Page 72 of A Game of Deception
“Put that back,” he said, each word precise and clipped. “Now.”
“No.” The refusal was simple, but it felt monumental—perhaps the first time I’d directly defied him since I was a child. “I want to know why the police report about Jimmy’s accident is so vague about who was driving. I want to know why there’s no conclusive finding in the official record.”
He moved further into the room. He was a predator assessing his prey, determining the most efficient way to neutralize the threat. I’d seen him use this tactic in countless business negotiations—the slow advance, the calculated silence designed to make the other party nervous, to prompt them into filling the void with ill-considered words.
I held my ground.
“This is grief talking,” he finally said, his tone shifting to something resembling concern—a perfect imitation of paternal worry that might have fooled anyone who didn’t know him as well as I did. “You’re becoming emotional. Irrational. This obsession with reopening old wounds… it’s not healthy, Tara.”
“Grief?” I repeated, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “It’s been twelve years, Dad. This isn’t grief. This is about uncovering the truth.”
“The truth?” His eyebrows rose slightly. “The truth is what it’s always been. Your brother died in that car accident. Xander McCrae was drunk. He admitted it himself. Or have you forgotten?”
How could I? Many times I heard the story of seventeen-year-old Xander, pale and broken at Jimmy’s funeral, saying those words—”I was drunk, this is all my fault." But now I understood those words had been twisted, manipulated, their meaning changed.
“He said he was drunk. He said it was his fault. He never said he was driving,” I pointed out. “And the police report never officially concluded who was behind the wheel. Why is that?”
My father sighed heavily, as if I were a child refusing to accept an obvious reality. “You’re overthinking this. The report is clear enough for anyone with common sense to understand what happened.”
“Clear enough?” I opened the file in my hands, quickly scanning the pages. “Then why doesn’t it state explicitly that Xander was driving? Why are there no witness statements? No toxicologyreports included? This is a police report that goes out of its way to avoid making definitive statements.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, his patience visibly fraying. “You’re not a lawyer or a police officer. You’re a doctor who should focus on her patients instead of playing detective.”
I slammed the file shut. “I know enough to recognize when key information is missing. I know enough to see a cover-up when it’s staring me in the face.”
His eyes narrowed. “A cover-up? That’s absurd. You’ve been spending too much time with McCrae. He’s poisoning your mind with his version of events, trying to absolve himself of guilt after all these years.”
“Xander’s not trying to absolve himself,” I shot back. “If anything, he blames himself more than anyone. But that doesn’t mean he was driving.”
I watched my father closely, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. The slight tightening around his eyes. The almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He’s getting uncomfortable, and open for making mistakes.Good.
“Detective Morrison,” I said suddenly, dropping the name like a bomb.
There it was—the reaction I was looking for. A flicker of something in his eyes. A momentary lapse in control. It lasted less than a second, but it was enough. Confirmation.
“The police investigator on Jimmy’s case,” I continued, pressing my advantage. “You know him, don’t you? You spoke to him after the accident.”
“I spoke to many people after your brother died,” he replied, his voice too even. “I don’t remember every name.”
“That’s a lie.”
My father’s expression hardened further. “Tara, you’re being disrespectful. And ungrateful. All I’ve ever done is protect you, and look after you, like any father would. This conversation is over.” His voice was cold, final. “Put that file back where you found it.”
“You paid him off, didn’t you?” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “Detective Morrison. Paid him to bury his conclusion, to leave the report just ambiguous enough for you to write your own story.”
His face was a mask of stone. “Get out of my house.” Each word was a shard of ice. “Now.”
I didn’t flinch. For the first time, I wasn’t looking at my father, the grieving parent I’d spent a lifetime trying to please. I was looking at a stranger. A puppeteer who’d just had a string cut. The grief I’d always seen in his eyes wasn’t for his lost son; it was for the flaw in his perfect narrative.
“That’s not a denial,” I whispered, the realization hitting me hard. “You still owe me an explanation.”
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, patronizing calm. “An explanation for what, Tara? For protecting this family? For shielding your brother’s memory from a fantasy you’ve concocted?” He gestured vaguely at my head. “You’ve been under a great deal of stress.”
My hand was steady as I placed the file back in the drawer. The slide of the wood was the only sound in the room. I pushed itshut with a soft, final click, my eyes locked on his the entire time. The sound was a period on a sentence I didn’t know I was writing.
“This isn’t over,” I said, the words quiet but absolute.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face before it vanished. “Oh yes, it is.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door as if dismissing a servant. “Go home, Tara. When you’ve had time to think rationally, we can discuss your future with the team.”
