Page 104 of A Game of Deception
I nodded, fidgeting with the strap of my purse—partly for show, partly to ensure the phone was still recording. “I’ve been... overwhelmed. By everything that’s happened.”
“With McCrae, you mean.”
I looked up, allowing some genuine pain to show in my eyes. “Yes. And with what I found in your files about Jimmy. And what Diego told us today.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Diego spoke to you?”
Careful. I needed to give him enough information to open up, but not so much that he realized we had him cornered.
“He came to the facility,” I said, sticking close to the truth. “He was... injured. Gambling debts. He said some things about you, about arrangements you had with him.”
My father’s expression hardened. “And you believed him? A man who can’t control his own vices, who would say anything to shift blame?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. That’s why I’m here.” I leaned forward, injecting desperation into my voice. “I need to understand, Dad. All of it. Jimmy’s death, why you brought Xander to Miami, everything.”
He studied me for a long moment, assessing. I held my breath, waiting.
Finally, he stood and moved to the side of the room where a small bar was set up. “Drink?”
“Just water, please.”
He poured himself two fingers of scotch and a glass of water for me, then returned, handing me the water before leaning against the desk rather than sitting behind it. A calculated move to appear more approachable, more paternal.
“What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.
I took a sip of water, gathering my thoughts. “The truth,” I said simply. “Jimmy committed suicide, didn’t he? You bribed Detective Morrison to cover it up. And you paid Diego Mano to destroy Xander’s career.”
I stated it as fact, not accusation—a technique I’d learned from watching my father in negotiations. Make the other person deny rather than explain, and they’re already on the defensive.
But he didn’t deny it. Instead, he took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’ve figured it out,” he said, and there was something almost like pride in his voice. “I always knew you were smart. Like your mother.”
A chill ran through me. I hadn’t expected him to admit it so easily.
“Why?” I asked.
He set his glass down, the crystal clicking softly against the marble coaster. It was the only sound in the cavernous room. “You were sixteen, Tara. A child. You had just lost your brother to suicide—a brother who, by all accounts, was happy and loved. Do you have any idea what that kind of death does to a family? The questions? The shame?”
“So you buried it,” I said, the words sharp and brittle. “To protect the Swanson family name.”
“No.” He shook his head, a look of profound disappointment on his face, as if I’d missed the entire point. “I did it to protectyou. To save you from a lifetime of wondering why you weren’t enough to make him stay. I took the burden of that truth so you wouldn’t have to carry it.”
I swallowed against the acid rising in my throat. This was his genius, the cruelest part of his manipulation: twisting poison into medicine, making control look like sacrifice. The tears pricking my eyes were disgustingly real.
“And Xander?” I pushed, my voice tight. “Was destroying him for my protection, too?”
“Especially him.” His voice hardened, losing its paternal softness. “I saw you at the funeral, Tara. I saw the way you looked at him. A seventeen-year-old boy already drowning himself in a bottle, and you were looking at him like he was a lifeboat. I knew, right then, that he was a disease, and I had to be the cure.”
“So you made him a pariah,” I said, the timeline of Xander’s ruined life flashing before my eyes. “You drove him out of the country to keep us apart.”
“I did what was necessary,” he said, his tone utterly unapologetic. “And I was right. Look at what he became. An alcoholic with a new scandal every month. Was that the life you wanted?”
Breathe. Stay in character. Let him empty the clip.
“Then why bring him to Miami?” I asked, letting a note of genuine confusion color my voice. “If he was so toxic, why bring him right to my doorstep?”
A slow, reptilian smile spread across my father’s face. It was the smile of a chess master explaining a winning move. “Because you never let him go. I watched you. I saw you tracking his career, his life.” He paused, letting the next words land with surgical precision. “I’ve been in your apartment, Tara. I saw the wall.”
