CHAPTER 19 #2
“Okay.” Manny’s voice shifted to business mode. “I’ve been in touch with some publishers. The interest is huge, Quinn. Massive. This story—Wheeler’s arrest, the charges, your personal connection—it’s exactly the kind of thing that breaks through.”
Quinn felt a flutter of something in her chest. Not quite hope. Not quite fear. Something in between.
“There’s already talk of a bidding war,” Manny continued. “And I’ve had three separate production companies reach out about adaptation rights. They’re calling it the next ‘Serial.’”
“It’s not entertainment,” Quinn said, her voice harder than she’d intended. “It’s my father’s life. His death.”
“I know. I know that.” Manny’s voice gentled. “But Quinn, this story matters. And if telling it in multiple formats means more people understand what Wheeler did, what he got away with for so long, isn’t that worth it?”
Quinn closed her eyes. Thought about her father. About all those witnesses on the USB drive. About Clara hiding for eleven years.
About Leesa Fine, who’d tried to expose Wheeler and died for it.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “It’s worth it.”
After she hung up, Quinn sat at the table and stared at her manuscript file.
This was real. This was happening.
Her story—her father’s story—was going to be published. Read by thousands, maybe millions of people.
Wheeler wouldn’t be able to hide anymore. Wouldn’t be able to charm his way out of it or buy his silence or threaten people into submission.
The truth would be out there, permanent and undeniable.
Quinn felt something fierce and hot burn in her chest.
Good.
Let Wheeler see what happened when you pushed someone too far. When you took everything from someone and left them with nothing to lose.
She opened her manuscript again and kept writing.
The sun was setting by the time Nathan came to check on her again.
“You should eat something,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “You’ve been at this for hours.”
Quinn looked up, blinking in the gathering darkness. When had it gotten dark? “What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
Eight. She’d been writing for ten hours straight.
Quinn’s back ached. Her eyes burned. Her fingers were stiff from typing.
And she felt more alive than she had in weeks.
“Let me just finish this chapter—”
“Quinn.” Nathan’s voice was firm but kind. “Food. Then you can get back to it.”
Quinn saved her work and stretched, her spine crackling. “Okay. Yeah. Food.”
Nathan ordered pizza—a small act of normalcy that felt almost decadent after a week of the same rotation of cabin groceries.
They ate at the kitchen table, and Nathan talked about his day, about Torres and the protection detail, about mundane things that had nothing to do with murder or fear or danger.
It was nice.
Almost normal.
Quinn was halfway through her second slice when Nathan’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, his expression shifting. “It’s Torres. I need to take this.”
“Go ahead.”
Nathan stepped into the living room, his voice low. Quinn couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear the tone shift—professional to concerned to tense.
When he came back, his face was carefully neutral.
“What?” Quinn asked.
“Wheeler left his house.”
Quinn’s stomach dropped. “What? The ankle monitor—”
“He’s wearing it. It’s active. But he left about twenty minutes ago. Drove to his lawyer’s office.” Nathan’s jaw was tight. “Legal visit. Perfectly within his bail conditions.”
“But?”
“But the timing’s suspicious. Torres wants to increase your security. She’s sending another agent—”
“No.” Quinn set down her pizza. “No more agents. No more people watching me. I already have you. That’s enough.”
“Quinn—”
“Nathan, I just got out of one cage. I’m not walking into another.” Quinn’s voice was firm. “Wheeler visiting his lawyer isn’t a crime. And we don’t even know if it has anything to do with me.”
“Your book. The news coverage that’ll follow.” Nathan looked at her seriously. “Wheeler knows you’re not backing down. That you’re going to publish your father’s story. You think he’s just going to sit back and let that happen?”
Quinn’s hands clenched on the table. “So what’s your plan? Lock me in a safe house like Clara? Give me a new identity? Make me disappear?”
“I’m just saying we should be cautious—”
“I’m being cautious. You’re here. The doors are locked. I’m not going anywhere.” Quinn met his eyes. “But I’m also not going to stop living my life because Wheeler drove to his lawyer’s office.”
Nathan looked like he wanted to argue. But after a moment, he nodded. “Okay. But I’m doing a perimeter check. And tonight, I’m sleeping on the couch. Not the guest room.”
“Fine.”
After Nathan went outside to check the property, Quinn sat at the kitchen table and tried to calm her racing heart.
