Chapter 6 - THE VANISHING TRACE
The roar of Ray’s motorcycle faded down the long, straight blacktop of Route 22, leaving only the dull, rattling vibration of the diner window against its aluminum frame.
Wade stood by the glass door, his heavy shoulders rising and falling with deep, jagged breaths. His dark sleeveless vest hung open, revealing the heavy rise of his chest beneath his black tank top. His hands were clenched into iron fists at his sides, the veins bulging dark against his tattooed skin.
Behind him, the diner was frozen in sheer shock.
Mason rushed up the aisle, stopping three feet behind Wade. His silver beard was disheveled, his eyes wide with a mix of panic and utter bewilderment.
“Wade, what the hell just happened?” Mason demanded, his voice echoing off the diner’s tin ceiling. “Why did Ray run? What was on that tape, Wade? You need to tell us what’s going on!”
Cole and the five other club members were on their feet now, forming a heavy, leather-clad semi-circle behind their President. The atmosphere in the room had shifted completely; the cozy, grease-scented roadside sanctuary had transformed into an interrogation chamber.
Wade slowly turned around. He didn't look like their President in that moment; he looked like a predator that had just realized he was surrounded by wolves he thought were his pack. His gray eyes swept over Mason, over Cole, over every veteran member standing before him.
“He knew,” Wade said, his voice dropping into an icy rasp.
“Knew what?” Cole asked, stepping forward, his black bandana pulled low over his eyebrows. “Ray’s been riding with us since eighty-eight, Wade. He’s family. Why would he sprint out the door over an old tape?”
“Because the tape wasn't old to him,” Wade snarled, taking a heavy step toward Cole. “It was a death sentence.”
Before Cole could respond, a small hand reached out from behind Wade’s hip and grabbed the thick, worn leather of his vest.
Wade looked down immediately.
Emma was standing beside him. She looked impossibly small amidst the tall, heavy men in leather cuts. Her face had gone entirely pale, her skin turning an unhealthy, translucent white under the harsh diner lights. Her lips were trembling, and her dark eyes were wide with a deep, visceral terror that went far beyond the confusion in the room.
She was clutching Wade’s vest so tightly her knuckles were white.
Wade knelt down, his massive knee hit the dirty linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bringing his broad, scarred face level with hers. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hands gently around her tiny shoulders.
“Emma,” Wade said softly, his voice dropping all its harsh edges. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”
Emma’s eyes locked onto his, swimming with unspilled tears.
“He was there,” Emma whispered.
The four words were small, but they froze the air in Wade’s lungs once again.
“Where?” Wade asked, his voice steady, though his grip on her shoulders tightened slightly. “Where was he, Emma?”
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Emma couldn't answer. Her jaw locked, her breath catching in a dry, rattling sob. She slowly turned her small head and stared straight past Wade, staring through the swinging glass entrance door at the empty gravel lot where Ray’s motorcycle had just been parked.
She stared at the open road beyond, where the exhaust smoke was still clearing in the cold morning air.
