Chapter 9 #2
The scars covered his entire forearm. Puckered skin, discolored patches in shades of pink and white, evidence of extensive trauma. Some looked like burns, the skin shiny and tight. Others like impact wounds, irregular and deep.
Quinn’s breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “From the IED you told me about,” she said softly. Not a question.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “The blast threw me about fifteen feet. Landed on my arm. Broke it in three places. But that wasn’t the worst part.
” He stared at his forearm like he was seeing it for the first time.
“Shrapnel. Bits of metal and debris from the vehicle, the donkey, the road itself. All of it embedded in my skin. Doctors spent six hours in surgery pulling pieces out.”
Quinn could see it now—the irregular patterns weren’t random. They were a map of violence, each scar a piece of something that shouldn’t have been there.
“Some pieces they couldn’t get. Too deep, too close to nerves.” Dax’s fingers traced one of the larger scars, the movement unconscious. “I can feel them sometimes. When it rains or gets cold. Little reminders.”
“Does it hurt?” Her voice was gentle.
“Not like it used to. The physical pain faded. But—” He finally looked at her, his eyes haunted.
“I see O’Brien, Mueller, and MacKenzie every time I look at these scars.
See them in that lead vehicle. Remember that I was supposed to be in there with them but switched at the last minute because Mueller wanted to ride up front. ”
Quinn’s chest ached, her heart squeezing painfully. “So you carry them with you.”
“Every day.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “These scars? They’re the easy ones. The ones people can see.”
Quinn didn’t think. Just reached out and took his scarred hand in both of hers, her fingers gentle against the damaged skin, feeling the uneven texture.
Dax stiffened, his whole body going rigid, but didn’t pull away.
“You saved lives,” Quinn said firmly, her hands tightening around his. “Dozens of them, probably. Your friends would be proud of that.”
“Or they’d say I was trying to make up for surviving when they didn’t.” His voice was rough, raw.
“No. They’d say you honored their sacrifice by protecting others. That’s what good soldiers do. What good people do.” She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing across his scarred knuckles. “You’re a good person, Dax. Even when you’re being grumpy and impossible.”
He looked at their joined hands, his throat working as he swallowed. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know you gave up your bed for me. Made me dinner. Risked your career to investigate my father’s murder. Protected me when everyone else thought I was crazy.” Quinn met his eyes, holding his gaze. “I know enough.”
Something shifted in Dax’s expression. Softened. The hard edges smoothing, his eyes warming. “You’re pretty impossible yourself, you know.”
“I’ve been told.” Her voice came out breathier than intended.
This time, Dax did smile. Small, but genuine. And God, it transformed his whole face. Made him look younger, the harsh lines easing. Less burdened.
Quinn realized she was still holding his hand. That they were sitting very close, their knees almost touching. That his eyes were more brown than black, and they were looking at her like she was something precious. Something worth protecting.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her pulse jumping in her throat.
This was dangerous. Getting close to someone during a crisis. Mistaking gratitude and proximity for something more.
But it didn’t feel like gratitude. It felt like recognition. Like finding someone who understood.
Dax cleared his throat and gently pulled his hand back, the loss of contact leaving her palm cold. “We should get back to work.”
“Right. Yes. Work.” Quinn focused on the laptop, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard, trying to ignore the warmth still tingling in her palm. “Um. Where were we?”
“Financial records.” His voice was rougher than before.
“Financial records. Good. Yes.” She clicked through screens without really seeing them, the words blurring. “I think we should also look at Wheeler’s business associates. See if any of them have suspicious deaths or disappeared witnesses.”
“Good idea.” Dax stood and moved back to the kitchen table, his chair scraping loudly in the quiet cabin. Distance. Safety.
Quinn told herself she was glad. This was professional. They were working a case together. Nothing more.
Even if her body was screaming that it wanted to be more.
The afternoon passed with them focused on research. Quinn cross-referenced names while Dax made phone calls and sent emails, his voice a low murmur in the background. By dinnertime, they’d identified three more suspicious deaths connected to Wheeler’s business dealings.
