27. THE REED LAND, NORTH CAROLINA // ORLANDO, FLORIDA #3
“I managed to get an enhanced rendering of the broadcast footage from the archive servers. I slowed it down to one-tenth of the speed. Silas didn’t slip.
He didn’t hesitate. His execution of the leap was flawless.
But the second his boots put vertical pressure on the top step to launch the jump, the aluminum collapsed.
The step of the ladder sheared off under his weight.
In the video, you can see the metal give way.
The step was missing. Silas didn’t cause the botch.
The structural failure of a cheap, damaged piece of equipment did.
No matter what happened, the outcome was always going to be exactly the same. He was destined to fall.”
The world inside the car felt like it was spinning at a million miles an hour, the blue work lights of the arena in the background blurring into a smear of grey.
“In fact,” Julian’s voice cut through the fog of my brain. “If you watch the footage of the wreckage right after the impact… when you run across the ring to check on him… you actually trip over the broken metal step lying on the canvas. It’s right there in the frame.”
A flash of absolute, blinding clarity hit my brain like a lightning bolt. I remembered it. I remembered running across the canvas in a state of pure, unadulterated terror, my eyes fixed on Silas’s screaming face as he clutched his shoulder.
I remembered my boot catching on a jagged piece of loose metal near the center apron, stumbling before leaning over the top rope.
I had assumed that piece of metal was just generic wreckage from the table. For years, I had carried a crushing, suffocating mountain of my own guilt.
I had spent nearly a decade believing that I was the one who had destroyed his focus.
I believed that because he had gone into that ring in a bad headspace, he’d missed his footing on the ladder, and destroyed his own career along with two other men’s lives.
I had carried that blame like an iron shroud, thinking that if I had just fought harder for us to stay together, the botch would have never happened, and I wouldn’t have lost the man I loved for nearly ten years of my life.
But it was a lie.
It was a total, corporate lie. Silas hadn’t messed up.
His focus hadn’t failed. He was perfect.
The United Wrestling Federation had systematically cut corners on safety equipment for our match because, back then, we were just the new guys.
They didn’t think anyone would watch the rookies, so they recycled garbage ladders to save a goddamn buck.
Everything Silas had spent years blaming himself for, the crushing guilt that had driven him into exile, the severe panic attacks, the suffocating depression that made him feel like an empty shell, it was never his fault. It was never our fault.
It was the company.
“This is huge.” My voice sounded completely dead, hollow, and vibrating with an intense, cold shock. “But… I’m confused. What the hell does this have to do with Presley? Mark was the Chairman back then.”
“You’re right.” Tate Martin’s voice cut through the speaker.
“Mark was the Chairman. But do you remember who our Head of Backstage Production was eight years ago? The man whose specific, literal job it was to manage the equipment manifests, sign off on the safety ratings, and approve the budget lines for the technical gear?”
The realization hit me.
“Presley,” I whispered, the name tasting like pure poison on my tongue.
“Bingo,” Tate confirmed, the finality of the word absolute.
“He was trying to prove to his father that he could cut the production budget by fifteen percent. He was the one who signed the order to pull those ladders out of the scrap heap and put them in the ring for your match. He knew they were damaged. He had the safety report on his desk, and he ignored it to save money.”
A blinding, and completely feral explosion of pure, unadulterated rage erupted in my bloodstream. I didn’t just snap. I completely, violently imploded. I saw nothing but red. The air inside the small car grew hot.
“You mean to tell me,” I screamed, my voice tearing through my vocal cords, echoing sharply off the plastic interior of the car. “Because that sorry, vindictive motherfucker wanted to save a goddamn dollar and impress his daddy, he put my husband on a structural death trap?”
My hands were shaking with a terrifying, destructive strength. I gripped the plastic handle of the passenger door with such a violent, crushing force that the plastic groaned, cracked, and completely caved in beneath my fingers.
“That’s why he got injured?!” I shouted, the absolute, murderous fury finally spilling over.
“That’s why he spent eight years rotting in the woods, thinking he was a failure?
That’s why Julian was nearly paralyzed? That’s why I lost the person I loved for almost ten years of my goddamn life?
Because if he had never been hurt, if that ladder hadn’t broken, we would have worked through whatever stupid fight we had, and we would have been fine.
He stole almost a decade of our lives because of a budget line? ”
Jim didn’t flinch under the force of my explosion. He just sat there in the driver’s seat, his hands resting casually on the steering wheel, watching my carnage with a cold, completely satisfied smirk.
He reached over, his calloused hand coming down firmly on my shoulder, a steady, grounding pressure that carried the weight of impending vengeance.
“Save your anger, Kincaid,” Jim said. “Take a deep breath and keep your mouth shut. Don’t look at Presley. Don’t let Silas see the fire. Because I promise you, son… this is only the beginning.”