian under police protection who’s going to follow orders if she wants to stay alive.” Each word came out clipped, controlled.
“Or what? You’ll arrest me?”
“If I have to.” He closed the distance between them.
They were standing close now. Too close. Quinn had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tension coiling through his shoulders. He was furious with her.
Good. At least fury was honest.
“You can’t arrest me for wanting to help,” Quinn said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper in the charged air between them.
“I can if you interfere with an investigation.” His voice matched hers, low and rough.
“I’m not interfering. I’m offering assistance.”
“Assistance I don’t need.” But his hands flexed at his sides, betraying his frustration.
“Liar.” Quinn crossed her arms, a barrier between them. “You need my father’s research. You need my investigative skills. You need access to databases and sources that cops can’t get. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Dax’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching so hard she could see the muscle cord in his neck. “What I need is for you to stay alive long enough to testify against Wheeler when we build this case. Everything else is secondary.”
The words hit Quinn harder than expected, like a fist to her chest. Stay alive. Testify. That’s what she was to him—a witness. Evidence. Not a partner or colleague or even a person, really. Just someone he had to protect because it was his job.
“Right,” she said quietly, her arms falling to her sides. “Because that’s all that matters.”
Something flickered across Dax’s face, his expression softening for just a fraction of a second. Regret, maybe. But it was gone before Quinn could be sure, his jaw setting hard again.
“Go to bed, Barrett.” His voice was tired now, the edge gone.
“Stop calling me that.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
“It’s your name.”
“It’s also what you call suspects and witnesses and people you’re interrogating.” Quinn snapped the folder from the table and moved toward the bedroom, needing distance, needing air. “My name is Quinn.”
She closed the door behind her before he could respond, the soft click of the latch somehow more final than if she had slammed it.
Back in bed, Quinn stared at the ceiling again, her heart still racing.
But this time, instead of thinking about bombs and death, she was thinking about Dax Mercer.
About his intensity and protectiveness and the way he looked at her like she was simultaneously the most frustrating and most important person in the room.
God, she shouldn’t be attracted to him. He was grumpy and bossy and clearly saw her as a liability.
But there was something about the way he’d moved to catch her when she’d swayed earlier. The way he’d made dinner without asking what she wanted, just providing. The way he’d given up his bed without hesitation.
Actions, not words. That was who Dax Mercer was.
Quinn rolled over, the sheets rustling, and grabbed her father’s folder from the nightstand where she’d set it. The worn manila edges were soft under her fingers. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Might as well read.
Clara Mendez’s interviews were detailed. She’d been an office manager at a commercial property that Wheeler had purchased. She’d seen the transaction documents. Had noticed irregularities. When she’d mentioned it to her boss, he’d told her to keep quiet and forget about it.
A week later, the boss died. Heart attack, ruled natural causes.
Clara had been terrified. Had wanted to go to the police but was too scared. Then David Barrett had found her, convinced her to talk.
The last interview was dated two days before her father’s death.
Quinn’s stomach knotted, acid rising in her throat. Had Clara been the reason Wheeler killed her father? Had her father gotten too close to something Wheeler couldn’t allow to be exposed?
She flipped to the next page, the paper whispering against her fingers, and froze.
It was a note in her father’s handwriting—that familiar slant she’d know anywhere. Clara called. Says someone’s been following her. She’s scared. Going to help her relocate. Meeting her tomorrow at—
The sentence ended there. Unfinished. The pen stroke trailing off like he’d been interrupted.
Because tomorrow never came. Her father died that night.
Quinn’s hands shook, the page trembling as she kept reading. She found another loose page stuffed in the back of the folder, the edges torn. Different handwriting—feminine, shaky, pressed hard into the paper as if fear had guided the pen.
David—if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead too.
He knows I talked. I don’t know how, but he knows.
I’m leaving town tonight. Taking my kids and running.
Don’t try to find me. Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone.
And David—be careful. These people don’t forgive.
They don’t forget. Get out while you still can. Please. —Clara
The note was dated the day after her father’s death.
Clara had known. Had tried to warn him. But it was too late.
Quinn felt tears burn her eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the words. Her father had died trying to help a scared woman and her children. Died trying to do the right thing.
And Clara had disappeared. Gone into hiding. Probably still running, ten years later.
Quinn wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her cheeks wet, and read the note again. Then she reached for her phone on the nightstand, remembered it was dead and dismantled, and cursed under her breath, the word sharp in the quiet room.
She needed to find Clara Mendez. It was a physical ache in her chest, pressing against her ribs with every breath. Needed to know if she was still alive, still safe, still running after all these years. Needed to hear her story, hear what her father had died trying to protect.
But she couldn’t do that from this cabin. Couldn’t do anything locked away in these woods while Wheeler walked free.
Quinn looked at the closed bedroom door, a thin line of light visible underneath, that sliver of yellow the only thing separating her from Dax.
He was on the other side, probably still awake, still working on the case with that relentless focus she’d seen.
She could hear the faint sound of his laptop keyboard—irregular clicks and pauses, the occasional creak of the couch as he shifted his weight.
He’d said she couldn’t leave. Said he’d arrest her if she tried.
But he was also exhausted. Had been running on adrenaline and duty for days now. Eventually, he’d have to sleep. The keyboard sounds would stop. The cabin would go quiet.
Quinn knew it was a bad idea. Knew Dax would be furious. Knew she was putting herself in danger—Wheeler had just tried to kill her with a bomb, for God’s sake.
But she also knew she couldn’t just sit here doing nothing while her father’s murder went unsolved. While Clara Mendez stayed hidden, terrified, alone with the truth.
Her father had died for this. Had died trying to help Clara escape. The least Quinn could do was finish what he’d started.
She was a journalist. Finding people, getting them to talk, exposing the truth—that was what she did. What she was good at. What gave her life meaning.
Even when it was dangerous.
Especially when it was dangerous.
Quinn set the folder aside, her fingers lingering on the worn cover, and lay down.
But she didn’t close her eyes. She listened.
Waited. Her heart thumped steadily against her ribs, adrenaline making her hyperaware of every sound.
After an hour, the sounds from the main room stopped.
No more typing. No more footsteps. No more shifting weight on the couch springs.