18. Tara
TARA
The emerald green dress tempted me from its hanger. That dress was reserved for Xander. I shoved it deeper into my closet, my fingers lingering on the silky fabric. I wished I could wear it but this wasn’t a night for Xander’s favorite color.
Tonight was about armor, not seduction.
I pulled out a sleek navy shift dress instead. The kind of outfit that says, “I’m here because obligation demands it, not because I want to be.” Perfect for a dinner with my father that we both knew was really an interrogation.
My phone buzzed on the dresser. A text from Xander.
Good luck tonight. I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.
A second message followed almost immediately.
And no, before you ask, I’m not going to tell you to “be careful.” You know your father better than anyone.
I smiled despite myself. In just two texts, he’d managed to both support me and acknowledge my autonomy.
I’ll call you after, I texted back. Don’t wait up though. These dinners have a way of stretching into endless psychological warfare.
I set the phone down and returned to my preparation. I applied makeup and put my hair up in a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place. I slipped on the navy dress, a pair of modest heels, and a simple necklace of pearls that were my mother’s.
As I hooked the clasp at the back of my neck, the thought came unbidden: Who was that woman in the back seat of the Audi, legs wrapped around Xander, reckless and alive? And who was this one now, zipped into a stark navy dress, the dutiful daughter of Hank Swanson?
Which one was real? I wondered, not for the first time. Or had I learned to perform so well that I no longer knew where the act ended and I began?
Before leaving, I went to my home office. The wall that had once displayed Xander’s life was now bare, the materials carefully packed away in storage boxes—not destroyed, but hidden. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them completely.
Instead of the obsession wall, I now had a new focus: a small corkboard with the few facts we knew about the night Jimmy died. Detective Morrison’s name. The mention of “original notes.” The deliberately vague official report. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
“I’m coming, Jimmy,” I whispered. “I’m going to find out what really happened.”
I grabbed my purse and keys, running through my mental checklist one last time.
It wasn’t just about deflecting my father’s questions about Xander.
It was about finding evidence. I knew my father too well to believe he didn’t keep records of everything.
The trick would be finding a way to access his office during dinner.
The drive to my father’s Miami mansion took twenty minutes, each one stretching my nerves a little tighter. Before I pulled up to the gates, I’d rehearsed a dozen different responses to the questions I knew would come. The security guard recognized my car and waved me through without stopping.
I parked in the circular drive and took a deep breath, shifting into character: Dr. Tara Swanson, devoted daughter and perfect team physician who’s definitely not sleeping with the team’s star forward.
Before I could ring the bell, the massive front door swung open. My father stood there, a tumbler of scotch in his hand, his expression arranged in what passed for warmth on his features.
“Tara.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek. I forced myself not to flinch at the contact. “Right on time, as always.”
“Hello, Father.” I returned the kiss, the gesture as empty as the crystal vase on the entry table. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all.” He gestured me inside, his hand hovering just above the small of my back without actually touching me—a pattern established years ago. My father rarely touched anyone unless he was making a point. “Can I get you a drink? Wine? Something stronger?”
“Just water for now, thank you.” I needed to keep my wits about me.
He nodded approvingly and led me through the soaring foyer toward the formal living room.
“How’s the team shaping up?” he asked, his tone casual as he poured me a glass of sparkling water from the bar cart. “I’ve been watching practice. Some of the new acquisitions seem promising.”
And there it was—the first probe. Not directly about Xander, but close enough. A fishing expedition disguised as small talk.
“The roster has potential,” I replied, matching his casual tone. “Coach Wilkes has been integrating the new players well. A few minor injuries to manage, but nothing serious.”
“And McCrae?” The question landed with deceptive lightness. “I’ve noticed he’s been performing exceptionally well in practice. Your sessions must be having quite an effect on him.”
I took a careful sip of water, using the moment to compose my face into a facade of indifference.
“He’s responding well to treatment,” I said, keeping my voice detached. “His shoulder issues require regular maintenance, but he’s compliant with the protocols I’ve established.”
