Chapter 8
Dax watched the sun come up through the cabin window and wondered when he’d become such a light sleeper.
That was a lie. He knew exactly when. Afghanistan. When sleeping too deeply meant you didn’t hear the bullets coming. When every sound could be the last thing you heard.
He’d heard Quinn moving around in the bedroom at two in the morning. Heard her ease the door open twenty minutes later. Had known exactly what she was planning before she’d taken three steps toward the door.
Part of him had wanted to stop her immediately. Grab her, shake some sense into her, lock her in the bedroom if necessary.
But another part—the part that recognized himself in her stubbornness—had wanted to see if she’d actually go through with it. If she’d really risk her life because she couldn’t let go of the investigation.
She would have. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d stopped her. Quinn Barrett would have walked straight into danger, alone and unprotected, because sitting still was worse than dying.
Dax understood that. He’d made similar choices in combat. Stupid, reckless choices that should have gotten him killed but somehow hadn’t.
His friends hadn’t been so lucky.
He pushed that thought away and stood, his back protesting from another night on the couch. The bedroom door was still closed. Quinn was probably asleep—actually asleep this time, not planning her next escape attempt.
Dax moved quietly to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, the scoop of grounds releasing that bitter, earthy scent that always signaled morning.
Strong and black, the way he’d learned to drink it during endless patrols and longer nights.
The familiar ritual helped him think, his hands moving on autopilot while his mind worked through the case.
They needed more evidence. Clara Mendez’s disappearance was suspicious, but it wasn’t proof. The financial records showed money laundering, but they needed to connect it directly to Wheeler. The bomb under Quinn’s car was attempted murder, but they had to prove Wheeler ordered it.
Everything pointed to Wheeler. Nothing proved it conclusively.
That was the problem with careful criminals. They insulated themselves. Used middlemen. Made sure their hands stayed clean while others did the dirty work.
Dax had seen it overseas. Taliban commanders who never touched weapons themselves. Just gave orders and let their subordinates take the risks.
Wheeler operated the same way. Smart. Careful. Protected.
But everyone made mistakes eventually. Everyone had a weakness.
Dax just had to find Wheeler’s.
His phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the wood. Carson. Captain wants to see you. 9 AM. Don’t be late.
Perfect. Just what he needed—a lecture about going rogue and ignoring orders.
Dax typed back with one thumb. I’ll be there.
He had three hours. Enough time to make breakfast, brief Quinn on the plan, and drive into town. Not enough time to log more sleep, but he was used to that. His eyes burned with exhaustion, gritty and dry.
The bedroom door opened with a soft creak.
Quinn emerged, looking rumpled and exhausted.
Her hair was messy from sleep, falling in tangled waves around her face, and she’d changed back into pajamas at some point—soft flannel pants and an oversized T-shirt that hung off one shoulder.
She looked young. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
Dax shook that thought from his head. He didn’t need to notice her that way.
She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, squinting against the morning light filtering through the windows.
Then she spotted him and her expression hardened into defiance, her spine straightening, shoulders pulling back. Not so vulnerable after all.
“Morning,” Dax said neutrally, his voice rougher than usual.
“Morning.” Quinn moved to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup with unsteady hands, the liquid sloshing slightly. She took a long drink before speaking again, her eyes closing briefly as the caffeine hit. “Are you still mad?”
“I wasn’t mad.”
“You seemed pretty mad.” She leaned against the counter in a way that drew Dax’s attention with her meaning to, wrapping both hands around the mug as if she needed the warmth.
“I was concerned. There’s a difference.” Dax distracted himself and pulled eggs and bread from the refrigerator, the cold air a shock against his face. “Hungry?”
“Starving, actually.” Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, and color rose in her cheeks.
He started cooking. Scrambled eggs, toast. Simple but filling. A task he could do even when distracted. The eggs sizzled in the pan, butter melting and foaming. Quinn sat at the table and watched him work, her chin propped on her hand, steam from her coffee curling up toward her face.
“You’re a good cook,” she observed.
He snorted. “I can make about five things. This is one of them.” He stirred the eggs with practiced efficiency, the spatula scraping against the pan.
