The Crash

The Crash Copyright © 2023 by Cara Kent All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Author's Note Also by Cara Kent A curl pinged free from the tip of his widow’s peak, rebelling against the rest of his gel-slicked crop of graying hair. Roland had tried every product under the sun to tame it. He’d even resorted to an ill-advised chemical relaxer in his vainer days, but no matter the method, his cowlick refused to conform. When he was a child, his mom called it his Superman curl. The affectionate nickname had appealed to his comic-book-loving sensibilities, but as a bullied preteen, he felt far from heroic. He was marked as an easy target from the moment his mom dropped him off on his first day of middle school in plain sight of all his new peers. She’d lovingly called out after him through the open window before abandoning him to the playground piranhas. To make matters worse, he had been forced to wear ill-fitting hand-me-downs and coke bottle glasses—the latter of which were nothing like Clark Kent’s debonair frames, no matter what his mom told him. He had looked around for potential new friends. Socially confident from his home schooling and positive interactions with neighborhood children, he had absolutely no idea that his new peers smelled fresh blood in the water. From then on, he became their prey, and a cyclical routine of defeat and resurgence began. Six months in, when the schoolyard attacks came to a violent head, he decided to take control of the only thing he could. In the bathroom, while his mother slept, he’d snipped the errant tuft of hair down to the scalp with a pair of safety scissors. It didn’t help his self-esteem or the bullying, and his mother cried for days over the bald diamond on his forehead. Thirty-eight years later, his mother was dead, his looks had vastly improved, and his curl had grown back dozens of times over. He’d embraced it a long time ago, and today—as he confidently flew over his kingdom, back from the dead after fifteen years—he finally felt as super as she’d told him he was. He marveled at the town’s exponential growth. Urban sprawl was taking hold, new suburbs spiraled out from the bustling center of what was once a rustic timber town, and strip malls joined them to serve the growing population. From day one, he’d seen its potential; and though he was pleased to see it rise beyond the naysayers’ expectations, he was also disappointed he couldn’t take total credit for its subsequent development. There’s more to do, he assured himself. Plus, you got the ball rolling. He knew it was true and that his once-faithful flock would be overjoyed at his unexpected return. Not only had he funded businesses and improved the local school, but he’d also turned a quiet town into a credible society with a drive-in theater, community gardens, trivia nights, fishing competitions, ghost story night hikes, a consistently active recreation center, and so much more. Sure, he’d racked up some considerable debt, but looking down at it now, all the struggles he’d endured felt worthwhile. Glenville, Washington was no longer a place for old, lonely hunters to come to die; it was a rural sanctuary teaming with life. Admittedly, he was relieved to see that some parts had remained the same. The white steeple of the 1960s-style Baptist church, in which he’d been married, pointed up at his plane as if to alert the community to his return. The town hall, too, had stood the test of time, its red brick and majestic white columns visible even from eight thousand feet above. Guiltily, he had to admit that he was most excited to see that Dottie’s Diner remained unchanged, complete with the statue of a retro waitress statue holding a stack of pancakes. Their fried chicken and waffles, which were the best he’d ever had outside of Texas, would make for a perfect reward after his apology tour was over. Apologies, Roland thought, swallowing hard, his mouth somehow dry and pooling with saliva simultaneously. He knew that most would be happy to see him, but he owed a lot of people explanations, and as he lowered the plane, nearing his destination, concerns grew that he wouldn’t be applauded for his resurrection. He pictured himself in the stocks, being pelted with rotten vegetables by his citizens, while the people he loved the most glared at him from the sidelines. He’d tried to take the edge off his anxiety with his usual medicine, but it wasn’t working in the usual fashion. His heart pounded in anticipation and nervousness and fear. He’d had panic attacks before, mainly as a child, but this one was particularly severe. Worried it might be a