Chapter 12
The morning crawled by in tense silence.
Dax reviewed evidence at the dining table while Quinn sat with her grandmother. He could hear their voices—Quinn reading aloud from some book that had questionable content, her grandmother’s occasional weak responses and shared laughs. The intimacy of it made his chest ache.
He’d chosen this distance. Had to live with it.
Around ten, Nathan arrived to check vitals. Dax heard him talking quietly with Quinn in the hallway.
“How are you holding up?” Nathan’s voice, concerned.
“I’m fine.” Quinn’s response was automatic. The same brittle brightness she’d used last night.
“You sure? Because you look like you haven’t slept.”
“I said I’m fine, Nathan.” Her voice was sharper now. “Can you just—can we focus on Gran, please?”
“Of course. Sorry.”
Dax rubbed his jaw and tried to focus on Wheeler’s shell companies. Failed. His mind kept drifting to Quinn’s tears last night. The way she’d asked him to try. The way he’d choked.
At eleven-thirty, Quinn emerged from her grandmother’s room. She’d changed into black slacks and a burgundy blouse—professional armor. Her hair was down now, falling in waves past her shoulders. She’d put on minimal makeup, but it couldn’t quite hide the shadows under her eyes.
She looked beautiful and exhausted and so far away it hurt.
“I’m going to organize my notes for the DA meeting,” she said to the room in general. Not looking at Dax specifically.
“I’ve compiled the financial evidence,” Dax offered. “Cross-referenced the shell companies with property transactions.”
“Good.” Quinn sat at the far end of the table. Pulled out her laptop. “Send me the file.”
“I can walk you through—”
“Just send it. Please.” Her tone left no room for argument.
Dax sent the file. Watched her open it and start reviewing, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Taking notes in that precise way she had. Completely focused. Completely closed off.
They worked alongside each other for an hour. Not together. Just...near each other.
Carson called around noon. “DA’s ready. Two o’clock sharp. She’s interested, Mercer. Really interested.”
“Good. We’ll be there.”
After he hung up, Quinn spoke without looking up from her laptop. “I’ll drive separately. Meet you there.”
“We should go together. Safety in numbers.”
“I’ll be fine. FBI agents are still watching the house.” Her tone was final. “I need...I need some space.”
The words stung more than they should have.
“Okay.” Dax’s voice came out rougher than intended. “But call me when you’re five minutes out. I want to know you got there safe.”
Quinn’s fingers paused on the keyboard. For a moment, he thought she might soften. Might look at him.
But she just nodded and kept typing.
At one-thirty, Quinn grabbed her bag and headed for the door. Dax followed her outside—couldn’t help himself.
“Quinn, wait.”
She stopped on the porch, her back to him. Shoulders tense.
“Be careful. Wheeler knows we have evidence. He might make a move.”
“I know how to be careful.” She turned slightly, not quite facing him. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, Detective.”
Detective. That formality was a knife between his ribs.
“I know you have. I just—” He struggled for words. “I care if something happens to you.”
“Do you? Because last night you said you can’t even try to—” She broke off, shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you at the DA’s office.”
She walked to her car without looking back. Dax watched her go, hands clenched at his sides.
He wanted to call her back. Wanted to say he was sorry. That he was an idiot. That he’d been thinking about her words all night—about trying, about taking risks, about life being too short for fear.
But fear was all he had. Fear and the certainty that caring about people got them killed.
So he let her drive away.
***
The DA’s office was in the county courthouse—an imposing brick building with columns flanking the entrance. Dax arrived first, parked in the visitor lot. Watched for Quinn’s car.
She pulled in ten minutes later. Parked three spaces away from him. Got out and headed for the building without waiting.
Dax caught up with her at the entrance. “Quinn—”
“Not now. We have a meeting.” She didn’t slow down.
Inside, they went through security. Metal detectors. Visitor badges. The whole routine. Quinn walked slightly ahead of him, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Maintaining that careful distance.
DA Clarissa Sanders’ office was on the third floor. It was a large corner office with windows overlooking downtown Blackridge. Sanders herself was in her early fifties, sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, silver-streaked black hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“Detective Mercer. Ms. Barrett.” She gestured to chairs across from her desk. “Please, sit. Detective Black speaks highly of your investigation.”
They sat. Dax noticed Quinn chose the chair farthest from him. Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression professional and closed off.
“We appreciate you taking the time,” Dax said.
“Well, when Carson says I should look at a case, I listen.” Sanders pulled out a legal pad. “Walk me through what you have.”
