Page 46 of A Game of Deception
Leo nodded. “Want me to come with you?”
I considered it. Having Leo there would be a safety net. But this was my mess to clean up.
“No,” I decided. “This is between Tara and me.”
I texted back a simple reply:I’ll be there.
12
TARA
I’d always believedin the power of organization. Control the information, control the narrative. Control the narrative, control the outcome. My office was a testament to this. Twelve years of Xander McCrae’s life, captured and contained on my walls.
But tonight, my carefully curated shrine to obsession might as well have been abstract art. Meaningless. A collection of pixels and paper that suddenly told me nothing at all.
“Xander wasn’t driving.”
Leo’s words from our coffee meeting yesterday were still in my head as I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by printouts of old newspaper articles. My laptop balanced precariously on my knees as I scrolled through digitized archives of the Palo Alto Weekly, searching for something—anything—that might confirm or refute his claim.
I’d been at this for hours, combing through every report of the accident, every interview, every public statement. My eyes burned from staring at the screen, but I couldn’t stop. The truth had to be here somewhere, buried in all these words.
The earliest reports were frustratingly vague:Local Teen Killed in Late-Night Crash. Alcohol Found at the Scene. Survivor in Stable Condition.
Later articles hinted at Xander’s “involvement” in the crash, noting his blood test showed he was twice over the limit, yet he was never arrested. Instead, the story took shape in the unsaid, through careful hints and things left out.
I glanced at the police report summary, the public version, scrubbed clean of anything too sensitive, just enough to keep people satisfied. Detective Richard Morrison was the name attached. I burned it into my mind. Rick Morrison. The guy who wrote the official story of my brother’s death. The source of that vague report that let the whole twisted tale take hold.
What if Leo was right? What if Xander hadn’t been driving? What if...
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to confront a possibility I’d never allowed myself to consider: What if Jimmy had been behind the wheel?
Jimmy didn’t have a license—my father wouldn’t let him get one until he turned eighteen—but I remembered catching him sneaking out with Dad’s car keys late at night, his finger pressed to his lips as he winked at me. “Our secret, Tara-bean,” he’d whispered, using the nickname that only he was allowed to call me.
The memory made my stomach lurch. I rushed to the bathroom, barely making it before emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I retched until there was nothing left, then sank to the cold tile floor, pressing my forehead against the porcelain.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty bathroom. “Fuck.”
If Jimmy had been driving... if Xander had been the passenger... then my entire understanding of that night—of Jimmy’s death, of Xander’s guilt, of my father’s grief—would have been built on a lie.
A lie that had shaped… everything.
I dragged myself up from the floor, rinsed my mouth, and splashed cold water on my face. I thought of the wall in my office, covered with images of Xander. The Instagram accounts I’d created to follow him. The Google alerts set to notify me of every mention of his name. The career path I’d chosen specifically to position myself in his world.
And now... what if it had all been for nothing?
I walked back to my office on unsteady legs, looking at the collage of Xander’s life with fresh eyes. The teenage boy with the haunted expression at press conferences. The young man who escaped to Scotland. The professional athlete whose smile never reached his eyes. The reputation for reckless behavior, for self-destruction.
Had I been tracking the evolution of a killer? Or witnessing the slow implosion of a man crushed by misplaced guilt?
I sank back down to the floor, pulling my laptop closer. This wasn’t enough. News reports and sanitized police summaries couldn’t give me the truth. I needed to hear it from him. From Xander.
My phone buzzed with a text from Chloe:You still coming tonight? The main sponsor (aka your dad) is asking if his star player will be there.
The art opening.
Yes, I’ll be there. And so will he.I texted back, my fingers steady despite the turmoil in my mind.
The gallery was packed,a sea of Miami’s art elite mingling with the nouveau riche and the genuinely curious. Galleria Durand was Chloe’s latest venture, a converted warehouse in Wynwood with exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, and strategic lighting that made even the most mundane objects appear profound.
