CHAPTER 17 #2
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.” Quinn squeezed his hand. “But we can’t live in fear, Dax. We have to trust that we’re doing the right thing. That justice matters more than our fear.”
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, and Quinn pressed her face against his chest. She could hear his heart beating too fast, could feel the tension in every line of his body.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said into her hair. “Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks.”
“I promise.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. Because finishing her father’s investigation, seeing Wheeler brought to justice—that was inherently risky. But she needed Dax to believe she’d be safe. Needed to believe it herself.
They stood there in the quiet suburban street, holding each other as the sun set, and tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
***
James Wheeler was arrested at 8:47 PM on a Tuesday night—three days after Dorothy Barrett’s funeral.
Quinn watched it on the news from Dax’s cabin, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
She’d been here for three days now, ever since the funeral.
Three days of staring at the same four walls, cut off from everything.
Three days of wondering if this would finally be when they arrested Wheeler, and finally it had happened.
The footage showed Wheeler being led out of his downtown office in handcuffs, his expensive suit wrinkled, his face a mask of cold fury.
The reporters swarmed him, shouting questions.
“Mr. Wheeler, did you order the murder of David Barrett?”
“Mr. Wheeler, what do you say to allegations of fraud?”
“Mr. Wheeler, do you have any comment?”
Wheeler stopped, turned to face the cameras despite the officer trying to guide him forward. And he smiled.
It was the smile of a predator. A man who knew he had power even in handcuffs.
“David Barrett was a fine journalist,” Wheeler said, his voice smooth and sincere.
“A man dedicated to the truth. It’s tragic that he died pursuing a story eleven years ago.
And it’s equally tragic to see his daughter follow in his footsteps—making the same mistakes, chasing the same dead ends.
” He paused, his eyes finding the camera.
“I hope Ms. Barrett doesn’t meet the same unfortunate fate her father did. These obsessions can be so dangerous.”
Quinn’s blood turned to ice.
To anyone else, it sounded like concern. Like sympathy for a grieving daughter gone off the rails.
But Quinn heard the real message: Back off, or you’ll end up like your father.
The officer pulled Wheeler forward, but he called over his shoulder, “I’ve always believed people should be held accountable for their actions. False accusations have consequences. Serious consequences.”
The screen cut to a reporter. “Wheeler is being charged with multiple counts of fraud, bribery, conspiracy to commit murder in the death of George Preston, and witness intimidation. More charges may be pending as the investigation continues.”
Quinn’s phone rang. Dax.
“Did you see it?” she asked, hating how her voice shook.
“Yeah. I’m at the station now. Wheeler’s being processed.” Dax’s voice was tight with barely controlled rage. “That son of a bitch just threatened you on live television.”
“He made it sound like concern.”
“That’s what makes it effective. To the public, he’s the wronged businessman worried about a grieving daughter. To us, it’s a clear threat.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m still here, at the cabin…like Rapunzel locked away in her tower. But without the tower. Just the isolation. Doors locked, curtains drawn.” Quinn looked around the isolated living room, feeling the walls close in. “How much longer do I have to stay here, Dax?”
“He’ll be arraigned in forty-eight hours. His lawyers will argue for bail.”
“Can they get it? For murder conspiracy charges?”
“I don’t know. He’s got no priors, deep community ties, half the city council in his pocket. Judge might grant house arrest with electronic monitoring.” Frustration bled through every word. “And if he gets out—”
“Then I stay here.”
“Exactly. At least until trial.” He paused. “I know this is hard, Quinn. But you’re safe there. No one knows about the cabin except me, Carson, and Nathan.”
Quinn stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see the dark woods surrounding the property. Miles from town. Miles from anyone. No cell service. The landline Dax had insisted she keep nearby her only connection to the outside world besides the TV and his laptop.
She felt like a prisoner.
“I hate this,” she said quietly. “Being stuck here. Cut off. I should be working on my book, doing interviews, following up on leads—”
“You can write from there. That’s why I brought my laptop.”
“It’s not the same. I need to be out there, Dax. I need to—”
“You need to stay alive.” His voice was hard, that cop tone she’d heard when they first met. “Wheeler just made it clear on national television that he’s coming after you. You think I’m going to let you walk around Blackridge like a target?”
“You can’t keep me locked up forever.”
“Watch me.”
The two words landed like a slap. Quinn closed her eyes, remembering the first time he’d said that to her—dismissed her like an annoying civilian who didn’t know her place.
They’d come so far since then. Or had they?
The line went quiet for a moment. Then Dax sighed, his voice softening. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But please, Quinn. Just stay there. Stay safe. For me.”
Quinn heard the fear underneath the commanding tone. The terror of losing someone else he loved.
“Okay,” she said softly. “But Dax...you need to be careful too. If Wheeler’s threatening me, he might—”
“I can take care of myself. It’s you I’m worried about.”
She scraped her teeth across her bottom lip, choosing her words carefully. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise. I’ll be home tomorrow after my shift. Bring some groceries, check the perimeter.”
“Okay.”
There was a long pause, and then, “I love you.”
The smile that spread across her face couldn’t be helped. “I love you too.”
After they hung up, Quinn sat in the silent cabin and tried not to feel like she was suffocating.
The TV droned on—more coverage of Wheeler’s arrest, legal analysts debating the strength of the case, Wheeler’s lawyer already doing damage control on the evening news.
Quinn turned it off.
The silence was worse.
She’d been alone before. Had lived alone for years in Seattle. But this felt different. This wasn’t solitude by choice. This was forced isolation. Again. Protective custody in everything but name.
And she hated it.
Hated feeling helpless. Hated being hidden away while Wheeler walked free and made threats. Hated that Dax was out there, potentially in danger, while she sat here doing nothing.
Her father hadn’t hidden. Had kept investigating, kept fighting, even when it put him at risk.
Of course, her father had died for it.
Quinn shook her head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. She moved to the laptop Dax had left her and opened her manuscript—the book about her father’s investigation, about Wheeler’s crimes, about everything she’d uncovered.
Work. She could focus on work.
But even as she tried to write, she couldn’t shake the image of Wheeler’s smile on that screen.
Or the veiled threat in his words. I hope Ms. Barrett doesn’t meet the same unfortunate fate her father did.
She was a sitting duck out here. Safe, maybe. But also alone. Isolated. Vulnerable in a different way.
And somewhere out there, James Wheeler was planning his next move.