18. Tara #3
His eyes narrowed. “A cover-up? That’s absurd. You’ve been spending too much time with McCrae. He’s poisoning your mind with his version of events, trying to absolve himself of guilt after all these years.”
“Xander’s not trying to absolve himself,” I shot back. “If anything, he blames himself more than anyone. But that doesn’t mean he was driving.”
I watched my father closely, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. The slight tightening around his eyes. The almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He’s getting uncomfortable, and open for making mistakes. Good.
“Detective Morrison,” I said suddenly, dropping the name like a bomb.
There it was—the reaction I was looking for. A flicker of something in his eyes. A momentary lapse in control. It lasted less than a second, but it was enough. Confirmation.
“The police investigator on Jimmy’s case,” I continued, pressing my advantage. “You know him, don’t you? You spoke to him after the accident.”
“I spoke to many people after your brother died,” he replied, his voice too even. “I don’t remember every name.”
“That’s a lie.”
My father’s expression hardened further. “Tara, you’re being disrespectful. And ungrateful. All I’ve ever done is protect you, and look after you, like any father would. This conversation is over.” His voice was cold, final. “Put that file back where you found it.”
“You paid him off, didn’t you?” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “Detective Morrison. Paid him to bury his conclusion, to leave the report just ambiguous enough for you to write your own story.”
His face was a mask of stone. “Get out of my house.” Each word was a shard of ice. “Now.”
I didn’t flinch. For the first time, I wasn’t looking at my father, the grieving parent I’d spent a lifetime trying to please.
I was looking at a stranger. A puppeteer who’d just had a string cut.
The grief I’d always seen in his eyes wasn’t for his lost son; it was for the flaw in his perfect narrative.
“That’s not a denial,” I whispered, the realization hitting me hard. “You still owe me an explanation.”
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, patronizing calm. “An explanation for what, Tara? For protecting this family? For shielding your brother’s memory from a fantasy you’ve concocted?” He gestured vaguely at my head. “You’ve been under a great deal of stress.”
My hand was steady as I placed the file back in the drawer. The slide of the wood was the only sound in the room. I pushed it shut with a soft, final click, my eyes locked on his the entire time. The sound was a period on a sentence I didn’t know I was writing.
“This isn’t over,” I said, the words quiet but absolute.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face before it vanished. “Oh yes, it is.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the door as if dismissing a servant. “Go home, Tara. When you’ve had time to think rationally, we can discuss your future with the team.”
The threat was thinly veiled. My position, my career, my life’s work—all of it hung in the balance. He was reminding me of his power, of how much I stood to lose if I pushed this further.
I walked past him without another word, my head held high. I didn’t run. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flee.
The door of the study clicked shut behind me, the sound unnervingly final.
The second I was out of his sight, the strength drained from my legs.
I leaned against the cool wood, the polished surface doing little to calm the tremor in my hands.
The air I sucked into my lungs felt thin, useless.
It was over. Not the search for the truth, but the lifelong, fruitless campaign for his approval.
The man I had worshipped was a fabrication.
A ghost. A single, hot tear escaped, and I swiped it away with a viciousness that surprised me. No more.
I took one more deep, shuddering breath, straightened my shoulders, and turned toward the dining room, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference.
Diego was still there, nursing a glass of wine. He rose when he saw me, a smile spreading across his face.
“Feeling better?” he asked, moving to intercept me.
“No,” I replied, not breaking stride. “I’m leaving.”
His smile faltered. “What? But we haven’t even had coffee yet. Your father said?—”
“My father doesn’t speak for me,” I cut him off, already reaching for my purse on the side table. “Goodnight, Mr. Mano.”
I was out the front door before he could respond, the cool night air hitting my face like a blessing after the suffocating atmosphere inside. I slid behind the wheel of my car, and pulled away from the house before my father could emerge to try to stop me.
Only when I turned the corner, when the house was no longer visible, did the first crack appear in my composure. A tremor in my hands. A tightness in my chest that made it hard to breathe, as I pulled over to the side of the road.
