17. Xander
XANDER
I didn’t know what I expected when the door swung open, but it wasn’t this—a man who looked like he’d been carved from weathered stone, his silver hair neatly combed, wearing pressed khakis and a polo shirt like he was heading to a retiree golf tournament.
Rick Morrison had the eyes of a man who’d spent decades watching people lie to him. Those eyes swept over us now, narrowing slightly as he assessed the threat level of the young couple on his doorstep.
“Can I help you?” His voice had the neutrality of someone who’d conducted thousands of interviews, revealing nothing while taking in everything.
Tara stepped forward. “Detective Morrison? My name is Dr. Tara Swanson, and this is Alexander McCrae. We’d like to speak with you about a case you worked on twelve years ago in Palo Alto.”
The transformation was instant. At our names, Morrison’s entire demeanor shifted.
His spine straightened, his jaw tightened, and those assessing eyes turned cold and distant.
I’d seen that look before—on opponents across the pitch right before they committed a brutal foul.
The look of someone about to do something they knew was wrong.
“Not interested,” he said flatly, already moving to close the door. “Good day.”
I reacted on instinct, my hand shooting out to block the door. “Please,” I said, keeping my voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through me. “Five minutes. That’s all we’re asking.”
Morrison’s eyes flicked to my hand on his door, then back to my face. For a second, I thought he might try to force it closed anyway. Instead, he let out a sharp exhale through his nostrils.
“Five minutes,” he conceded with visible reluctance. “Then you fucking leave, and you don’t come back.”
He stepped back, allowing us entry into a living room that looked like it had been assembled from a catalog labeled “Retired Bachelor.” Beige walls, beige furniture, a few generic landscapes on the walls.
No personal photos, no mementos. The room of a man who either had no past or was deliberately trying to forget it.
“Sit,” he instructed, gesturing to a sofa that looked barely used.
Tara and I sat side by side, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating from her body. Morrison remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, making it clear this was not a social call.
“You’re here about the Swanson boy,” he said, not bothering to frame it as a question. “James. The crash.”
“Yes,” Tara confirmed, her voice steady despite the slight tremor I could see in her hands. “My brother.”
Morrison’s expression didn’t change. “It was more than a decade ago. Tragic accident. The report is public record. I have nothing more to say.”
“With all due respect, Detective,” I said, leaning forward, “the public report is why we’re here. It’s... incomplete.”
Morrison’s jaw ticked.
“The report never explicitly states who was driving the car,” Tara pressed. “Don’t you find that odd for an official accident report?”
A muscle worked in Morrison’s cheek. “As I said, the report contains all relevant information.”
“All relevant information?” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “I was seventeen years old. I was told I killed my best friend. I’ve carried that guilt ever since, Detective. Don’t you think whether I was actually driving the car is relevant?”
For half a second, something darted behind Morrison’s eyes—a flicker of shame, maybe—before his face locked back into place.
“What happened that night was a tragedy,” he said, his voice flat. “But the case is closed. The report stands.”
Tara’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge. “Was your job to write a deliberately vague report that allowed my father to use that ambiguity to destroy Alexander’s life?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Dr. Swanson,” Morrison’s expression hardened, “but I suggest you be very careful.”
Something snapped in his carefully maintained facade. His face flushed, and he jabbed a finger toward Tara.
“I filed the report based on the evidence available!” he barked, defensive heat replacing his cold detachment. “The official report was the final conclusion. It’s not my fault if my original notes suggested something different!”
The room went still. Morrison froze, his face draining of color as he realized what he’d just admitted. Tara and I locked eyes, the same realization hitting us both.
Original notes. A second, unredacted version of the truth existed.
“What did your original notes say, Detective?” I asked, my voice quiet but intense.
Morrison’s expression shuttered. “I misspoke,” he said, his voice an icy rasp. “I think your five minutes are up. Get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
I placed a gentle hand on Tara’s arm. We’d gotten what we came for. A lead. We walked out into the oppressive Florida heat, the door slamming shut behind us.
“Original notes,” she whispered as we reached the car, her eyes bright with a mix of anger and triumph.
“Original notes,” I confirmed, gripping the steering wheel. I yanked the car away from Morrison’s neighborhood, desperate to get some space before I completely lost my shit. We drove without talking for a good five minutes, both of us crushed by the bomb that asshole had just dropped on us.
Just as I was merging onto the highway, my phone buzzed, the screen flashing a picture of a familiar, grinning face.
Sean.
I almost ignored it. The last thing I wanted was to drag him into this.
“Who is it?” Tara asked quietly.
“My brother.”
“You should answer it,” she said. “Maybe you need to talk to him.”
I took a breath and hit the speakerphone button. “Hey. Fair warning, you’re on speaker, and I’ve got company.”
“There he is!” Sean’s voice was disgustingly cheerful, the charismatic energy he used on stage bleeding through the phone. “I heard you were transferred to Miami. Figured I’d check in, see if you’ve been behaving yourself.”
