Page 69 of A Game of Deception
Good luck tonight. I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.
A second message followed almost immediately.
And no, before you ask, I’m not going to tell you to “be careful.” You know your father better than anyone.
I smiled despite myself. In just two texts, he’d managed to both support me and acknowledge my autonomy.
I’ll call you after,I texted back.Don’t wait up though. These dinners have a way of stretching into endless psychological warfare.
I set the phone down and returned to my preparation. I applied makeup and put my hair up in a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place. I slipped on the navy dress, a pair of modest heels, and a simple necklace of pearls that were my mother’s.
As I hooked the clasp at the back of my neck, the thought came unbidden: Who was that woman in the back seat of the Audi, legs wrapped around Xander, reckless and alive? And who was this one now, zipped into a stark navy dress, the dutiful daughter of Hank Swanson?
Which one was real? I wondered, not for the first time. Or had I learned to perform so well that I no longer knew where the act ended and I began?
Before leaving, I went to my home office. The wall that had once displayed Xander’s life was now bare, the materials carefully packed away in storage boxes—not destroyed, but hidden. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them completely.
Instead of the obsession wall, I now had a new focus: a small corkboard with the few facts we knew about the night Jimmy died. Detective Morrison’s name. The mention of “original notes.” The deliberately vague official report. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“I’m coming, Jimmy,” I whispered. “I’m going to find out what really happened.”
I grabbed my purse and keys, running through my mental checklist one last time. It wasn’t just about deflecting my father’s questions about Xander. It was about finding evidence.I knew my father too well to believe he didn’t keep records of everything. The trick would be finding a way to access his office during dinner.
The drive to my father’s Miami mansion took twenty minutes, each one stretching my nerves a little tighter. Before I pulled up to the gates, I’d rehearsed a dozen different responses to the questions I knew would come. The security guard recognized my car and waved me through without stopping.
I parked in the circular drive and took a deep breath, shifting into character: Dr. Tara Swanson, devoted daughter and perfect team physician who’s definitely not sleeping with the team’s star forward.
Before I could ring the bell, the massive front door swung open. My father stood there, a tumbler of scotch in his hand, his expression arranged in what passed for warmth on his features.
“Tara.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek. I forced myself not to flinch at the contact. “Right on time, as always.”
“Hello, Father.” I returned the kiss, the gesture as empty as the crystal vase on the entry table. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all.” He gestured me inside, his hand hovering just above the small of my back without actually touching me—a pattern established years ago. My father rarely touched anyone unless he was making a point. “Can I get you a drink? Wine? Something stronger?”
“Just water for now, thank you.” I needed to keep my wits about me.
He nodded approvingly and led me through the soaring foyer toward the formal living room.
“How’s the team shaping up?” he asked, his tone casual as he poured me a glass of sparkling water from the bar cart. “I’ve been watching practice. Some of the new acquisitions seem promising.”
And there it was—the first probe. Not directly about Xander, but close enough. A fishing expedition disguised as small talk.
“The roster has potential,” I replied, matching his casual tone. “Coach Wilkes has been integrating the new players well. A few minor injuries to manage, but nothing serious.”
“And McCrae?” The question landed with deceptive lightness. “I’ve noticed he’s been performing exceptionally well in practice. Your sessions must be having quite an effect on him.”
I took a careful sip of water, using the moment to compose my face into a facade of indifference.
“He’s responding well to treatment,” I said, keeping my voice detached. “His shoulder issues require regular maintenance, but he’s compliant with the protocols I’ve established.”
My father studied me over the rim of his glass. “Compliant? Why wouldn’t he be?”
I shrugged, the gesture deliberately dismissive. “He’s a talented athlete, but he requires a lot of maintenance. He’s still a liability… the drinking, the partying. You knew what you were getting when you signed him.”
The words felt like acid on my tongue, but I forced them out anyway. This was the game. This was how I survived.
My father’s expression shifted subtly, the tightness around his eyes easing just a fraction. I’d passed the first test.