Wheeler was moving. Making plays.
She’d known this would happen eventually. Known that publishing her book would provoke a response. She just didn’t realize it would happen so soon. The deal wasn’t even done yet, which told her everything she needed to know. Wheeler had eyes and ears everywhere.
Nowhere was safe.
But knowing it intellectually and feeling it in her gut were two different things.
Quinn cleaned up the pizza boxes, the cardboard still warm and greasy under her fingers, the smell of pepperoni and cheese thick in the air.
She washed her hands at the sink, the water running cold at first before warming, watching the grease swirl down the drain in iridescent patterns.
Dried them on the dishtowel her grandmother had embroidered with violets—the stitching worn soft from years of use.
Then she went back to the dining room.
Back to her manuscript.
Back to work.
If Wheeler was planning something, she needed to finish this. Needed to get the story out there before—
Before what?
Before he stopped her?
Quinn pushed the thought away and focused on her screen. On the words. On the truth that needed telling. Beyond the headlines.
Outside, she heard Nathan moving around the property. His footsteps crunching on the gravel path that ran along the side of the house. The soft click of a gate latch being tested. The rustle of bushes as he checked the perimeter. Making sure everything was secure.
Inside, the house was quiet except for the sound of her fingers on the keyboard—that rhythmic tap-tap-tap that had been the soundtrack to her entire career. The familiar sound was almost meditative. Almost enough to make her forget about Wheeler and threats and danger.
Almost.
Quinn wrote.
Around eleven PM, Nathan came back inside.
The front door opened with its familiar creak, and Quinn heard him stamping his boots on the mat. He appeared in the dining room doorway, his jacket damp with evening dew, his breath slightly visible in the chill air he’d brought in with him.
“Everything looks clear,” he said. “No signs of surveillance or anyone watching the house.”
“Good.” Quinn saved her work with a keystroke she’d performed thousands of times, muscle memory making her fingers fly to Ctrl+S without conscious thought. She closed the laptop, the screen going dark with a soft click. “I’m going to call it a night.”
“Smart. You’ve been at it for what, twelve hours?”
“Something like that.” Quinn stood, and her body protested immediately—her lower back seizing in a knot of tension, her shoulders stiff and aching, her neck creaking as she turned her head. God, she was going to be sore tomorrow.
“I’ll be on the couch if you need anything,” Nathan said. “Doors are locked. Security system’s armed. You’re safe, Quinn.”
She nodded, wanting to believe him. The house around them was silent and still, the old structure settling with its familiar groans and sighs. Safe. This house had always been safe.
Until it wasn’t.
Quinn pushed that thought away too.
In her room, she changed into pajamas—soft flannel pants and an old T-shirt from college—and brushed her teeth, the mint of the toothpaste sharp and clean on her tongue.
She went through all the normal nighttime routines with mechanical precision.
Face washed. Moisturizer applied. Hair pulled back into a loose braid.
But even as she moved through the motions, she felt wired.
Keyed up. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror showed eyes too bright, pupils dilated with adrenaline that wouldn’t quite drain away.
Her mind was still racing—with the book, with Manny’s call about publishers and production companies, with the knowledge that Wheeler was out there doing... something.
She climbed into bed, pulling her grandmother’s old quilt up to her chin. The fabric was worn soft as tissue paper, the pattern of flowers faded to gentle pastels. It still smelled faintly of her grandmother’s rose water perfume.
Quinn stared at the ceiling, at the water stain in the corner that looked like a map of Italy, at the way the shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns on the plaster.
This was her childhood bedroom. The place where she’d felt safest in the world.
Why didn’t she feel safe now?
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it would be short lived.
The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence like a gunshot.
Quinn’s eyes flew open, her heart already racing before her conscious mind had fully processed what she’d heard. For a moment, she lay frozen in bed, every muscle locked tight, wondering if she’d dreamed it.
The sound had been sharp. Crystalline. Like a window breaking, but muffled, distant. From outside? The garage?
Then she heard Nathan’s voice, low and sharp, carrying from down the hall. “Stay inside. Lock your door.”
The command in his tone made Quinn’s stomach drop. This wasn’t a raccoon knocking over trash cans. This was serious.
Footsteps thundering across the floors—Nathan moving fast, his boots heavy on the hardwood.
The front door opening with a rush of cool night air that Quinn could feel even from a distance, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.
Then silence.