CHAPTER 24
Six weeks later, Quinn sat in the front row of the courtroom and watched James Wheeler’s face as the jury foreman stood to deliver the verdict.
Six weeks since that night in the warehouse. Six weeks since Dax had nearly died saving her. Six weeks of recovery and physical therapy and legal proceedings that had consumed every waking hour.
The courtroom was packed—standing room only, reporters lining the walls, cameras outside waiting for the moment Wheeler would be led away in handcuffs or walk free on some technicality his expensive lawyers had manufactured.
But Quinn wasn’t worried about technicalities.
She’d spent the past six weeks watching DA Sanders build an airtight case. Watching witness after witness take the stand and dismantle Wheeler’s carefully constructed facade of respectability. Watching the mountain of evidence grow until it was undeniable, irrefutable, overwhelming.
Wheeler sat at the defense table in another expensive suit, his silver hair perfectly styled, his expression calm and confident. But Quinn could see the tension in his shoulders. Could see the way his hands gripped the edge of the table just a bit too tightly.
He knew.
Judge Patricia Keppler—the same judge who’d granted Wheeler bail all those weeks ago—looked stern and unforgiving now as she addressed the jury foreman.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
The courtroom went silent. So silent Quinn could hear her own heartbeat, could hear the rustle of fabric as reporters leaned forward, could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Beside her, Dax’s hand found hers. His left arm was still in a sling—would be for another month, the doctors said—but his right hand was steady and warm as it wrapped around hers.
He’d been released from the hospital after two weeks. Had spent another four weeks in outpatient physical therapy, relearning how to move his shoulder, how to cope with the nerve damage that might never fully heal.
But he was here. Alive. Hers.
“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of David Barrett, how do you find?”
The foreman—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense expression—looked directly at Wheeler as she spoke.
“We find the defendant guilty.”
Quinn’s breath left her in a rush. Beside her, she felt Dax’s hand tighten.
Guilty. For her father’s murder. After eleven years. Finally, finally—
“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Leesa Fine, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
Dax made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob. Quinn squeezed his hand harder.
“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Thomas Crane, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of first-degree murder in the death of George Preston, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
It went on. Charge after charge. Murder after murder. Conspiracy. Kidnapping. Attempted murder of a police officer. Witness tampering. Fraud. Bribery.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Eighteen separate counts. Eighteen guilty verdicts.
By the time the foreman finished reading, Wheeler’s face had gone gray. His expensive lawyers looked shell-shocked. His hands, gripping the table, were shaking.
Judge Keppler banged her gavel as the courtroom erupted—reporters rushing for the doors, families of the victims crying or cheering, Wheeler’s few remaining supporters looking stunned.
“Order!” Keppler’s voice cut through the chaos. “Order in this court!”
The noise died down gradually. Keppler looked at Wheeler with an expression of cold disgust.
“Mr. Wheeler, you have been found guilty on all counts. Sentencing will be held two weeks from today. Until then, you are remanded into custody without bail. Bailiff.”
Two officers moved forward. Wheeler stood on shaky legs as they cuffed him. No expensive suit could hide the defeat in his posture now, the way he seemed to have aged a decade in the span of minutes.
As they led him past Quinn’s row, Wheeler’s eyes found hers.
For just a moment, they stared at each other.
Quinn saw rage there. Hate. Blame.
She looked back with steady calm. With the certainty of someone who’d survived his worst and come out stronger.
“This is for my father,” she said quietly. Loud enough for only Wheeler to hear. “And for everyone else you destroyed.”
Wheeler’s mouth twisted. He opened it to speak—
“Keep moving,” the bailiff said, pulling him forward.
And then Wheeler was gone, led through the side door toward the holding cells, toward prison, toward the rest of his life behind bars.
Quinn sat down hard, her legs suddenly unable to hold her. Her whole body was shaking—not with fear this time, but with release. With the weight of eleven years finally lifting from her shoulders.
“We did it,” she whispered. “Dad, we did it.”
Dax’s arm came around her—careful of his still-healing shoulder but strong, solid. “You did it,” he corrected gently. “This was your fight. Your investigation. Your father’s evidence.”
