CHAPTER 23 #2
Quinn stood but didn’t let go of his hand. “Dax?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For coming for me. For not giving up. For—” Her voice broke. “For loving me enough to almost die.”
“Always.” His eyes were already drooping, the pain medication pulling him back under. “Love you, sunshine.”
“Love you too.”
Quinn forced herself to leave, to let the nurse do her job. She walked back through the ICU, through the maze of corridors, back to the waiting room where—
Captain Holloway was waiting.
He stood when he saw her, his expression grave. “Ms. Barrett. I heard Mercer made it through surgery.”
“He did.” Quinn hugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “He’s going to be okay. Eventually.”
“Good. That’s good.” Holloway gestured to the chairs. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Quinn sat, exhaustion pulling at her bones. “Is this about my statement? I already told the officers everything—”
“It’s about Wheeler.” Holloway settled into the chair beside her. “We’ve been processing his men. Wade—the one you shot—survived. And he’s talking.”
Quinn’s head came up. “Talking?”
“Singing like a canary, actually. Gave up everything.” Holloway’s expression was filled with grim satisfaction. “Wheeler’s entire operation. The murders. The bribes. The intimidation. Wade was Wheeler’s head of security for fifteen years. He knows where all the bodies are buried—literally.”
“He’s testifying?” she asked, her brows pulling together in disbelief.
“In exchange for a reduced sentence, yes. Wade’s testimony directly ties Wheeler to your father’s murder, to Leesa Fine’s death, to Thomas Crane, to George Preston.
” Holloway ticked them off on his fingers.
“We have Wade’s testimony. We have Clara Mendez’s testimony.
We have your father’s evidence. We have the physical evidence from tonight’s kidnapping and attempted murder. ”
Quinn felt something shift in her chest. Hope. Real, solid hope.
“Is it enough?” she asked. “Enough to convict?”
“More than enough. DA Sanders is filing additional charges tomorrow morning. First-degree murder. Multiple counts. Kidnapping. Attempted murder of a police officer. Witness tampering.” Holloway leaned forward.
“Quinn, Wheeler’s not walking away from this.
Not with money. Not with lawyers. Not with anything. ”
“He’s going to prison.”
“For the rest of his life.” Holloway’s voice was certain. “Justice for your father. For all of them.”
Quinn felt tears burning again, but these were different. These weren’t grief or fear.
These were relief. Resolution. The end of a journey that had started the day her grandmother told her the truth.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for believing me. For helping us.”
“Thank Mercer. He’s the one who broke the case wide open. Even if he did it by going completely rogue and nearly getting himself killed.” Holloway’s expression was complicated—anger and respect mixed together. “He’s suspended, by the way. Pending an investigation into tonight’s actions.”
“But he saved my life—”
“I know. And when the investigation is over, that’ll be taken into account.
But he disobeyed direct orders, went into an active situation without backup, and discharged his weapon resulting in multiple casualties.
” Holloway held up a hand as Quinn started to protest. “It’s procedure, Quinn.
He knows that. But between you and me? I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he comes out of this with a medal instead of a pink slip. ”
Quinn nodded, too tired to argue.
“Get some rest,” Holloway said, standing. “And Quinn? When you write about this, about your father’s investigation. I hope you’ll tell the whole story. Including tonight. People need to know what Wheeler did. What your father tried to stop.”
“I will.” Quinn’s voice was firm despite her exhaustion. “Every word of it.”
After Holloway left, Quinn sat alone in the waiting room and finally let herself process it all.
Wheeler was in custody. His men were testifying against him. The evidence was overwhelming. Justice was coming—real, actual justice for her father, for Leesa, for all of Wheeler’s victims.
And Dax was alive. Hurt, but alive. And they’d talked. Really talked. About his fear. About her needs. About how to build something real together.
It wasn’t perfect. They had a long way to go. Therapy probably. Hard conversations. Learning to trust each other in new ways.
But it was real. And it was theirs.
Quinn pulled out her phone and turned it back on. The messages flooded in. Manny asking if she was okay, if the book was still happening. Nathan checking in from the hospital where he was being treated for his concussion. Carson sending updates about the case.
And one from an unknown number with a 212 area code.
Quinn opened it.
Ms. Barrett, this is Casey Flores from The New York Times. I’d like to talk to you about your investigation into James Wheeler and tonight’s events. Are you available for an interview?
The New York Times.
Quinn stared at the message for a long moment. Then she started typing.
Yes. But the story doesn’t run until the book is finished. And I want final approval on the piece. Those are my terms.
The response came back almost immediately.
Deal. When can we talk?
Quinn smiled—small, but real.
After I finish visiting someone in the hospital. I’ll call you tomorrow.
She put the phone away and stood, muscles protesting after hours of sitting. She needed sleep. Needed food. Needed to go home and shower and change out of her blood-stained clothes.
But first, she was going to sit with Dax for a few more minutes. Rules be damned. The nurse could throw her out if she really wanted to.
Quinn walked back through the corridors, back to the ICU, back to Dax’s room.
He was sleeping now, his breathing deep and even, the monitors beeping their steady rhythm. The color was a bit better in his face. The fever hadn’t spiked.
He was going to be okay.
They were both going to be okay.
Quinn pulled the chair close to his bedside and settled in, her hand finding his again.
“We did it,” she whispered to his sleeping form. “We got him, Dad. We got Wheeler. Justice for you. Justice for all of them.”
Outside the window, dawn was breaking over Blackridge. The first light of a new day washing away the darkness.
Quinn watched the sunrise and held Dax’s hand and let herself believe, finally, that the nightmare was over.
That they had a future.
That love—real, imperfect, hard-fought love—was worth all of it.
“Stay with me,” she whispered. “Through the recovery. Through the trial. Through all of it. Stay with me, Dax Mercer. Because I’m not done with you yet.”
His fingers tightened around hers—just barely, but enough.
Enough to tell her he heard.
Enough to tell her he wasn’t going anywhere.
Enough to tell her they were going to be okay.
Together.