23. Xander
XANDER
The morning sun blasted through the windshield as we cruised south toward Naples.
Tara occupied the passenger seat, dark hair in a casual ponytail, her face locked in quiet focus while scrolling on her phone.
The vibe between us buzzed with nervous purpose—completely different from the wild makeup sex that had dominated our night.
That part blindsided me. After everything—the Brittany clusterfuck, that brawl with Diego—I was sure we were done. Then Tara showed up at my door, eyes blazing, voice steady.
I believe you, Xander. About everything.
Those words cracked something inside me.
A tornado of relief, shock, and raw hunger crashed through my chest, and I yanked her into my arms before she fully crossed the threshold.
The door barely shut before clothes flew off and restraint went out the window.
We bumped into walls, knocked some decorative crap off a table while desperately trying to reconnect.
Even now, watching her profile as she studied her phone, I remembered her hands on my skin, the taste of her neck, that little gasp when she?—
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up, her mouth quirking at one corner.
“Can you blame me?” I squirmed in my seat, eyes back on the road. “After last night, it’s a miracle I can drive at all.”
She laughed, deep and throaty, shooting fresh heat through my body. “Eyes on the prize, McCrae. We’ve got a dirty ex-cop waiting for us.”
“I’m totally focused,” I lied, grinning like an idiot. “Just... handling multiple tasks.”
Tara dropped her phone in her lap and turned to me. “Let’s review the plan again. We need perfect coordination when we confront Morrison.”
I nodded, mood shifting as our mission came back into focus.
“I still think we should throw him off guard right from the start,” I said, zipping around a slow truck. “Tell him we know about the Valdez case dirt. Make it crystal clear we’ll blast it everywhere if he doesn’t play ball.”
Tara shook her head. “Too hostile. Threaten him immediately, and he’ll just wall up. We need to outsmart him.”
“We tried being nice last time,” I reminded her. “He basically told us to fuck off.”
“I’m not suggesting ‘nice,’” Tara clarified. “I’m suggesting ‘smart.’ The Valdez case isn’t our opening move… it’s our knockout punch.”
I tapped the steering wheel, thinking it over. Strategy wasn’t exactly my forte—I typically preferred the more direct approach of a wrecking ball. But her measured thinking made sense.
“What’s your take, then?” I asked.
“I start,” she said. “Professional doctor-to-detective approach. I’ll point out report inconsistencies, stick to facts, keep emotions out.”
“And when he blocks you? Because that’s guaranteed.”
Her eyes flashed with purpose. “That’s your cue. That’s when we drop the Isabel Valdez bomb and mention his secret ledger.”
I couldn’t help grinning at her fierce expression. “So, good cop, bad cop?”
“Exactly.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’ll be the reasonable one, and you’ll be the unpredictable hothead ready to torch his reputation if he stonewalls us.”
“I do ‘unhinged and dangerous’ pretty well,” I admitted, recalling the moment my knuckles connected with Diego’s face. “Not exactly something I’d put on Tinder.”
“Today it’s a weapon,” Tara said, her voice going gentle. “And just so you know, I see beyond that.”
Fuck, isn’t she incredible? Most people defined me by my greatest fuckups—the booze binges, the brawls, the self-destruction greatest hits collection. Having someone—having her —see the real me felt incredible.
“So we’re locked in,” I said, pushing past the lump in my throat. “You start, I lurk menacingly, and if he doesn’t cooperate, I unleash hell about Valdez.”
“And we don’t leave without that original report,” Tara added, her face hardening. “Whatever it says, we need the truth.”
I nodded, my gut tightening. I’d always carried Jimmy’s death on my shoulders. Believed my drunken state somehow caused that crash, even from the passenger seat. What if Morrison’s notes confirmed that? Or revealed something worse?
As if she could read my thoughts, Tara placed her hand on my arm. “Whatever we discover, we handle it together. Got it?”
I swallowed hard and nodded, covering her hand with mine. “Together.”
Our plan was simple. Morrison volunteered at the Naples Marine Conservation Society three days a week. Today was one of those days. Perfect spot to corner him—public enough he couldn’t tell us to fuck off, but exposed enough he’d want to keep his shit quiet.
I pulled into the parking lot of the conservation center, a blue building with a giant sea turtle painted on it. Spotted Morrison’s crappy old Buick right away.
“He’s here,” I said, parking a few spots over.
Tara nodded, inhaling deeply. “Ready?”
I looked at her—this brilliant badass joining me on this truth-hunting mission.
“With you? Always.”
The place was cool and dark, with marine displays everywhere and families wandering around.
“Excuse me,” Tara approached a teenager working the front desk, and slipped him a twenty for admission. “We’re looking for Rick Morrison. He volunteers here?”
The kid barely lifted his eyes while making change. “Mr. Morrison’s running the eleven o’clock turtle talk on the east boardwalk.”
We followed the signage past outdoor exhibits featuring pools of fish, crabs, and sharks. The wooden walkway extended over a pool where sea turtles drifted without urgency.
And there stood Morrison, a tourist crowd gathered around him, rocking khaki shorts and a logo polo, playing kindly old nature enthusiast instead of the corrupt bastard who’d destroyed people’s lives.
