Page 48 of A Game of Deception
“Tara!” she called. “Why don’t you bring Mr. McCrae up? I’m sure our principal benefactor would love a word with the team’s new star.”
I glanced at Xander, who looked as puzzled as I felt. “Of course,” I said, matching Chloe’s volume. “We’d be honored.”
Chloe led us through the crowd to a private elevator. My father was already inside, along with two board members from the team and their wives.
“Dr. Swanson, McCrae.” My father nodded to us as we entered, his expression unreadable. “Quite the event your friend has put together.”
“Yes, Chloe has outdone herself,” I agreed, positioning myself as far from him as the small elevator would allow. Xander stood beside me, his presence solid and warm against my side.
The elevator ride was mercifully short. When the doors opened, we stepped out onto a beautifully lit rooftop terrace. String lights were draped overhead, creating a warm, intimate atmosphere. Miami’s skyline spread out before us, a glittering backdrop to the scene.
But it was the centerpiece that made my breath catch.
A single spotlighted photograph hung on a freestanding wall. Black and white, moody and evocative, a landscape I recognized instantly. A lone tree on a windswept hillside, the sky above it heavy with storm clouds. The composition was perfect, the balance of light and shadow masterful.
It was Jimmy’s photograph.
“She hung his best work,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Beside me, Xander had gone rigid. “Jimmy’s,” he said, the word sounding as if it had been torn from him.
Chloe approached us, her expression soft. “I found it in the storage. His last photograph.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed up, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. Jimmy had loved photography, had dreamed of becoming a professional. This image—this piece of him—preserved and displayed with such care, felt like a gift I wasn’t worthy of.
My father and the other guests had moved to the far side of the terrace, where servers were pouring champagne. Chloe squeezed my hand once, then left us alone with the photograph.
For an eternity, neither of us spoke. We were side by side, looking at this tangible reminder of the person we’d both loved and lost. The ghost that had always been between us.
“What really happened that night, Xander?” The question came out of me unbidden, quiet but intense. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
He turned to me, confused. “What?”
“That night. The crash.” I met his gaze. “I’ve always been made to believe you were the one driving. Drunk. But Leo told me you weren’t driving. I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Leo shouldn’t have told?—”
“Please.” I interrupted him, my voice breaking slightly. “Just tell me what you remember.”
Xander looked back at the photograph, as if seeking permission from Jimmy’s ghost. When he spoke at last, his voice was low, and raw with emotion.
“You’re right. I was drunk. First time ever. We were at a party, and I... I wanted to forget something.” His eyes flicked to me briefly, then away. “Jimmy was sober. Insisted on taking me home.”
I nodded, eager for him to continue.
“I remember getting in the car. Jimmy helped me with the seatbelt. I was pretty far gone.” He paused, inhaling deeply. “The next thing I remember is the crash. The sound of it. Metal crunching. Glass breaking. I woke up. Jimmy was...” His voice faltered. “He was hurt badly. There was so much glass and blood. I tried to help him, tried to stop the bleeding, but...”
He trailed off, lost in the memory. I waited, heart pounding, for him to continue.
“The paramedics arrived. Then the police. They kept asking me questions. Who was driving? How much had I had to drink? I couldn’t... I couldn’t focus. The only thing on my mind was Jimmy.”
“But everyone said you were driving?” I pressed. “And Jimmy didn’t even know how to drive.”
Xander shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. I don’t remember starting the car, much less driving it. But...” He looked at me, his eyes haunted. “…know this: if I hadn’t gotten drunk,Iwould have been the one driving, and the accident would never have happened. So it doesn’t matter who drove… I was to blame.”
The raw self-hatred in his voice was unmistakable. This wasn’t the confession of a man who had walked away from a crime. This was the broken testimony of someone who was punishing himself for a tragedy he couldn’t fully remember.
I couldn’t stop staring at him, this man I had trained myself to hate, now realizing he was just as much a victim as I was, if not more.