For the next two hours, they presented the evidence. Dax handled the law enforcement perspective—investigative procedures, chain of custody, legal implications. Quinn provided the journalistic context—her father’s research, background on Wheeler, connections between seemingly unrelated crimes.
They worked together seamlessly. Professional. Efficient. Anyone watching would think they were perfect partners.
But there was no warmth between them. No casual touches or shared glances. No moments of connection. Just cold professionalism.
Sanders took notes throughout. Asked pointed questions. Examined key documents.
Finally, she sat back. “This is impressive work. Both from David Barrett originally and from you continuing his investigation.”
“What about charges?” Quinn leaned forward, her voice controlled. “Can you prosecute?”
“For the financial crimes? Absolutely. Money laundering, tax fraud, racketeering. We have solid evidence.” Sanders pulled out several files. “Murder will be harder. Unless we can prove Wheeler ordered the deaths directly.”
“He tried to kill me,” Quinn said. “Put a bomb under my car. That’s attempted murder.”
“Do you have direct evidence linking Wheeler to the bomb?”
“Not yet,” Dax admitted. “Bomb squad traced components but they’re commercially available. No fingerprints. No direct connection to Wheeler.”
“Then we charge what we can prove.” Sanders began making notes. “I’ll need to present this to a grand jury. Get indictments. That’ll take a few weeks.”
“Weeks?” Quinn’s voice rose slightly. “Wheeler knows we have evidence. He’s not going to wait around.”
“Which is why I’m requesting immediate warrants for Wheeler’s arrest and asset seizure. I can probably get Judge Roberts to sign off by tomorrow morning.” Sanders looked at Dax. “Can you execute the arrest?”
“Personally.” Dax’s voice was firm.
“Good. Because this needs to be airtight. Wheeler will hire the best defense attorneys. Every step must be by the book.”
Sanders turned to Quinn. “You’ll need to testify before the grand jury. Are you prepared?”
“Absolutely.” Quinn’s chin lifted.
“Excellent. I’ll have my office contact you.” Sanders stood, extending her hand. “This is good work. If we can make these charges stick, we’re taking down a major criminal operation.”
They gathered their materials and left. In the hallway, Quinn moved toward the elevator. Dax followed.
“That went well,” he said.
“Yes. It did.” Quinn pressed the down button. Stared at the numbers above the elevator.
“Quinn, can we talk about—”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Detective.” The elevator dinged. The doors opened. “You made your position clear last night. I’m respecting that. We work together to bring down Wheeler. That’s it.”
She stepped into the elevator. Dax followed, the space suddenly feeling too small. Too close.
Quinn moved to the far corner. Crossed her arms. Stared at the floor numbers as they descended.
Dax wanted to say something. Anything to break through the wall of ice she’d built between them. But what could he say? That he was sorry? That he was scared? She already knew that.
The elevator reached the ground floor. Quinn was out before the doors fully opened, her strides quick and purposeful.
“I’m going home to spend time with Gran,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t need to follow me. FBI agents are still on-site.”
“Quinn, wait—”
She kept walking. Didn’t look back.
Dax stood in the courthouse lobby, watching her go. Again.
He was losing her. Could feel it happening. The distance growing with every cold interaction. Every professional deflection.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
***
Back at her grandmother’s house, the tension was thick enough to cut.
Dax worked in the living room, reviewing case files. Quinn stayed in her grandmother’s room, reading aloud, talking quietly. Only emerging for coffee or food.
When they had to interact, it was brief. Professional.
“I’m making dinner. Do you want some?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“The FBI agents are switching shifts at eight.”
“Got it.”
“My grandmother wants to talk to you.”
That stopped Dax cold. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Quinn’s expression was unreadable. “She’s insisting.”
Dax’s legs felt oddly like jello as he left the room. He found Quinn’s grandmother awake and alert, propped up on pillows. She looked frailer than yesterday, her skin almost translucent. But her eyes were sharp.
His gaze tracked to Nathan, who sat in a chair in the corner, quietly monitoring her vitals while trying to remain invisible.
So he was going to have a witness to his humiliation. Great.
Gran looked up when he rapped his knuckles lightly on the doorframe. “Sit down, Detective.” She gestured to the chair beside the bed with a twitch of frail fingers.
Dax sat. “How are you feeling, ma’am?”
“I’m dying. But that’s not why I asked you here.” She fixed him with that sharp gaze. “You’re hurting my granddaughter.”