Chapter 5
Quinn hit “publish” on her laptop and immediately wanted to throw up.
The article was live. On the Portland Tribune’s website. Available for anyone to read.
Including James Wheeler.
She sat back in her grandmother’s kitchen chair and stared at the screen. The headline glared back at her: BLACKRIDGE BUSINESSMAN LINKED TO DECADE OF FRAUD: IS THOMAS CRANE’S “SUICIDE” REALLY MURDER?
Her byline sat right underneath. Quinn Barrett, Investigative Reporter.
Target acquired.
“What did I just do?” she whispered to the empty kitchen.
Her phone buzzed against the counter, making her jump. A text from her editor, Manny. Hell of a story, Barrett. Expect this to blow up. You sure about your sources?
Quinn’s hands shook as she typed back. Positive. Everything’s documented.
Good. Because Wheeler’s lawyers are going to come at us hard. Make sure you can back up every claim.
I can.
She set the phone down, her fingers lingering on the screen before she pulled them away.
She read through the article one more time, her eyes scanning each paragraph, looking for any weakness, any hole Wheeler’s team could exploit.
She’d been careful. Hadn’t directly accused Wheeler of murder—just raised questions.
Presented the financial evidence her father had collected.
Noted the suspicious timing of two deaths. Let readers draw their own conclusions.
But everyone would know what she was saying. Wheeler would know.
Quinn’s stomach churned. She pressed a hand against it, trying to settle the nausea.
She’d spent the past three days working on this article—ever since Detective Mercer had grudgingly agreed to work with her.
Well, “work with” was generous. More like he’d given her strict instructions to stay put while he investigated, and she’d decided to publish her findings anyway.
He was going to be furious.
The thought made her feel guilty for about half a second. Then she remembered how he’d dismissed her at the police station. How everyone had dismissed her. How her father and Thomas Crane had died and nobody cared.
This article would make them care.
Her phone rang, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Unknown number.
Quinn’s pulse spiked. She answered, bringing the phone to her ear with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. “Hello?”
Heavy breathing. Then a voice—male, distorted, like someone speaking through a filter. “You made a mistake.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. The kitchen suddenly felt too big, too empty. “Who is this?”
“You should have stayed quiet. Like your father should have stayed quiet.”
The line went dead.
Quinn stared at her phone, her hands trembling so badly the screen blurred. That had been—that was a threat. An actual threat. Her breath came faster, shallow.
She should call the police. Call Detective Mercer. Tell someone.
Instead, she pulled up her article again and read it, forcing her eyes to focus on the words even as her hands shook. Every word. Every carefully documented fact. Her father had died collecting this evidence. She wasn’t going to let some anonymous phone call scare her into silence.
Her phone rang again. Different number.
Quinn stared at it, her thumb hovering over the answer button. Let it go to voicemail. Then it rang again. And again.
By the fifth call, she stopped picking up the phone.
Just watched the screen light up over and over, the vibrations rattling against the counter.
Different numbers each time. Some left voicemails—heavy breathing, distorted threats, one that just said “dead girl walking” over and over until the message cut off.
Quinn’s chest felt tight. Her sunny disposition was taking a serious beating, replaced by something cold and sharp in her stomach that might have been fear or maybe even anger. She couldn’t quite tell anymore.
She blocked each number as it appeared, her fingers moving mechanically across the screen, but they kept coming. Whoever was doing this had access to multiple phones. Or was spoofing numbers. Either way, they wanted her scared.
It was working.
Quinn forced herself to breathe. In through the nose—her breath shuddered on the inhale.
Out through the mouth. The technique her therapist had taught her for managing anxiety.
She’d needed it a lot after her father died.
Needed it even more now. Her hands pressed flat against the counter, grounding herself.
Her laptop chimed from the living room. Email notification.
Quinn’s head snapped toward the sound, her whole body tensing.
She opened it with a heavy sense of dread, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
The subject line: You’re next.
The body of the email contained a single photo. Her grandmother’s house. Taken from across the street. Today, based on Quinn’s car in the driveway.
Someone was watching her.
Quinn jumped up from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. She rushed to the front window and peered out through the curtains.
The street looked normal. Quiet. A few parked cars. Mrs. Henderson watering her garden two houses down. Nothing suspicious.
But someone had been out there. Taking photos. Watching.