“...and this is Daisy,” he explained, pointing to a turtle. “Found her tangled in fishing line. We’ll release her next month.”
A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. “Does she miss her family?”
Morrison smiled gently. “Sea turtles are loners, sweetheart. They don’t have families like us. But she probably misses the open ocean.”
The disconnect hit me hard—this turtle-loving volunteer was the same bastard who took bribes, falsified evidence, destroyed my life, and buried the truth about Jimmy. My blood boiled watching his wholesome act.
Tara squeezed my hand. “Easy,” she whispered. “Remember the plan.”
I forced myself to breathe as the tour group dispersed. When Morrison spotted us, his face transformed—grandpa vanished, replaced by a cold, hard stare.
He hustled the tourists away and stormed over.
“I told you to stay away,” he hissed, eyes darting around. “This is harassment.”
“We just want to talk, Detective Morrison,” Tara said calmly. “About the inconsistencies in my brother’s case.”
His jaw clenched. “I already told you. I have nothing to say.”
“I think you do,” Tara continued, cool as ice. “Your final report leaves out key conclusions. No determination of who drove, no toxicology, no witness statements. It’s incomplete.”
“Filed my report based on evidence,” Morrison snapped. “Take it up with the department. I’m retired.”
I watched him sweat despite the cool breeze. Tara’s approach wasn’t working.
Time for me to be the asshole.
I stepped into his bubble. “We’re not here about your official report, Detective,” I said, voice low and threatening. “We’re here about your ledger. And Isabel Valdez.”
The effect was fucking beautiful. Morrison went ghost-white, eyes bulging. He stumbled backward toward the railing.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
“Pretty sure you do,” I pressed, invading his personal space.
“Isabel Valdez. Stanford student you framed for drugs ten years ago. Case tossed because you manufactured evidence. The real reason they kicked your worthless ass to the retirement curb. We just had a fascinating little chat with her. Turns out she’s become a criminal justice activist. Fucking poetic for our purposes, isn’t it? ”
His eyes pinballed between us and the nearest tourists. “Keep your voice down,” he begged.
“Why?” I asked, eyebrows raised. “Scared these nice families might learn that Mr. Turtle Talk is actually a dirty ex-cop who took cash to frame innocent people?”
“You don’t know shit,” Morrison insisted, voice cracking.
Tara stepped forward, radiating ice-cold authority. “She told us all about the ledger, Detective. Your little bribe diary. Including, we believe, one from my father about my brother’s death.”
Morrison’s face twisted. “You can’t prove any of this.”
“Don’t need to,” I let a razor-edged smile curl my lips. “Just need to make noise. To the right people. How’s your retirement look after that? Your reputation? Your pension?”
A family with kids wandered onto the boardwalk. Morrison grabbed my arm and yanked us to a secluded corner.
“What the fuck do you want?” he demanded, whispering harshly. “Money?”
Tara shook her head, disgusted. “We don’t want your money. We don’t even care about exposing the Valdez case or your other corrupt bullshit.”
“Then what?” Morrison asked, confused and terrified.
“Your original notes about my brother’s accident,” Tara demanded. “The ones that never made the official report. The ones that detail exactly what happened.”
Morrison stared, breathing fast. “And if I give you these supposed notes, you’ll what? Leave me alone? Never mention Valdez again?”
“That’s the deal,” I confirmed. “Give us the truth about Jimmy Swanson, and we forget your name, the ledger, Valdez, everything.”
He studied us, hunting for tricks. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t,” Tara said bluntly. “But what choice do you have? Take the deal or watch your cozy retirement burn.”
Morrison deflated. He rubbed his face, suddenly looking ancient. “I don’t have the notes here.”
“Where are they?” I demanded.
After hesitating, he pulled out a key ring and removed a small, tarnished key.
“Storage unit off I-75,” he said hollowly. “Unit 218. File’s in a lockbox on the back shelf.” He pressed the key into my hand. “Take it, and then never come back again.”
I closed my fist around it, feeling its weight—both real and symbolic. This tiny piece of metal might unlock everything.
“If this is bullshit—” I started.
“It’s not,” he cut me off wearily. “You’ll find what you want. And when you do...” He looked at Tara with something like regret. “Sorry about your brother. For whatever that’s worth.”
He walked away, shoulders slumped, steps heavy. We watched him disappear into the main building.
Tara turned to me, eyes wide with shock and victory. “We did it,” she whispered. “He caved.”
I stared at the key. So ordinary-looking for something so potentially life-changing.
“Think he’s telling the truth?” I asked. “About the storage unit?”
Tara nodded. “You saw his face. He’s fucking terrified. Whatever’s in those notes, he wants us to have it more than he wants to protect it.”
I pocketed the key. “Well, let’s go find out what the truth really is.”
We walked back through the center, past displays that now seemed bizarrely normal. How could everything look so ordinary when we were about to uncover the truth that had warped our entire lives?
In the parking lot, Tara checked directions. “Twenty minutes from here. Just off the interstate.”
I started the engine, heart hammering. “Twelve years,” I muttered. “Twelve fucking years of guilt and not knowing.”
One thing was certain: after today, nothing would ever be the same again.