Chapter 9 #3
Dax reached across the table and covered her hand with his, his palm warm and rough. "We'll get justice. I promise."
Quinn looked at their hands. His was large and scarred and warm. Hers looked small by comparison. Fragile.
But she didn’t feel fragile. Not with Dax here.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “For everything. For believing me. For protecting me. For not treating me like I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. You’re determined. There’s a difference.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth motion.
“Is there? Sometimes, I feel crazy. Like I’m chasing shadows. Seeing patterns that aren’t there.”
“The patterns are there. Wheeler’s just good at hiding them.” Dax squeezed her hand gently, his grip firm but careful. “But we’re better. We’re going to expose him.”
Quinn wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe this would all work out. That Wheeler would go to prison. That her father would get justice. That she and Dax would—
What? Have a future? That was ridiculous. They barely knew each other. Were only together because circumstances forced them to be.
But God, she found a part of herself wanting it anyway.
“We should finish eating,” Dax said, clearing his throat and pulling his hand back again slowly, reluctantly.
They ate in silence. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm. Full of potential energy. Quinn was hyperaware of every sound—the scrape of forks against plates, the quiet chewing, their breathing.
After dinner, Dax washed dishes while Quinn dried, their arms brushing occasionally in the small space. Another domestic moment. Another glimpse of what life could be like if things were different.
“You don’t have to help,” Dax said, his hands deep in soapy water. “I can handle this.”
“I know. But I want to.” Quinn dried a plate and set it in the cabinet with a soft clink. “Besides, I’m going crazy with nothing to do. Research is great, but I need to move around. Feel useful.”
“You are useful. The financial stuff you found today was gold.” He handed her another plate, water dripping from it.
“But it’s not enough. We need more. We need—” Quinn stopped, the towel pausing mid-wipe. “Actually, I have an idea.”
Dax turned off the water, his hands stilling. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”
“Because you assume all my ideas are reckless.”
“Are they?”
“Some of them.” Quinn grinned, her eyes brightening. “But this one’s good. I promise. We need to find Clara Mendez, right?”
“Right.” He turned to face her, his hip against the counter.
“And she disappeared ten years ago. Took her kids and ran. My father’s notes say she was terrified, looking over her shoulder constantly.”
His brows were knitted together. “So?”
“So people like that don’t just vanish completely.
They need new identities, new social security numbers, new birth certificates for the kids.
That kind of thing doesn’t come cheap, and it requires connections.
” Quinn’s mind raced, her words coming faster.
“My father was helping her. What if he arranged for her to get new documents? What if he kept records of where she went?”
Dax’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working. “The files we have don’t show anything like that.”
“The files we have. But what if there are more files? Hidden somewhere?” Quinn pulled out her phone—Dax’s phone, actually, that he let her use for emergency calls, the case worn from his grip.
“My grandmother might know. My father might have told her something. Stored documents with her. Something.”
“It’s late. She’s probably sleeping.” But his tone said he was considering it.
“Agent Torres said she’s having good days and bad days. If today’s a good day—” Quinn was already dialing, her fingers moving quickly across the screen. “I have to try.”
The phone rang three times before Agent Torres answered, her voice professional and crisp. “This is Torres.”
“It’s Quinn Barrett. Is my grandmother awake?” Quinn’s heart pounded, her free hand gripping the counter.
“She is, actually. Having a pretty good evening. Want to talk to her?”
“Please.” Quinn’s throat tightened.
There was rustling, footsteps, then her grandmother’s weak but alert voice. “Quinn? Sweetheart, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Gran. Safe. I promise.” Quinn’s throat tightened at the sound of that beloved voice, tears pricking her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. But aren’t I always?” A soft laugh, thin but genuine. “The nurses here are wonderful. That FBI agent—Torres—she’s been reading to me. Mystery novels. Your father loved those.”
“He did.” Quinn took a breath, steadying herself. “Gran, I need to ask you something about Dad. About his investigation.”
“The one that got him killed.” Her voice went quieter, sadder.
“Yes. He was helping a woman named Clara Mendez. She was going to testify about Wheeler’s crimes, but she disappeared right before Dad died. Do you know anything about that? Did Dad mention her? Or say anything about helping her hide?”
Her grandmother was quiet for a long moment.
Quinn could hear her breathing, labored but steady.
“He didn’t tell me much. Said it was safer that way.
But I remember—” She paused, thinking, the silence stretching.
“There was a weekend trip. About a month before he died. Said he was going to Seattle for work. But when he came back, he seemed relieved. Like he’d accomplished something important. ”
Quinn’s pulse quickened, her grip tightening on the phone. “Did he say what?”
“No. But he gave me something. A key. Said to keep it safe and not tell anyone about it.”
“A key? To what?”
“A safe deposit box. Bank of the Northwest, downtown Seattle branch. Box number 247.” Her grandmother’s voice grew weaker. “I still have the key. In my jewelry box. The one with the blue velvet lining.”
Quinn’s mind raced. A safe deposit box. In Seattle. That her father had set up right before he died.
“Gran, you’re amazing. Thank you.”
“You think there’s something in there? Something that can help?”