The tears came suddenly, violently, wracking sobs that bent me double over the steering wheel. I cried for the brother I’d lost. For the years wasted on a misplaced vendetta. For the father I’d thought I had—strict but loving, controlling but protective—who had never really existed at all.
I’d promised to meet Xander at his penthouse after dinner, and I parked in the visitor’s section of his building’s garage and took the private elevator directly to his floor, grateful that I didn’t have to pass through the lobby in my current state.
I knew the code to his door, of course, and I stepped inside to find Xander standing on the balcony, his back to me, a drink in his hand. Leo was nowhere in sight.
I closed the door behind me, and he turned, his eyes finding mine across the room. He didn’t speak, just watched as I crossed the space between us and stepped out onto the balcony.
He took in my tear-stained face, my disheveled appearance, and without a word, set his glass down and opened his arms. I stepped into them, burying my face against his chest, breathing in his scent—something uniquely him that I’d come to associate with safety.
“Hey,” he murmured against my hair, his arms tightening around me. “I’ve got you.”
Those simple words broke something loose inside me. I clung to him, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
I took a deep breath. “I found the file on Jimmy’s accident in my father’s study. He caught me looking at it.”
Xander’s body tensed, but he didn’t interrupt, giving me space to continue at my own pace.
“When I mentioned Detective Morrison, there was a reaction. Just for a second, but it was there. He knows him. He did something… bribed him, threatened him, I don’t know…
but I’m sure he tampered with the official record so it would be ambiguous.
And then he could spin the narrative any way he wanted. ”
Xander’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Did he admit it outright?”
“No,” I shook my head. “He stonewalled me. Ordered me out of the house. Threatened my position with the team, indirectly.”
“Bastard,” Xander muttered, his hands gentle on my arms despite the anger in his voice. “Are you okay?”
The question was simple, but was I okay? How could I possibly answer that?
“No,” I said honestly. “I’m not okay. But I will be.” I met his gaze directly. “We’re going to uncover the truth, Xander. All of it. No matter what it takes.”
He studied my face for a long moment, as if searching for something. Whatever he saw there must have reassured him, because he nodded once, decisively.
“We will,” he promised.
He led me back inside, guiding me to the plush sectional sofa that dominated the living area. I sank into it gratefully, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. Xander disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a damp cloth.
“For your face,” he explained, handing me the cloth. “Unless you want to keep the raccoon eyes. They’re actually kind of badass.”
A surprised laugh escaped me. “Very funny,” I said, accepting the cloth and gently wiping away the remnants of my mascara. “I must look a mess.”
“You look beautiful,” he said simply, sitting beside me. “You always do.”
The sincerity in his voice made my heart twist. This man who had carried the weight of my brother’s death, who had been vilified and exiled because of my father’s lies, was looking at me like I was something precious despite it all.
“I’m sorry,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “For believing the worst of you for so long. For not questioning the story. For?—”
“Stop,” he interrupted gently. “You were sixteen, Tara. A teenager who’d just lost her brother. You believed what the adults around you told you to believe. That’s not your fault.”
I shook my head, not ready to absolve myself so easily. “I wasn’t that young. I should have known better. I should have questioned it.”
“Why would you?” he asked. “Everyone believed the same thing. It was the accepted truth. And I never denied it, did I? I said it was my fault. I believed it was.”
“But it wasn’t,” I insisted. “At least, not the way everyone thought.”
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the windows. “We still don’t know exactly what happened that night,” he said finally. “Not for certain. But we’re getting closer.”
I thought about the file I’d found, the reaction I’d seen in my father’s eyes.
And then, my mind flashed to Diego—his unwanted touches, his persistent advances, the way my father had shoved him at me like a weapon.
But I pushed the thought away. No need to mention that to Xander.
No need to stir up unnecessary drama when we had enough real battles to fight. “Yes,” I agreed. “We are.”