Page 2 of Traces of Kara

Kara walked past the row of rundown clapboard houses that overlooked the cemetery. Beyond that, the rusted metal stack of the power plant loomed. She cut through Mr. Cordon’s overgrown yard, thankful he wasn’t there to complain. Kara had known Mr. Cordon since they’d moved to Williamsport when she was five years old. He watched over her the way she imagined a grandfather might—always asking where she was going, commenting if she was dressed inappropriately for the weather. When Kara was a teenager, Mr. Cordon would appear out of nowhere when she went out for walks, or came home late. She didn’t mind. Mr. Cordon wasn’t stalker-ish. She’d bring the old coot some home baked cookies when she had time.

“Where ya’ headed?”

Kara bristled. Dean. She tugged nervously at her windbreaker and spun her head around, clenching her jaw and squinting her eyes into what she hoped was a nasty glare.

The obnoxious smirk never left his face.

Kara quickened her gait, wishing the garage would work faster to repair her broken muffler.

He kept pace with her, so close she could hear him breathe.

She stared at the ground as she crossed Conococheague Street.

“You look like shit.” Dean said as if he’d given her a compliment, complete with a sparkling smile.

Damn, how she wished he were as ugly as his personality. A freaking brown-haired Adonis in a football jersey on the outside, Satan on the inside.

She passed the lumberyard. Thank God. One more block. Please go away.

Dean bumped his hip against her arm. “Working tonight? Wanna be late?”

Kara clenched her teeth so tightly she thought they’d crack. Dean lived in the same apartment complex as Kara, and their paths crossed often. When she’d first met him, his square jaw and wide shoulders had blindsided her good judgment. He’d been complimentary of her looks, and had said it was commendable that she took work and school so seriously—the antithesis of Daryl’s lack of pride in what she was able to accomplish. He had come across as sincere, if a bit pushy. At first, she’d snubbed Dean, but that seemed to entice him even more. Eventually their game of cat and mouse became titillating to Kara—everyone wanted a bad boy—and her curiosity got the best of her. She quickly fell into the trappings of his looks, and his seductive brazenness. After the way Daryl had treated her, tossed her aside like dirty laundry, she’d have done anything to feel whole again. Three months ago she’d succumbed to a weak post-separation moment and spent a passionate ten minutes with Dean, something she regretted in the eleventh minute, when he’d lit up a joint and smirked, “Now that was good.” He’d looked around the dank room and declared, “My parole officer will never find me here. It’s the perfect place to party.”

His admission had shocked Kara into seeing herself more clearly. What on earth was she doing having sex in the basement of the plant? Was this what she had become? Had Daryl demeaned her so much that she’d lost every bit of pride she’d ever possessed? She’d realized just how desperate she’d been to feel good about herself, and just how low and dirty their tryst had made her feel. How could I have been so stupid? Never again would she be wooed by good looks and flattering words.

Dean stepped ahead of her and turned so he was walking backward in front of her, staring her down with that shit-ass grin on his face. “Come on. You know you want me.”

Kara’s blood boiled. “Yeah, like I want hemorrhoids.” She shoved her shaking hands in the pockets of her jeans.

“Shit, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.” He stopped walking, the right side of his mouth lifted into a seedy smirk.

Give it up already. Kara stared him down. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. “If you like wiry little pricks,” she spat.

He grabbed her arm.

She twisted away and darted toward the ancient, one-lane bridge that traversed the canal.

Dean’s laughter trailed behind her.

Rain peppered Kara as she swiped her identification card at the entrance to the ten-foot high metal gate of Kearns Power Plant, still shaking from her encounter with Dean. Never again would she make the same mistake. She’d sworn off men a week after their tryst. Despite her mother’s desire for Kara not to be alone, Kara had finally realized it was better to be alone than with someone like Daryl or Dean. Without a man in the picture, Kara could focus on making her own dreams a reality.

She stared at the security camera, tapping her foot impatiently while the gate slowly slid open. Come on. Come on. She knew Keith would not be watching the gate. He never did. He had worked there so long it was like he knew when to expect trouble, and when he could slack off. He’d been the one who had shown her the hidden entrance the cameras did not cover, the one local teens used when they’d partied. The one she’d used when she’d snuck Dean in, trying to prove to herself—and maybe subconsciously to Daryl—that she wasn’t a boring fuddy-duddy, as he’d so often called her. The memory clawed at her mind.

She slid through the open gate and darted across the parking lot, glancing up at the ominous brick and iron building with its rusted metal stairs climbing the sides like scaffolding. Two banks of half-broken windows stared at her like partially blinded eyes. The old building looked as if it had a heart that beat within its thick walls. About twenty years ago, the plant had undergone an odd, partial renovation; one side was abandoned, the other utilized. With newer technologies having come along in the meantime, the plant no longer held the value it once had. It was slated to close down in just a few months. Kara hoped to be out of Williamsport by then.

Clank! Kara jumped. Two years of working at the plant had not diminished the sense of imprisonment that came with the sound of the gate’s locking mechanism securing itself into place. The thought of working in a hospital, helping those in need, someplace other than here—anyplace other than here—kept her moving forward.

Chapter Two

“Two scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee.” Mable had waited on Roland Greer every morning for the past nine years. She set the plate on the table in front of him and asked, “How are you this morning, darlin’?”

Roland looked up through his long, stringy bangs. “Oh, fine, I guess.” His doughy cheeks, flecked with straggly whiskers, jiggled as he spoke. His skin had a fleshy look to it, as if it had lost all elasticity. Though he was only twenty-nine, every move he made was slow and calculated. He hunched his massive shoulders over the table, his arms encircling the plate—a habit he’d picked up in his foster home years ago, and had yet to relinquish. When Roland was just a boy, he’d been separated from his fraternal twin sister, Marissa, and placed into the Lowrey Home For Children. Roland reached into his pocket and withdrew the familiar photograph. In the picture Marissa had been anxious to pull away, to go play with her Barbies. Roland rubbed the photo with his thumb. Soon, he thought, and tucked the picture back into his pocket.

Roland looked up, watching Mable work her way from table to table. She was the type of woman he’d often wished he’d had as a mother. Her gray hair, piled high on her head in a messy, efficient fashion, somehow made him believe she would have been the type of mother to hold a child when he was scared. She always wore a smile and looked right at him, not away, like everyone else. She looked past the burn across the right side of his face as if it didn’t exist.

The local news blared on the television mounted above the counter. Roland had a perfect view. The television was the reason he’d chosen this booth the first day he’d happened across the diner, located across the street from Taylor’s Trucking, where he’d secured a job as a mechanic after trade school. Working on eighteen-wheelers was the perfect job for Roland; he worked with his hands, which he loved, and he worked in solitude, giving him plenty of time to think.

Roland ate with fervor, listening to the anchorwoman ramble on about the Vice President’s visit to Williamsport, Maryland for a ribbon cutting ceremony at the small town’s Civil War museum, and how Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, where Roland lived, would benefit from the same type of political attention. Roland’s eyes dropped back down to his almost empty plate, but his attention remained on the report. Williamsport. Just the name gave him shivers. Marissa lived in Williamsport. Marissa. Soon, he thought, soon.