“Our fight.” Quinn turned to face him. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“You could have. You would have.” Dax’s dark eyes were bright with emotion. “You’re the strongest person I know, Quinn Barrett.”
Around them, the courtroom was emptying.
DA Sanders was giving a statement to reporters outside—Quinn could hear her voice through the open doors, confident and clear.
Clara Mendez was being escorted out by Agent Torres, finally free to live her life without fear.
Carson was shaking hands with other officers, accepting congratulations.
But Quinn only had eyes for Dax.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
Home. The word felt different now. Felt possible in a way it hadn’t for weeks.
Quinn’s home—her grandmother’s house—had been repaired and cleaned. The broken locks fixed. The blood scrubbed away. The memories...those would take longer.
But it was home. And she was reclaiming it. Making it hers. Making it theirs, slowly, as Dax spent more and more nights there during his recovery.
They stood and made their way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and dodging reporters’ questions. Outside the courthouse, the autumn air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of winter.
Nathan was waiting by Dax’s truck. He’d driven them here since Dax still couldn’t drive with one arm in a sling. He looked better now, the bruising from his concussion faded to yellow-green, the stitches removed from where they’d split his scalp open.
“Guilty on all counts,” Nathan said. It wasn’t a question.
“All of them.” Quinn felt giddy suddenly, light-headed with relief and joy and the sheer impossibility of it actually being over. “He’s going to prison, Nathan. For the rest of his life.”
Nathan grinned, wide and genuine. “Your grandmother would be so proud. Your father too.”
Quinn felt tears prick her eyes, but these were good tears. Happy tears.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “They would be.”
The drive back to Quinn’s house took twenty minutes through streets that looked different somehow—brighter, clearer, as if the world had come back into focus after being blurry for years.
Nathan dropped them off with a knowing look and a muttered comment about giving them “some privacy to celebrate” that made Quinn blush and Dax smirk despite his injuries.
Inside, the house was quiet and warm. Quinn had left the heat on, left lights on in the living room and kitchen so it wouldn’t feel empty when they returned.
Home. It felt like home.
“Are you hungry?” Quinn asked, moving toward the kitchen. “I could make dinner, or we could order—”
Dax’s good arm caught her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
“Not hungry,” he said, his voice low and warm against her ear. “Not for food anyway.”
Quinn turned in his embrace, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. “Dax Mercer, are you propositioning me?”
“I’m celebrating with you.” His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “We won, Quinn. After everything. All the fear and pain and near-death experiences, we actually won.”
“We did.” Quinn’s hands found his waist, slipping under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. “Wheeler’s going to prison. My father’s story is going to be published. The New York Times is running a feature. Everything we fought for—”
“Is real,” Dax finished. “And we’re alive. Together. Against all odds.”
He kissed her then, slow and deep and full of promise. Not the desperate, fear-driven kisses they’d shared in the hospital or during his recovery when they were both still raw and traumatized.
This was different. This was joy. Celebration. The kiss of two people who’d fought through hell and come out the other side.
Quinn melted into it, her body pressing against his, careful of his injuries but unable to maintain any real distance. She’d almost lost him. Had watched him bleed out on a concrete floor. Had sat beside his hospital bed for hours wondering if he’d survive.
But he had. They both had.
And now they were here, in her house, with a future stretching out before them that actually felt possible.
“Bedroom,” Quinn murmured against his lips. “Now.”
Dax didn’t argue.
They made their way down the hall—slower than Quinn wanted because Dax was still healing, still weaker than he’d admit. But they made it, and then they were in her bedroom with the door closed and the world locked out.
Quinn helped Dax out of his button-down shirt, her fingers gentle as she worked around the sling, as she eased the fabric over his injured shoulder.
The bandages were smaller now—the wound healing, the stitches removed.
But the scar would be massive. A permanent reminder of the night he’d saved her life.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, her fingers ghosting over the edge of the bandage.
“Not as much as it did.” Dax’s good hand was working on the buttons of her blouse, his fingers surprisingly dexterous for someone operating one-handed. “And right now, I don’t care. All I care about is you.”