Page 96 of A Game of Deception
I heard the impact and ran over. The dark-haired kid in the passenger seat was coming to. He was dazed but conscious. The other boy—the driver—was pinned behind the wheel, bleeding badly. I heard him say something to the passenger. Then he stopped breathing.
The paper trembled in Xander’s hands. “I thought I had imagined it. I was so drunk, and everything was hazy, but I remember now.”
His words sparked something in me. I flipped through the remaining pages until I found what I was looking for: a receipt stapled to a handwritten note.
Arrangements made with H. Swanson - a donation for discretion regarding manner of death.
“He knew,” I said, my voice hardening. “My father knew it was suicide, and he covered it up. He 'donated' to Morrison’s retirement fund for him to falsify the report.”
“Maybe to protect Jimmy’s memory,” Xander suggested. “A lot of families want to hide suicide.”
I shook my head, anger building. “But that’s not right. Blaming you when heknew it was a suicide.”
My father hadn’t just buried the truth about Jimmy’s suicide—he had deliberately used my brother’s death to drive away Xander.
“We’re going to expose him,” I said, my voice steady despite the hurricane of emotions inside me. “My father manipulated me, he manipulated you, he manipulated everyone. And he’s still doing it now, with this Brittany situation.”
Xander nodded, his jaw set with determination. “We take this to a lawyer first. Then we go public with it—all of it. The original police report, Morrison’s ledger entry, everything.”
“He’ll try to discredit us,” I warned, gathering the papers back into the folder with trembling hands. “He’ll say we fabricated the documents.”
“That’s why we need to talk to Morrison’s ex-partner, Miller. Get him on record corroborating that Morrison kept these kinds of records. And Valdez can verify the ledger’s existence too.”
We started formulating our plan as Xander pulled back onto the highway toward Miami. The truth was finally in our hands—a weapon we could use to right twelve years of wrongs.
Xander’s phone rang through the car’s speakers, interrupting our strategizing. Ben Carter’s name flashed on the display.
“Hey, Ben, what’s up?” Xander answered casually.
“Xander! Oh thank god.” Ben’s voice was breathless with panic. “I need help. It’s Diego—they took him!”
My stomach dropped at the fear in Ben’s voice.
“Whoa, slow down,” Xander said, immediately alert. “Who took Diego?”
“These guys he owes money to—he’s into them for like two hundred grand from gambling. They took him from the penthouse parking lot. There were three guys… they forced him into a van.”
Xander’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Have you called the police?”
“These guys will kill him if the cops show up.” Ben’s voice cracked. “But I heard one of them mention El Santuario. It’s this place in the industrial district where they run these high-stakes games. Diego wanted to take me there once. But I told him I didn’t gamble.”
“Text me the address,” Xander said without hesitation. “I’ll meet you there.”
He ended the call and I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not actually thinking of going there.”
“I have to.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“This is crazy! These people kidnap guys over gambling debts,” I said, staring at the address. “We should call the police. Let them handle it.”
“The police won’t get there in time,” Xander said, his voice grim. “And they won’t have the leverage I might have.”
“What leverage?”
“I’m Xander McCrae,” he said simply. “I’m famous in latin circles. You know how they love football. I’m valuable. These guys might be criminals, but they’re still smart enough to know that killing or kidnapping a high-profile world-class player brings the wrong kind of attention.”
I wanted to argue, wanted to point out all the ways his plan could go wrong. But I could see the determination in his eyes. He wasn’t about to fail to save a teammate, no matter how much he disliked the man.
“Then I’m coming with you,” I said.
