Page 109 of A Game of Deception
The first headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen: ALEXANDER MCCRAE VINDICATED IN 2013 FATAL ACCIDENT.
The words blurred. A sound escaped my throat, something between a laugh and a sob. Twelve years. Twelve years of carrying the weight of being a killer, of believing I had stolen my best friend’s life. And in a single sentence, it was gone.
Tara squeezed my hand, her eyes shining with tears as she looked at me.
On screen, they showed a picture of a younger, smiling Jimmy, then cut to the recording of Hank’s voice, cold and clear, filling the room.“I covered it up to protect you. From the pain of knowing your brother chose to leave you.”
A small, wounded sound escaped Tara’s lips, and I pulled her tight against my side, a white-hot rage flaring on her behalf.
The anchor continued, “The recording also contains Swanson’s confession that he orchestrated McCrae’s multi-million-dollar transfer to Miami not to improve the team, but as part of a cruel, elaborate scheme to destroy McCrae’s reputation and permanently separate him from his daughter…”
My phone, sitting on the coffee table, began to vibrate. Then it didn’t stop. It buzzed and lit up with a relentless flood of notifications, a tidal wave of texts and calls. The story was everywhere. My brother Sean. Cory. Teammates. Old friends from London.
Leo turned up the volume. “The league has announced an emergency meeting… major sponsors are releasing statements…”
He looked up from his own phone, a grim smile on his face. “It’s working. It’s too big to kill. Every major outlet has it. It’s the number one trend worldwide.”
I looked at Tara. Her face was a canvas of conflicting emotions—grief for the father she thought she had, relief for the truth, and a fierce, undeniable strength.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
She nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”
The story kept unfolding. Gabriela had done her homework. They detailed the payments to Diego. They ran a deep dive into Brittany Ashworth’s history, complete with a photo of her and the baby’s actual father, exposing the paternity scheme as just another one of Hank’s vicious little plots.
My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Ben Carter.The whole team’s talking. We got your back, man. Always did.
Another came through from a number I didn’t recognize, but the message was unmistakable. Diego.I owe you. I’ll make it right.
The truth was out. All of it. The weight wasn’t just lifted; it was annihilated. Hank’s empire was crumbling on live television, and in its place, Tara and I were finally free to build our own future.
28
TARA
I woketo the sound of my phone having a full-blown panic attack on the nightstand.
It wasn’t just a buzz. It was a relentless, percussive symphony of pings, dings, and vibrations. At 5:47 in the morning, the digital world was trying to break down my door.
I fumbled for the device, my eyes bleary. CHLOE was flashing across the screen in all caps, which was her permanent setting. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and answered.
“Before you say a word,” she began, her voice a whirlwind of crackling energy, “I’ve already texted the gallery and told them I’m having an ‘acute spiritual crisis’ and can’t come in. Then I went to that vegan bakery you love and got a dozen of those cinnamon things that are basically just sugar held together by hope. I’m five minutes from your place with oat milk lattes and an industrial-sized bottle of moral support. Open the damn door.”
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, a weird, hysterical sound I didn’t recognize. “Have I told you lately you’re my soulmate?”
“Not nearly enough,” she replied breezily. “You’re my muse for a new tragic heroine series I’m working on, so this is technically a business expense. Four minutes. Pants are optional but encouraged.”
She hung up. I dragged myself out of bed and into the strange, quiet apartment. It felt like it belonged to someone else now—a woman whose life hadn’t just been detonated and reassembled on national television.
The buzzer shrieked, and I let her in. Thirty seconds later, Chloe exploded through my door. She was a riot of color—purple hair a chaotic halo, a paint-splattered denim jacket, and arms overflowing with a bakery box, a tray of coffees, and what looked like a large, lumpy sculpture wrapped in burlap.
“Holy fucking shit, Tara,” she declared, dropping everything onto my kitchen counter with a loud thud. She grabbed me and pulled me into a hug that smelled like turpentine and cinnamon. “You magnificent, terrifying bitch. You burned it all down.”
I hugged her back, clinging to her solid, vibrant presence. “Yeah,” I whispered into her shoulder. “I guess I did.”
She pulled back, her sharp artist’s eyes scanning my face. “How are you? And don’t you dare say ‘fine.’ ‘Fine’ is a beige color, and you are currently a Pollock painting of rage and vindication. So, give it to me.”
“I’m…” I searched for the word. Not broken. Not fine. “I’m free,” I said, the truth of it landing as I spoke the words aloud. “For the first time since Jimmy died, I’m actually, completely free.”