“This guy’s a serial killer,” Quinn said, staring at the timeline she’d created on her notepad, the dates and names forming a damning pattern. “Not in the traditional sense, but still. He’s killed at least six people that we can prove. Probably more.”
“And gotten away with it for over a decade.” Dax pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, the cool air wafting out. “We need something ironclad. Something his lawyers can’t explain away.”
“What about Clara Mendez? If we could find her, get her to testify—”
“I’m working on it. But if she’s been hiding for what, ten years?
She’s not going to be easy to find.” Dax started chopping vegetables, the knife hitting the cutting board in a steady rhythm.
“And even if we find her, she might not be willing to testify. Fear makes people do a lot of things. Including stay silent.”
Quinn watched him cook, her chin propped on her hand. He moved with the same methodical precision he brought to everything. Measuring ingredients, checking temperatures, timing everything perfectly. No wasted movements.
“You’re good at that too,” she observed.
“Cooking?” He glanced up briefly, his hands never pausing.
“Being self-sufficient. Taking care of yourself. Most guys I know can barely make toast.”
“Army teaches you to be resourceful. Can’t always rely on a mess hall or MREs.” He glanced at her, his expression lighter. “You cook?”
“I can. Not as well as you, probably. But I won’t starve.” Quinn moved to the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her hip pressed against the edge. “Want help?”
“You can set the table.”
It was such a domestic request. Normal. Like they were a couple living together instead of a detective and witness hiding from a murderer.
Quinn pushed that thought away and gathered plates and silverware, the ceramic cool in her hands. The table was small, just big enough for two. Intimate.
“My grandmother used to cook dinner every night,” Quinn said, setting down the plates with soft clinks. “Even when my dad was alive. She’d insist we all eat together. No TV, no phones. Just family.”
“Sounds nice.” The oil in the pan sizzled as he added the vegetables.
“It was. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. Thought it was boring. But now—” Her voice caught, her throat tightening. “Now I’d give anything for one more dinner with them.”
Dax set the spatula down and turned off the stove, the flame dying with a soft whoosh. “How’s your grandmother doing?”
“Agent Torres says she’s stable. Comfortable. The nurse practitioner has been great.” Quinn blinked back tears, her vision blurring. “I should be there with her. These are her last days and I’m hiding in a cabin.”
“You’re staying alive. That’s what she wants.” He turned to face her fully, his expression gentle.
“I know. But it doesn’t make it easier.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Dax turned off the stove and plated the food—stir-fry with chicken and vegetables, simple but good, the steam rising in fragrant curls. He set a plate in front of Quinn and sat across from her, the chair creaking.
"Tell me about her," he said, his voice quiet. "Your grandmother."
Quinn was surprised by the request, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. Dax wasn't usually one for small talk.
"She's strong," Quinn said, setting her fork down.
"Raised my dad by herself after my grandfather died.
Worked two jobs to keep food on the table.
Never complained. Never gave up." She took a bite of food, chewing slowly.
"When my dad finally found me and brought me home, she just…
opened her arms. No hesitation. No resentment that this little damaged kid was suddenly her responsibility too. She just made room."
"She sounds like she was good at that."
"The best." Quinn's throat tightened. "I wasn't easy.
I came to them angry and mistrustful and convinced that everyone left eventually.
I tested her constantly. Said terrible things sometimes, the way kids do when they're trying to prove they were right to expect the worst." She shook her head slowly.
"She never flinched. Never threatened to send me back. Just kept showing up."
"But you still left. Portland."
"When my dad died, I didn't know what to do with myself.
" Quinn set her fork down, her appetite fading.
"Gran was right there, wanting to grieve together, wanting to hold on to what was left.
And I just…ran. Told myself it was ambition.
A career. A fresh start." She looked at her hands.
"But really I did what I always do. Waited for the loss and then got out before I could feel the full weight of it. "
"And you didn't come back."
"Twice in ten years." The guilt was a physical thing, pressing against her chest. "She never once made me feel bad for it.
Sent cards. Called every Sunday. Saved every article I ever published.
" Quinn blinked hard, her eyes stinging.
"That's why I have to finish this. Because she has spent her whole life loving people who were difficult to love, and she deserves to know her son didn't die for nothing.
She deserves to see it mean something before she goes. "