My father studied me over the rim of his glass. “Compliant? Why wouldn’t he be?”
I shrugged, the gesture deliberately dismissive. “He’s a talented athlete, but he requires a lot of maintenance. He’s still a liability… the drinking, the partying. You knew what you were getting when you signed him.”
The words felt like acid on my tongue, but I forced them out anyway. This was the game. This was how I survived.
My father’s expression shifted subtly, the tightness around his eyes easing just a fraction. I’d passed the first test.
“Well, as long as he performs on the field, the rest is manageable,” he said, setting his glass down. “Shall we move to the dining room? Dinner should be ready.”
I followed him through the house, past walls adorned with expensive art chosen for investment value rather than aesthetic appeal. The dining room was a study in tasteful opulence, a long mahogany table that could seat sixteen set for an intimate dinner for two. Or so I thought.
Just as we entered, the doorbell chimed. My father checked his watch and smiled—a small, satisfied expression that set off alarm bells in my head.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, though the calculated gleam in his eyes made it clear this was no oversight. “I invited Diego Mano. I know you two have been exchanging glances.”
My stomach dropped.
I stood frozen as my father went to greet him.
The trap was so obvious it was almost insulting.
After the scene at the nightclub—Diego’s possessiveness, Xander’s kiss, my slap—my father was making his move.
He knew damn well Diego had been hitting on me since day one, his flirtations as relentless as they were unwelcome.
And now, Father was shoving him in my face, not because he truly cared about matchmaking, but to rattle me, to remind me who pulled the strings in my life.
To mess with my head and keep me off-balance, especially now that Xander was in the picture.
I heard them before I saw them—Diego’s too-loud laugh, my father’s measured response.
Then they rounded the corner into the dining room.
Diego Mano was dressed in an expensive suit that looked like it had been selected to impress rather than for style, his dark hair slicked back, his smile wide and predatory as his eyes landed on me.
“Dr. Swanson,” he said, moving forward to take my hand before I could avoid the contact. “You look beautiful tonight.”
He lifted my hand to his lips, and it took every ounce of self-control not to pull away. I forced a polite smile instead.
“Mr. Mano. This is a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I hope,” he replied, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before finally releasing my hand. “Your father has been telling me about how you skipped two grades in high school. Fascinating.”
“How thoughtful of you, Father,” I said, the words coated in enough sugar to cause diabetes. “Though I’m sure Mr. Mano has better things to do on a Friday night than discuss my high school days.”
“Not at all,” Diego replied, his eyes never leaving my face. “And please, call me Diego. I think we’ve moved beyond formalities, don’t you? Especially after our... moment at the club.”
I felt my face heat at the reference. Of course he would bring that up—the night I’d slapped Xander after our kiss. In Diego’s mind, that action had been a rejection of Xander, not a desperate attempt to salvage my professional reputation.
“Well,” my father interjected smoothly, “shall we sit? Carmen has prepared her famous paella.”
The next hour and a half was an exercise in controlled torture.
Diego sat to my right, my father at the head of the table.
Throughout the meal, Diego found every excuse to touch me—his hand brushing mine as he passed the bread, his knee pressing against my thigh under the table, his fingers grazing my arm as he emphasized a point in conversation.
Each touch made my skin crawl, but I endured it with a fixed smile, knowing my father was watching every reaction, gauging how far he could push me before I cracked.
The conversation drifted from team dynamics to Diego’s career aspirations to Miami’s social scene.
Diego made pointed references to clubs and restaurants he thought I might enjoy, clearly angling for a date.
My father encouraged him at every turn, praising Diego’s judgment and taste with nauseating enthusiasm, all while shooting me subtle, knowing glances that said, See? This is what I choose for you.
“You know, Tara rarely takes time to enjoy the city,” my father said, signaling Carmen to clear the dinner plates. “She’s always been so focused on her work. Perhaps you could show her what she’s missing, Diego.”
Diego’s smile widened. “It would be my pleasure, sir. In fact, there’s a charity gala at the Vizcaya Museum next weekend. Very exclusive. I happen to have an extra ticket.”