“What are the other four?”
“Spaghetti. Chili. Steak. And something that’s supposed to be chicken parmesan but usually ends up being chicken with cheese on it.”
Quinn smiled—actually smiled, her whole face lighting up.
The first real smile he’d seen from her since the brick through the window.
It transformed her face, softened those sharp edges of fear and determination, made her look less like a scared journalist and more like a woman who could find joy even in difficult circumstances.
Her amber eyes caught the morning light, warm and bright.
Dax looked away quickly, focusing on the eggs with more attention than they needed. He didn’t need to notice things like that. Didn’t need to think about how her smile made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.
She was a witness under his protection. That was all.
“I need to go into town this morning,” he said, plating the food with deliberate movements, the fork scraping against the ceramic. “Meeting with my captain. He knows I’m investigating against orders.”
“Are you in trouble?” Her smile faded, concern replacing it.
“Probably.” Dax set a plate in front of her, the toast landing with a soft clink against the eggs. “But I’ve got evidence now. The bomb changes things. This is attempted murder. He can’t ignore that.”
Quinn picked at her eggs with her fork, pushing them around without eating. “What if he orders you to stop investigating anyway?”
“Then I have a choice to make.” He sat across from her with his own plate, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Which is?”
Dax sat across from her with his own plate, his elbows on the table. “Follow orders and let Wheeler get away with murder. Or keep investigating and lose my badge.”
“You’d really risk your career for this?” She finally took a bite, chewing slowly.
“I’ve already risked my career for this. Took you into protective custody without authorization. Called in FBI favors. Investigated a closed case.” He took a bite of toast, the crunch loud in the quiet cabin. “I’m already committed. Might as well see it through.”
Quinn studied him with those observant eyes, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? You could have let it go. Let the Crane case stay closed. Let me figure it out on my own.” She set her fork down and leaned forward, her hands flat on the table.
“But you didn’t. You investigated. You protected me.
You’re risking everything for a case nobody wants you to solve. Why?”
Dax chewed slowly, considering his answer, the taste of eggs and butter bland on his tongue. He could give her the easy one—that it was his job, that he’d seen evidence of murder, that any good cop would do the same.
But Quinn deserved better than easy answers.
“Afghanistan,” he said finally, his voice going quiet. “I was part of a convoy that got hit by an IED. Bomb hidden in a dead donkey on the side of the road. Killed three of my friends. I survived because I was in the last vehicle. Pure luck.”
Quinn’s expression softened, her eyes going gentle. “I’m sorry.”
“After that, I became the disposal guy. When we found IEDs, I dealt with them. Disarmed hundreds of them over two deployments. Saved a lot of lives.” Dax set down his fork with careful precision, his appetite gone.
“But I couldn’t save my friends. Couldn’t go back and stop that first bomb.
All I could do was make sure it didn’t happen again. ”
“And this case is the same thing.” Her voice was soft, understanding.
“Yeah. I can’t save your father or Thomas Crane.
They’re already dead. But I can stop Wheeler from killing anyone else.
Can make sure you don’t end up like them.
” He met her eyes, holding her gaze. “That’s why I’m doing this.
Because letting guilty people walk free means someone else dies. And I’ve seen enough death.”
Quinn was quiet for a long moment, her throat working as she swallowed. Then she reached across the table and put her hand over his where it rested beside his plate.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers warm against his skin. “For caring. For trying. For not giving up.”
Dax looked at her hand on his. Small. Warm. Trusting. Her fingers were slender, her nails short and unpolished. He could feel her pulse against his wrist, quick and steady.
He should pull away. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that she was a witness, not a friend, and definitely not anything more.
Instead, he turned his hand over and squeezed hers briefly, his calloused palm rough against her softer skin, before letting go. The loss of contact felt like something torn away.
“Eat your breakfast,” he said gruffly, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “You’re going to need your strength.”
“For what?”
“For staying in this cabin all day while I’m gone. No internet, limited phone access, nothing but books and boredom.” He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink, the water running cold as he rinsed it. “Think you can handle that without trying to escape?”