Page 133 of Crash Course

Luca rounds his desk, closing the distance between us. Proximity with my father never felt like intimacy. More like control.

“Sixteen years ago, we were in a competitive season, defending our title. Everyone wanted to bring us down. We ended up winning a world championship, but it could have gone very differently thanks to one particular crash.”

I scan my memory, reels of film and recaps and stats.

“There was no crash that season.” I’m confident.

“It wasn’t on the track. It was late one night, not far from here. The weather turned bad. An ARI employee was at the wheel on one side. On the other, a husband and wife, and their child in the back seat.”

My chest squeezes, my ribs knitting together.

“The employee walked away from the scene,” he goes on. “In the second vehicle, only the child survived. A girl. Five or six, with minor injuries.”

He’s staring at me like he did when I was young and taking too long to catch on to a game. I was smart, but he was always two steps ahead.

“Does any of this ring a bell?” he prompts.

“Why should it?” I shove my hands in my pockets, irritated.

“It was kept out of the public eye. That employee was protected. But it was necessary—that kind of attention would have been extremely damaging.”

My fingers close around the ring and chain.

It clicks, then. How was I so stupid.

“Four.” I can barely form the word.

“Excuse me?”

Bile rises up my throat. “She was four. And they weren’t minor injuries.” I think of the plate and screws. A lifetime without her family. “What happened to the other driver?”

“Nothing. The driver was a key employee of this company. Like you aspire to be.”

I’m struggling to focus on the facts. Nausea rips through me, denial hot on its heels.

“And he was at fault,” I say.

“It’s too easy to assign blame, Jameson. The public sees a trophy and confetti, an instant of celebration, and believe victory comes in a moment. The truth is that it takes years, decades, to build that foundation. All of it can be ripped away in a heartbeat.”

The denial is fading, leaving horror in its place.

Shay didn’t know the truth of how her parents died—only that someone wiped their hands clean of it. She spent her entire life questioning, guessing, longing, wishing. She grew up with nothing, all so I could grow up with everything.

White spots dance behind my eyes as another wave of nausea rolls through me, followed by the sledgehammer of guilt.

My father stole everything from her. To preserve this company, this legacy.

His.

Mine.

How can we make this better when it’s built on a lie? How can I look her in the eyes and tell her I care when my dad ruined her life?

I tried to believe I could change this company, that I could change it with her.

Now I know there’s no fucking way.

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