Page 90 of A Game of Deception
“That fits the pattern,” Isabel said, a bitter note entering her voice. “In my case, Morrison was paid by the rich father of the actual drug dealer to pin it on me instead. The evidence against me was fabricated. Witness statements were coerced. The whole thing was a setup from the beginning.”
My stomach clenched. “How did you prove it?”
“We never did, not definitively,” Isabel said. “My lawyer found enough inconsistencies to get the charges dropped, but we couldn’t prove Morrison took a bribe. So he was allowed to retire quietly instead of being prosecuted.”
I felt a flicker of disappointment. If Isabel couldn’t prove Morrison’s corruption in her own case, what hope did we have of proving it in Jimmy’s?
“But my lawyer was convinced Morrison kept records,” Isabel continued, as if sensing my deflation. “A private ledger, a notebook of some kind, with details of all his side deals and the bribes he took. We could never find it, but he swore it existed.”
My pulse quickened again. “A ledger? Are you sure?”
“My lawyer had a confidential informant in the department who insisted Morrison documented everything. Names, dates, amounts. He was paranoid about being double-crossed, apparently. Wanted insurance in case anyone ever tried to deny payment or expose him.”
“So this ledger, if it exists...” I began.
“If you can find it, you can burn him to the ground,” Isabel finished for me. “That’s what my lawyer always said.”
I leaned forward, gripping the phone tightly. “Do you think he still has it? After all these years?”
“Men like Morrison don’t destroy leverage,” Isabel said with certainty. “If that ledger exists, he still has it. Somewhere safe, somewhere no one would think to look.”
By the time we hung up, my mind was racing with possibilities. If Morrison had documented his corruption, if there was physical evidence of a bribe from my father, it would change everything. Not just for Xander, but for me, for my understanding of what happened. But no matter what, this proves a pattern. It’s more than likely that Morrison also took a bribe from my father.
I sat back in my chair, my earlier despair replaced by certainty. Xander—the man I loved, the man I’d almost given up on—wasn’t a monster. He was another one of Morrison’s victims, just like Isabel Valdez.
I had a choice to make—protect my father’s secret, or fight for the man I love and the truth of my brother’s death.
It wasn’t even a choice. Not really.
I grabbed my phone again and scrolled to Xander’s name, but decided against it. A call wouldn’t cut it. Not for this.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking garage beneath Xander’s building, a strange calm settling over me. Security recognized me and waved me through without question. The elevator ride to the penthouse floor felt endless, each floor number illuminating with painful slowness.
What would I find? The last time I’d seen him, he’d been escorted off the practice field in disgrace. The image of his hollow, defeated eyes haunted me.
Outside his door, I hesitated. My knuckles hovered inches from the sleek wood surface. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if he’d already given up—on the investigation, on us, on everything?
No, I refused to believe that. The Xander I knew—the real Xander, not the one my father had painted—wouldn’t give up. Not when we were so close to the truth.
I knocked firmly.
Silence stretched on the other side. I knocked again, louder this time.
“Go away, Leo,” came a muffled voice. “I told you I don’t want dinner.”
“It’s not Leo,” I called, pressing my palm against the door. “It’s me.”
More silence. Then footsteps, slow and hesitant. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
My heart sank at the sight of him. Hair disheveled, dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. He wore wrinkled sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. The apartment behind him was in disarray—empty glasses scattered across the coffee table, throw pillows on the floor, a blanket tangled on the couch where he’d clearly been sleeping.
But it was the naked shock in his eyes that gutted me—as if my presence was the last thing in the world he’d expected. As if he’d already accepted that I was gone for good.
“Tara?” His voice was rough, disbelieving.
I took a deep breath and met his gaze steadily. “I believe you, Xander. About everything.”
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