Page 49 of A Game of Deception

“Tara?” Xander’s voice invaded my thoughts. “Say something.”

“I don’t—” I began, but was interrupted by Chloe approaching us again.

“Sorry to break this up,” she said, glancing between us with curiosity, “but your father is asking for you, Tara. Something about an early morning meeting tomorrow.”

I nodded, grateful for the interruption. “Tell him I’ll be there in a second.”

Chloe hesitated, then retreated, leaving us alone again.

Xander’s eyes were still on me, waiting. Demanding a response I wasn’t ready to give.

“We can’t talk here,” I said finally. “Not with all these people.”

“Then where? When?” The intensity in his voice matched the urgency I felt.

I thought of my apartment, with its wall of evidence. Not something I’d like to show Xander. Of the training facility, where we were constantly under my father’s surveillance. Of Xander’s penthouse, where we had already crossed one line we couldn’t uncross. None of those places felt right. I needed space. Air.

“I run the beach path every morning. South Pointe Pier. I’m there at 6 AM.” I met his gaze. “If you want to talk, you’ll have to keep up.”

Surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow nod. “I’ll be there.”

“I have to go,” I said, gesturing toward where my father stood watching us with narrowed eyes. “Before he comes over.”

As I walked away from Xander, my father’s gaze tracked my movement. He intercepted me near the elevator.

“Enjoying the art?” His voice carried a deceptively casual tone I’d learned to fear.

“It’s beautiful. Chloe’s a master at curating this stuff.”

“Yes, she is.” He glanced back toward where Xander still stood beneath Jimmy’s photograph. “That piece is particularly moving. Your brother had such talent.”

The way he said it made my chest tighten. “He did.”

“It’s fitting that McCrae is here to see it. Full circle, wouldn’t you say?”

There was a satisfaction that made my skin crawl. As if this entire evening had been orchestrated for that purpose.

“I suppose.”

13

XANDER

Sleep was a joke.For the second night—or third, who was counting—I was back on the penthouse balcony, watching the city breathe below. The lights weren't a fuzzy blob anymore. They were sharp, distinct. Too clear.

For twelve years, I’d worn the guilt. Played the part of the drunken fuck-up because it was the only role I had left. It’s a hard habit to break.

The sliding door whispered open behind me. Leo.

He didn’t ask if I couldn’t sleep. He knew better. He just joined me at the railing, two glasses in his hand. He passed one to me. Whiskey.

We stood there for a minute, the silence easy.

“She thought I was driving,” I said, not to him, but to the skyline.

Leo took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze fixed forward. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “She did.”

“What is it?” The question had been bugging me for hours. “What makes you so sure I wasn’t?”