Chapter 9
Quinn had been living in Dax’s cabin for three days, and she was starting to understand why he preferred isolation.
It was peaceful here. No traffic noise. No sirens. No constant buzz of city life that she’d gotten so used to in Portland. Just wind through the pines, the occasional bird call, and the crackling of the wood stove when evening came.
It should have been boring. Should have driven her stir-crazy.
Instead, she found herself settling into a rhythm.
Wake up when Dax made coffee—the man was an early riser, up by six every morning without an alarm.
Work on research while he checked in with the station or followed up on leads.
Break for lunch, usually something simple that Dax threw together with military efficiency.
More work in the afternoon. Dinner. Then evenings spent reviewing evidence or just sitting in comfortable silence.
It was domestic in a way Quinn hadn’t expected. And stranger still, she kind of liked it.
Right now, she was curled up on the couch with her laptop—well, Dax’s laptop that had become hers by default—going through property records. Dax sat at the kitchen table, his phone pressed to his ear, talking to someone about subpoenas.
Quinn tried not to stare at him. Failed.
He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were all muscle and scar tissue.
His jaw was tight with concentration as he argued with whoever was on the other end of the line.
His hair was slightly messy because he’d been running his hands through it in frustration.
He looked good. Annoyingly good for someone who lived in the middle of nowhere and probably owned a total of five shirts.
“That’s not good enough,” Dax said into the phone, his voice hard. “We have probable cause. The financial records are relevant to an active investigation. I don’t care if Wheeler’s attorney is throwing a fit. Do your job and get me that subpoena.”
Quinn bit back a smile. Dax didn’t mince words. Ever. It was refreshing, actually. In her world, everyone talked in circles, hedged their statements, covered their asses. Dax just said what he meant.
Even when what he meant was blunt to the point of rudeness.
He ended the call and set his phone down with slightly more force than necessary.
“Problem?” Quinn asked.
“Wheeler’s attorney is blocking every subpoena. Claims we’re harassing his client without cause.” Dax stood and moved to the coffee pot. “We have cause. We have a bomb, death threats, and a pattern of suspicious deaths. But apparently that’s not enough.”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Money talks.”
“Yeah, well. Justice should talk louder.” He poured himself more coffee—his fourth cup of the day. Quinn was starting to think the man ran on caffeine and stubbornness.
“Want me to see if I can access the records through other means?” Quinn offered. “I have subscriptions to financial databases through the Tribune. Might be able to find what we need without a subpoena.”
Dax turned, leaning against the counter. “That legal?”
“Completely. Public records, just organized better.” She patted the couch beside her. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
He hesitated. Dax always hesitated before getting too close. Like he was measuring the distance, calculating the risk.
But eventually he sat down. Not right next to her, but near enough that Quinn could feel the warmth radiating off him.
She pulled up one of her databases and started searching. “See, this pulls from county records, SEC filings, business registrations. All public information, just aggregated and searchable.”
Dax leaned in to see the screen. “How much does this cost?”
“The Tribune pays for it. Expensive, but worth it for investigative work.” Quinn typed Wheeler’s name. “And look, here’s his personal financial disclosure from when he served on the planning commission five years ago.”
“He had to disclose his assets?”
“Public officials do. Even volunteer positions like commission members.” Quinn clicked through the document. “He listed ownership in Wheeler Development, the car dealership, and three other LLCs. But look at the valuation.”
Dax’s eyes narrowed. “He claimed the development company was worth two hundred thousand.”
“Right. But based on the property sales we’ve documented, it should be worth at least five million. Maybe more.” Quinn highlighted the discrepancy. “He’s hiding assets. Undervaluing his holdings to avoid scrutiny.”
“Can we use this?”
“In court? Maybe. It shows a pattern of deception. Combined with everything else…” Quinn shrugged, her shoulder lifting. “It’s another brick in the wall.”
“You’re good at this.”
The compliment caught Quinn off guard, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. Dax wasn’t exactly free with praise.