“Quinn?” Her grandmother’s weak voice drifted from the bedroom. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”
Quinn forced herself to sound calm. “Everything’s fine, Gran. Just got startled by a noise. Go back to sleep.”
She heard the bed creak as her grandmother settled back down. Good. Gran didn’t need to know about this. She was already dying. She didn’t need to spend her last days terrified.
Quinn checked all the doors, her fingers testing each lock twice. Locked. Windows. Also locked. She closed all the curtains, moving from room to room with quick, jerky movements, turning the sunny cottage into a dim cave.
Her phone rang again. This time it was Detective Mercer.
Quinn answered, her heart already pounding. “I know you’re mad—”
“What the hell did you do?” His voice was tight with anger, barely controlled. “I told you to stay put. To not do anything without clearing it with me first.”
“I’m a journalist. I published a story. That’s my job.” She paced the kitchen, unable to stand still.
“Your job is going to get you killed!” She could hear him moving, probably pacing too. Footsteps, a door slamming. “Wheeler knows now. He knows you’re investigating. He knows you have evidence. Do you understand what that means?”
“It means the truth is out there. It means people will start asking questions. It means—”
“It means you just painted a target on your back!” Mercer’s voice rose, sharp enough to make her flinch. “Wheeler’s killed twice. What makes you think he’ll hesitate to kill again?”
Quinn’s bravado wavered. She stopped pacing, one hand gripping the counter. “I’ve been getting threats. Phone calls. Emails.”
“Jesus Christ.” A long pause. She could hear his breathing, heavy and frustrated. “Since when?”
“Since about ten minutes after the article went live. Different numbers, different messages, but all basically saying the same thing—I should have kept quiet.”
“Any physical threats? Anyone approach you in person?”
“No, but someone sent me a photo of Gran’s house. Taken today.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
The silence on the other end was heavy. When Mercer spoke again, his voice was different. Calmer, but somehow more frightening. “Pack a bag. Now.”
“What?”
“Pack a bag. Clothes for a few days. Medication if you need it. Important documents. Do it now.” Each word was clipped, precise.
“I’m not leaving my grandmother—”
“I’ll arrange for round-the-clock care. But you can’t stay there. If Wheeler knows where you live, you’re not safe.”
Quinn looked around the kitchen. At the photos on the walls—her father young and smiling, her as a child. At the table where she and Gran used to do puzzles. At the home she’d grown up in.
“I can’t just leave.” Her throat felt tight.
“You can and you will. Unless you want to end up like your father.” Mercer’s tone softened slightly. “Look, I get it. You published the article because you want justice. Fine. But justice doesn’t matter if you’re dead. Let me protect you.”
“I don’t need protection. I need—”
A crash from the front of the house cut her off. The sound was massive, violent—glass exploding inward.
Quinn dropped the phone and ran to the living room, her feet sliding on the hardwood.
The front window was shattered, jagged edges clinging to the frame like teeth.
Glass covered the couch and floor, glittering in the dim light.
And lying in the middle of it all was a brick with a note wrapped around it.
Quinn’s hands shook as she picked it up, glass crunching under her shoes. The note was simple, printed in block letters: STOP OR YOU’RE NEXT.
“Barrett? Barrett!” Mercer’s voice shouted from the dropped phone, tinny and distant.
Quinn retrieved it, her fingers numb. “Someone just threw a brick through the window.”
“I’m five minutes away. Don’t go outside. Don’t open the door for anyone. Just stay inside and stay away from the windows.”
“How did you—”
“I was already on my way over when you published that damn article. Stay put.”
He hung up.
Quinn stood in the living room, glass crunching under her shoes with each slight shift of weight.
She surveyed the damage with the same analytical eye she’d use at any crime scene she was covering—cataloging details, looking for evidence.
The brick. The note. The trajectory of the throw. Professional. Methodical.
But her hands were shaking.
She’d broken stories on corrupt city officials who’d threatened lawsuits. Exposed a human trafficking ring that had resulted in actual death threats to her apartment in Portland. She knew how this worked—publish something that hurts powerful people, and they push back.
But this was different. This wasn’t some politician’s lawyer sending cease-and-desist letters. This was a brick through her grandmother’s window. This was her father’s case. This was personal in a way that made her reporter’s objectivity impossible.