Page 104 of Beneath the Surface

She’d known this would happen eventually. Known that publishing her book would provoke a response. She just didn’t realize it would happen so soon. The deal wasn’t even done yet, which told her everything she needed to know. Wheeler had eyes and ears everywhere.

Nowhere was safe.

But knowing it intellectually and feeling it in her gut were two different things.

Quinn cleaned up the pizza boxes, the cardboard still warm and greasy under her fingers, the smell of pepperoni and cheese thick in the air. She washed her hands at the sink, the water running cold at first before warming, watching the grease swirl down the drain in iridescent patterns. Dried them on the dishtowel her grandmother had embroidered with violets—the stitching worn soft from years of use.

Then she went back to the dining room.

Back to her manuscript.

Back to work.

If Wheeler was planning something, she needed to finish this. Needed to get the story out there before—

Before what?

Before he stopped her?

Quinn pushed the thought away and focused on her screen. On the words. On the truth that needed telling. Beyond the headlines.

Outside, she heard Nathan moving around the property. His footsteps crunching on the gravel path that ran along the side of the house. The soft click of a gate latch being tested. The rustle of bushes as he checked the perimeter. Making sure everything was secure.

Inside, the house was quiet except for the sound of her fingers on the keyboard—that rhythmic tap-tap-tap that had been the soundtrack to her entire career. The familiar sound was almost meditative. Almost enough to make her forget about Wheeler and threats and danger.

Almost.

Quinn wrote.

Around eleven PM, Nathan came back inside.

The front door opened with its familiar creak, and Quinn heard him stamping his boots on the mat. He appeared in the dining room doorway, his jacket damp with evening dew, his breath slightly visible in the chill air he’d brought in with him.

“Everything looks clear,” he said. “No signs of surveillance or anyone watching the house.”

“Good.” Quinn saved her work with a keystroke she’d performed thousands of times, muscle memory making her fingers fly to Ctrl+S without conscious thought. She closed the laptop, the screen going dark with a soft click. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Smart. You’ve been at it for what, twelve hours?”

“Something like that.” Quinn stood, and her body protested immediately—her lower back seizing in a knot of tension, her shoulders stiff and aching, her neck creaking as she turned her head. God, she was going to be sore tomorrow.

“I’ll be on the couch if you need anything,” Nathan said. “Doors are locked. Security system’s armed. You’re safe, Quinn.”

She nodded, wanting to believe him. The house around them was silent and still, the old structure settling with its familiar groans and sighs. Safe. This house had always been safe.

Until it wasn’t.

Quinn pushed that thought away too.

In her room, she changed into pajamas—soft flannel pants and an old T-shirt from college—and brushed her teeth, the mint of the toothpaste sharp and clean on her tongue. She went through all the normal nighttime routines with mechanical precision. Face washed. Moisturizer applied. Hair pulled back into a loose braid.

But even as she moved through the motions, she felt wired. Keyed up. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror showed eyes too bright, pupils dilated with adrenaline that wouldn’t quite drain away. Her mind was still racing—with the book, withManny’s call about publishers and production companies, with the knowledge that Wheeler was out there doing...something.

She climbed into bed, pulling her grandmother’s old quilt up to her chin. The fabric was worn soft as tissue paper, the pattern of flowers faded to gentle pastels. It still smelled faintly of her grandmother’s rose water perfume.

Quinn stared at the ceiling, at the water stain in the corner that looked like a map of Italy, at the way the shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns on the plaster.

This was her childhood bedroom. The place where she’d felt safest in the world.