“Thanks,” she said, trying not to sound too pleased, though she could feel warmth creeping into her cheeks. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”
“How’d you get into investigative journalism anyway?”
Quinn saved the document and sat back, the couch cushion settling beneath her.
“I’ve always been angry at something. Even as a kid, before I knew why.
” She picked at a thread on the couch cushion, her fingers worrying at the loose strand.
“A teacher suggested I channel it into something productive. Recommended I join the school newspaper.”
“And you found your calling.”
“Something like that. Turns out I’m good at digging up dirt and asking uncomfortable questions.
” She smiled slightly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“My dad wasn’t always thrilled. Wanted me to be a little less confrontational.
But I couldn’t help it. When I see something wrong, I have to try to fix it. ”
Dax was quiet for a moment, his posture shifting slightly toward her. “You said you’ve always been angry. Where does that start?”
Quinn was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening on the thread.
“When I was five, police found me wandering alone outside an apartment in California. My mother was inside, passed out. Drugs.” She kept her voice light, the way she always did when she talked about it, like the distance in her tone could keep the hurt from showing.
“CPS stepped in. My mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell them much about my father, so they opened a file and put me in the system while they looked. ”
“How long?”
“A couple of years. Different homes, different families. I was too young to understand most of it, but I understood enough.” She finally released the thread.
“Eventually, a caseworker tracked my father down. He came immediately. Didn’t hesitate for a single day.
Packed us both up and moved in with my grandmother so I’d have stability. So I’d have a woman in my life.”
“Sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” Her throat tightened. “We had this whole life there. The three of us. Dinner every night at the same table, same chairs. Gran would cook and Dad would set the table and I’d complain about doing the dishes.
” She almost smiled, the memory warm even through the ache. “I didn’t appreciate it then.”
“But the anger stayed.”
“It never really left.” Quinn looked down at her hands.
“I had everything I needed. A father who loved me, a grandmother who showed up for every school play and baked my birthday cakes from scratch. A real home. But I kept waiting for it to fall apart. Kept pushing to see if they’d send me back.
” She paused. “And underneath all of it was this question I could never answer. Why didn’t she want me?
What was wrong with me that my own mother couldn’t choose me over a high? ”
Dax said nothing. Just listened.
“I tried to find her once. When I was working at the Tribune, I had access to databases, search tools. Figured if anyone could track her down, I could.” Quinn’s voice flattened.
“Found a death record. Vague on cause, but not hard to guess. Sometime in the months after I was taken away.” She exhaled slowly. “So that was that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I made peace with it. Mostly.” She glanced at him, her amber eyes honest. “It just means the anger had nowhere to go. So I put it into the work. Into finding the truth when people try to bury it. Into being the person who asks the questions nobody wants asked.”
Dax shifted slightly closer, the couch dipping under his weight. Not touching, but present. His arm rested along the back of the couch. “Is that why you became so sunny? All the positivity and enthusiasm?”
Quinn laughed, a slightly bitter sound that caught in her chest. “You think it’s an act?”
“I think it’s armor. Like my grumpiness.” His dark eyes watched her carefully.
He wasn’t wrong. Quinn had learned early that being cheerful made people like you. Made them less likely to send you back. Made the world feel less hostile.
Even when it was.
“Maybe,” she admitted, her fingers finally releasing the thread. “Or maybe I just decided that if the world was going to be dark and cruel, I’d be the opposite. Be the light people needed.”
“That’s exhausting.”
“So is being grumpy all the time.”
Dax’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting. Almost a smile. “Fair point.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Quinn found herself studying him—the hard lines of his face, etched deeper by exhaustion and stress, the tension he carried in his shoulders like a physical weight, the scars that disappeared under his rolled-up sleeves.
She’d been curious about those scars since the first day. Had noticed them when he’d reached for something or moved a certain way. They were extensive. Not just one injury, but multiple. Burns, maybe. Or shrapnel wounds.
“Can I ask about your scars?” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dax’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble. For a moment she thought he’d shut down, change the subject. Then he rolled up his right sleeve completely, his movements slow and deliberate, revealing the full extent of the damage.