Read An Excerpt, Traces of Kara

Chapter One

He sat on the edge of his queen-sized bed, the morning light streaming across his knees as it crept between the slats of the metal blinds. His dirty t-shirt hung loose over his protruding stomach. His thick, hulking shoulders rounded forward, lifting and falling with each heavy breath. He could feel the photographs on the wall opposite the bed calling out to him, taunting him. He clenched his fingers until his gnawed-off nails dug into his palms. He leaned forward, the streaks of sun shooting across the room and bouncing off the mirror with blinding heat.

He pushed himself off the bed with a groan, arching his chest forward in an awkward stretch. Each day the waiting became more difficult, weighing on him, suffocating his thoughts. His greasy brown hair stuck to his forehead in thin strands as he turned to face the wall opposite the bed. The edges of his lips curled upward in a sinister grin. He lumbered forward and leaned his enormous palms against the wooden dresser. His eyes, riveted to the photographs that surrounded the tall mirror, narrowed and widened as they shifted from one photograph to the next. His heartbeat quickened. He reached one sausage-like finger up and ran it over the beautiful woman’s blond hair.

“Marissa,” he whispered.

He dropped his finger to the map he’d spent weeks poring over, memorizing, scrutinizing. He knew every inch of the town where she lived, the route she took to work. He clenched his teeth, thinking about the bastard who’d been taunting her. Roland’s chest tightened and his hands fisted. It would be so easy to snap his wormy little neck, or to introduce him to the riverbed, face first, until his body went limp. Sweat beaded down the back of Roland’s neck. He reached for a particular picture, worn and gray with age, the veins in his massive forearms bursting with adrenaline. In the picture his child-self beamed. His arm was around Marissa, the newly formed scars and disfigurement on the right side of his face angry and pink. He hated the way Marissa looked, as if she were pulling away from him. Roland rubbed the photo of Marissa with his calloused thumb. The paper beneath was crinkled, faded, from this habit. He was careful never to rub over her face. He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing to an even pace. He had to bide his time, or his plan would fall apart. It had taken him eight years to track down Marissa, and eight months to develop his plan—a plan to keep them from ever being separated again.

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