Page 141 of Beneath the Surface

EPILOGUE

Quinn stood at the kitchen window of the house she and Dax had bought in August—before the ink on their marriage certificate had even dried—watching the first golden leaves of autumn drift down from the maple tree in their backyard.

The late-September air carried that particular scent of the changing season—woodsmoke from someone’s fireplace, the earthy sweetness of apples ripening on the neighbor’s tree, the crisp promise of colder days ahead.

Six months since the verdict.

Four months since the sentencing.

It still felt surreal sometimes. That it was over. That Wheeler was gone—locked away in a maximum-security prison where he’d spend the rest of his natural life. Multiple life sentences without the possibility of parole, the judge had said, her voice ringing with finality in that packed courtroom.

Quinn remembered that day in late May with perfect clarity. The weight of Dax’s hand in hers as they’d sat in the front row. The way Wheeler had looked—smaller somehow, just an old man in prison orange instead of his expensive suits. The families of his victims filling the gallery behind them, some crying, some stone-faced, all finally getting to watch justice be served.

The judge had let them speak—Quinn and Clara and the families of Thomas Crane and Leesa Fine and George Preston. One after another, they’d stood and told Wheeler exactly what he’d taken from them. What his crimes had cost.

Quinn had spoken last. Had looked Wheeler directly in the eyes and said, “My father died fighting to stop you. He never got to see me graduate college. Never walked me down the aisle. Never met the man I love. You took that from both of us. But you didn’t win. Because his story is being told. His sacrifice matters. And you—you’re going to die in a cage, forgotten by everyone except the people whose lives you destroyed.”

Wheeler had flinched. Actually flinched.

And when the judge had announced his sentence—life in prison for each murder, to be served consecutively, no parole, no appeals—Quinn had felt something break loose in her chest. Some weight she’d been carrying for eleven years finally lifting.

Her father had justice. Real, permanent justice.

Now, four months later, Quinn could finally breathe without that constant pressure in her chest. Could sleep through the night without nightmares of Wheeler walking free. Could focus on building a life instead of fighting for closure.

Behind her, she heard the front door open, heard Dax’s keys hit the ceramic bowl on the entry table with a familiar clink, heard his boots on the hardwood floor as he came looking for her.

“Hey, sunshine.” His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as they both looked out at the backyard. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Quinn leaned back into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him—coffee and the faint antiseptic smell that clung to anyone who spent time in the police station, and underneath it all, just Dax. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How different everything is now. Six months ago, we were sitting in that courtroom waiting for a verdict. Now we’re here. In our house. Planning a dinner party. Living an actual normal life.”

Dax’s arms tightened around her. “Normal’s good.”

“Normal’s great.” Quinn turned in his embrace to face him. His left arm still moved with a slight stiffness—probably always would, the doctors said—but the scar on his shoulder had faded to a thin white line. He’d been back at work for two months now, light duty at first but gradually taking on more responsibilities as the physical therapy paid off.

Captain Holloway had welcomed him back with a handshake and a gruff, “Took you long enough, Mercer. Desk was getting dusty.”

The suspension had been lifted after the internal investigation concluded that while Dax had violated protocol, his actions had directly led to Wheeler’s arrest and the rescue of Quinn and the dismantling of Wheeler’s entire criminal operation. A formal reprimand in his file, but no termination. No permanent damage to his career.

He’d gotten lucky. They both knew it.

“What time are people coming?” Dax asked, his hands settling on Quinn’s hips.

“Seven. Which gives us—” Quinn checked the clock on the microwave, “—three hours to finish cooking and not burn the house down.”

“I have faith in us.”

“You burned water last week.”

“I was distracted.” Dax’s expression turned playful. “You were wearing that dress.”

“I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Exactly. Very distracting.”