Page 50 of A Game of Deception
He leaned against the railing. “It was the little things over the years when you were wasted or half asleep. The way you’d talk about Jimmy—not with guilt, but confusion. Like you couldn’t put the pieces together.” He paused, looking straight at me. “And honestly? It never made sense that you’d drive drunk. Not you. The guy I know fucks himself up, sure. But you don’t gamble with other people’s lives.”
He was right. I wouldn’t have put Jimmy at risk. Never.
“But what I could never figure out,” Leo continued, his voice dropping, “is why the cops never made it clear-cut. They’re experts at crash reconstruction. They should’ve known who was driving from the evidence. It’s almost like they didn’t want to.”
He wasright. At seventeen, I’d been so scared and so damn grateful not to face vehicular manslaughter charges that I never questioned the vague official report. I just accepted my banishment. But that missing official conclusion—that’s where the rumors started. The space where gossip grew, and why my guilt festered.
“I can’t recall what happened that night,” I admitted, my voice raw. “Not really. And I think that’s been the whole fucking problem all along.”
“So what's the plan? How do we fix it?” Leo asked quietly.
I thought of Tara’s challenge, her invitation to meet at sunrise. Not a showdown anymore. A goddamn rescue rope.
“I’m going to solve the mystery,” I said, a new determination hardening my voice. “Not just for me and Tara, but for Jimmy.”
Leo studied me, then nodded. “Good. It’s about damn time.”
I arrivedat South Pointe Park at exactly six o’clock, the sky barely brightening with dawn’s first hint. The air tasted like salt; the beach was empty except for a few crazy-early joggers and their dogs.
Tara was impossible to miss, standing at the jetty entrance, hair in a ponytail, wearing expensive running clothes that showed off every athletic curve. She was mid-stretch, one leg kicked behind her, arms up, her body a perfect cutout against the pale sky.
I just stared for a second. This woman who’d been my personal ghost for twelve years. Who’d slapped me in public, then showed up in the middle of the night. Who’d believed I killed her brother, but was now meeting me at dawn to better understand what actually had happened.
She clocked me approaching, her face neutral but not pissed off anymore. Something had changed between us on that rooftop.
“You showed,” she said, dropping her stretch.
“Thought I’d bail?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Wasn’t convinced either way.”
I pointed to the shoreline path. “So we’re... running?”
“I run every morning,” she stated it as if the fact was obvious. “Five miles minimum. Can you handle it?”
The question came with a dare, and, fuck it, I smiled. “I’m a seasoned athlete, Dr. Swanson. I think I’ll survive.”
Her mouth twitched—almost a smile. “We’ll find out.”
Then she bolted down the path, setting a pace just shy of brutal. I followed, matching her stride. The first mile passed without words, just our breathing and feet hitting packed sand.
I’d expected a casual jog while we talked. But Tara ran like she had demons on her heels, form perfect, focus total. By mile two, I was genuinely working to keep up, seriously impressed by her speed and stamina.
She didn’t just jog to stay fit. She ran like a pro, like someone with years of training. It hit me. I knew jack shit about her beyond our trauma connection and her job as team doctor. What else had I missed about Tara Swanson?
We rounded a curve, and Miami’s skyline appeared—a wall of luxury buildings catching the first sunlight. My penthouse stood among them, a shiny cage I’d walked into without seeing the trap.
At mile three, Tara veered off the main path, leading me up a narrow trail toward the jetty. We slowed on the rough ground until she stopped at a lookout with a killer view of the ocean and city.
We stood there breathing hard, sweat everywhere, the run having burned away some of our awkwardness. Right then, we weren’t victim and perpetrator. We were just two people, hearts hammering, lungs burning, fucking alive.
“You can run,” I said, breaking the quiet. I watched her, trying to connect this disciplined athlete with the vengeful doctor who’d tormented me in the exam room. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, period,” she shot back. She turned fully toward me, intense as hell. “I’ve been digging. Looking at old news about the crash.”
I braced myself. “And?”
“They’re vague. Very vague. Alcohol was ‘believed to be a factor.’ You were ‘involved’ in the crash. Nothing actually says who was driving.” She crossed her arms. “The public police report summary is just as unclear.”
