18. Tara #2
The trap was closing. I could feel it tightening around me with every passing minute. If I refused outright, my father would question why. If I accepted, I’d be encouraging Diego’s pursuit. I needed a third option—one that wouldn’t raise suspicions.
“That’s very kind,” I said carefully, “but I’m not sure my schedule will permit it. We have away games coming up, and I need to make sure the medical team is prepared.”
“Surely you can spare one evening,” my father pressed, his eyes gleaming with that manipulative spark. “The team will survive without you for a few hours.”
I was saved from having to respond by Carmen’s return with dessert—a delicate flan that I had no appetite for but pretended to enjoy anyway.
As Diego launched into a story about his last charity event (which seemed to involve more celebrities and alcohol than actual charitable work), I noticed my father checking his watch.
“I just remembered,” he said, interrupting Diego mid-anecdote, “I need to take a call from our Tokyo investors. They’re considering a significant stake in the team, and with the time difference...” He stood, smoothing his trousers. “Please, continue with dessert. This shouldn’t take long.”
He left the dining room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway toward his office. I could practically feel the smugness radiating off him—he thought he was so clever, leaving me alone with Diego to foster this unwanted connection, to throw me off my game and remind me of his control.
Little did he know, he’d just handed me exactly what I needed: access to the house while he was occupied.
“Finally,” Diego said as soon as my father was out of earshot. He shifted his chair closer to mine. “I’ve been wanting to get you alone all night.”
I forced a tight smile. “Mr. Mano?—”
“Diego,” he corrected, his hand coming to rest on my knee under the table.
I removed his hand firmly. “Mr. Mano, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My father may have given you the impression that I’m interested in pursuing something personal with you. I’m not.”
His expression hardened briefly before smoothing into a confident smile. “You’re playing hard to get. I respect that. But we both know what happened at the club. You rejected McCrae publicly. That sent a message.”
“The only message I intended to send was professional,” I replied, my voice cooling several degrees. “I don’t mix my personal and professional lives.”
He laughed, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. “Come on, Tara. Your father approves. We’d be good together. What’s holding you back?”
The fact that I’m in love with Xander McCrae, I thought. The fact that even if I weren’t, you’d be the last man on earth I’d consider.
But I couldn’t say either of those things. Not when I needed to maintain the facade long enough to search my father’s office.
“I have a headache,” I said abruptly, pressing my fingers to my temple for emphasis. “I’m sorry, but I need to find some aspirin. If you’ll excuse me?”
I stood before he could protest, leaving my barely touched flan on the table. Diego rose as well, but I waved him back down.
“Finish your dessert. I know where my father’s medicine cabinet is. I’ll be back shortly.”
I didn’t wait for his response, already moving toward the doorway with measured steps—not too fast to suggest urgency, but quick enough to discourage him from following.
Once in the hallway, I paused, listening.
I could hear my father’s voice from behind his closed office door, the low murmur of business being conducted.
I moved swiftly toward the grand staircase, my heels silent on the plush carpet. The main bathroom was on the second floor, providing perfect cover for my absence. But instead of turning right at the top of the stairs, I turned left, toward my father’s private study.
Unlike his formal office downstairs where he conducted team business, the study was where he kept his personal files—the ones that didn’t need to withstand scrutiny from partners or investors. If there was evidence of his deal with Detective Morrison, it would be here.
The door was unlocked, as I’d expected. My father’s arrogance extended to his security practices; he never imagined anyone would dare invade his private spaces. I slipped inside, closing the door silently behind me.
The room was exactly as I remembered it—wood-paneled walls lined with leather-bound books he’d never read, a massive oak desk positioned to command the space, and filing cabinets on the side. Everything in its place, every item a reflection of the control he valued above all else.
I hurried to the cabinets, scanning the labels. “Legal Documents.” “Financial Records.” “Team Acquisitions.” My eyes landed on a cabinet in the far corner, labeled simply: “Archived - Palo Alto.”