“Something like that,” I mumbled, my eyes fixed on the road.
Sean’s tone shifted instantly, the public persona dropping away. “Cut the bullshit, Zan. I know that tone. That’s the ‘world’s ending but it’s my own damn fault’ voice. What’s really going on?”
“It’s nothing, Sean. Just… stuff.”
“Stuff,” he repeated flatly. “Listen to yourself. You sound like you’re carrying a mountain. You carry every problem like you’re the only one strong enough, and you refuse to let anyone help you hold the damn thing up.”
I flinched. His words, a perfect blend of his professional motivational speaking and brotherly love, hit their mark.
“I don’t want to bother you with my shit,” I said, my voice low.
“You’re my twin, you idiot. Your shit is my shit,” Sean said, his voice softening. “Listen to me. It’s time to let us in. Let the family help. It’s not a burden. It’s what we do. Stop trying to be the hero in your own tragedy and let someone else share the load for once.”
The dam cracked. I looked over at Tara, at her determined, beautiful face, and knew he was right. I couldn’t do this alone anymore.
“It’s about the accident,” I said, the words feeling heavy in my mouth. “Jimmy’s death, remember? I just spoke with the lead detective. He accidentally let it slip that he had ‘original notes’ that could prove I wasn’t driving.”
Sean was silent for a beat, processing. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and strategic, the “Commander” personality taking over. “Okay. And these notes are where?”
“Hi Sean. This is Tara, Jimmy’s sister. The notes must be in the police archive in Palo Alto,” Tara answered for me. “We can’t get to them without tipping off my father.”
“You can’t,” Sean corrected. “But Cory can.”
The suggestion was so simple, so obvious, I felt like an idiot for not thinking of it myself. Cory. Our older half-brother. The quiet, workaholic investor who lived right there in Stanford.
“He’s a research machine. He can dig into anything without leaving a trace. He’s local. Call him. Tell him everything. He’ll help. You know he will.”
Sean was right. I’d just been isolating myself.
“Alright. Thank you, Sean,” I said, my voice thick.
“Trust me,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “Now go make the call. It’s about damn time you let your brothers have your back.”
He hung up, leaving a profound silence in the car.
Tara turned to me, hope flickering in her eyes. “That’s good news. It sounds like Cory’s in your corner.”
Of course. It wasn’t a question of if he’d help, but whether I should finally let him. For all these years, I’d deliberately kept my family out of this.
“I’m from a big, blended family,” I said, no hesitation in my voice. “Half, step, cousin—it doesn’t matter. We always have each other’s backs. Cory will help. The real question is whether he’ll forgive me for not asking sooner.
“Then call him,” Tara said, her decision made. “We need those notes. They could be the key to everything.”
I eased onto the shoulder, hazard lights flashing, and pulled up Cory’s name. My chest felt tight as I hit call. Two rings, and then his voice came through
“Xander. Is everything alright?” No surprise, no preamble. Just immediate concern. That was Cory.
“Not really,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “I’m in some trouble, Cory. I need a favor. A big one.”
“Whatever it is, you’ve got it,” he replied instantly. “Where are you? What do you need?”
The immediate, unquestioning support almost broke me. I explained everything—Morrison, his slip about “original notes,” our belief that they contained the truth.
“So you need someone to access police records in Palo Alto without alerting Hank Swanson,” Cory summarized when I finished.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I know it’s a lot to ask?—”
“It’s done,” Cory said, cutting me off. “You’re my brother, Xander. I’ve been waiting for you to finally let us in on this.”
The simple statement crushed me. All this time...
“Thank you, Cory. This means... everything.”
“You got it,” his voice was quiet but certain. “I’ll start looking into it right away. And Xander? Be careful. I remember Hank Swanson. He won’t go down easy.”
My gaze flicked to Tara. She didn’t know the details of the call, but she caught enough of Cory’s warning in my expression to tense, her knuckles whitening against her knees.
“We’ll watch our backs.”
“Good. I’ll call soon.” And with that, he hung up.
I lowered the phone, relief and a renewed sense of hope.
Tara angled toward me. “So? How did it go?”
“He’s in,” I said, sliding the phone back into the console. “Cory’s got us covered.”
I merged back onto the highway, and just as a fragile calm began to settle in the car, Tara’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and her entire body went rigid.
“What is it?” I asked, catching the color drain from her face.
Her jaw tightened. “It’s from my father.” Her voice was clipped as she read aloud: “Family dinner at the house tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
It wasn’t a request; it was a summons. A clear power play.
“I can go with you,” I offered, keeping my eyes on the road.
Tara swiped the screen, closing the text messages, her expression hardening with a new, steely resolve.
She shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice firm.
“That’s what he’d expect. He’s testing me.
” She met my gaze, a strategist already planning her next move.
“We can’t show our hand yet. I’ll handle him. ”
She was right. This was a game of chess, and we couldn’t afford a single misstep.