My heart rate kicked up. There it was—the physical repository of our past life in California. I crossed to it, my hands already reaching for the drawer labeled “S-Z.”
It was locked.
Dammit.
I glanced at the desk, remembering a habit from my childhood.
My father had always kept spare keys hidden under the blotter—not out of forgetfulness, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of being locked out of his own records, even temporarily.
I lifted the corner of the leather desk pad, and there it was—a small brass key.
My hands trembled slightly as I returned to the cabinet and fitted the key into the lock.
It turned, and the drawer slid open smoothly, revealing neatly labeled hanging files.
I rifled through them quickly: “Stanford Medical Center,” “Swanson Investments - West Coast,” “Swanson Residence - Palo Alto.”
A receipt of a recent money transfer was mixed up with all the folders. Could be important, so I snapped a picture with my phone.
And then I saw it. A thick file labeled simply: “J.S. - ACCIDENT.”
I grabbed the folder just as I heard footsteps in the hallway approaching the study. My father.
Shit .
The steps stopped outside the door. I heard my father’s voice, still on his call: “Yes, I understand the concerns about the expansion timeline. Let me pull up those projections for you.”
The door opened, and my father stepped into the study, phone pressed to his ear. He froze when he saw me, his expression shifting from surprise to cold fury in the space of a heartbeat.
“I’ll need to call you back,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving my face. He ended the call without waiting for a response, slipping the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm.
“Tara,” he said, his voice dangerously soft as he took in the open file cabinet, the folder in my hands. “What exactly do you think you’re doing in my private study?”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stammer excuses or pretend I’d gotten lost looking for aspirin. The time for pretense was over. My fingers tightened around the manila folder, burning into my palm like a brand.
“Looking for the truth,” I said. “The truth about what happened to Jimmy.”
My father’s expression hardened, his features arranging themselves into the disapproval I’d known my entire life. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more threatening than if he’d slammed it.
“Put that back,” he said, each word precise and clipped. “Now.”
“No.” The refusal was simple, but it felt monumental—perhaps the first time I’d directly defied him since I was a child. “I want to know why the police report about Jimmy’s accident is so vague about who was driving. I want to know why there’s no conclusive finding in the official record.”
He moved further into the room. He was a predator assessing his prey, determining the most efficient way to neutralize the threat.
I’d seen him use this tactic in countless business negotiations—the slow advance, the calculated silence designed to make the other party nervous, to prompt them into filling the void with ill-considered words.
I held my ground.
“This is grief talking,” he finally said, his tone shifting to something resembling concern—a perfect imitation of paternal worry that might have fooled anyone who didn’t know him as well as I did.
“You’re becoming emotional. Irrational. This obsession with reopening old wounds… it’s not healthy, Tara.”
“Grief?” I repeated, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “It’s been twelve years, Dad. This isn’t grief. This is about uncovering the truth.”
“The truth?” His eyebrows rose slightly. “The truth is what it’s always been. Your brother died in that car accident. Xander McCrae was drunk. He admitted it himself. Or have you forgotten?”
How could I? Many times I heard the story of seventeen-year-old Xander, pale and broken at Jimmy’s funeral, saying those words—”I was drunk, this is all my fault." But now I understood those words had been twisted, manipulated, their meaning changed.
“He said he was drunk. He said it was his fault. He never said he was driving,” I pointed out. “And the police report never officially concluded who was behind the wheel. Why is that?”
My father sighed heavily, as if I were a child refusing to accept an obvious reality. “You’re overthinking this. The report is clear enough for anyone with common sense to understand what happened.”
“Clear enough?” I opened the file in my hands, quickly scanning the pages. “Then why doesn’t it state explicitly that Xander was driving? Why are there no witness statements? No toxicology reports included? This is a police report that goes out of its way to avoid making definitive statements.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, his patience visibly fraying. “You’re not a lawyer or a police officer. You’re a doctor who should focus on her patients instead of playing detective.”
I slammed the file shut. “I know enough to recognize when key information is missing. I know enough to see a cover-up when it’s staring me in the face.”