Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Kitchen
Inside the diner kitchen, the air was thick with steam, the sharp smell of commercial bleach, and the loud, rhythmic clatter of the dishwashing machine.
Clara stood in front of a deep stainless steel sink, her arms elbow-deep in sudsy, hot water. The steam rose into her pale face, warming her skin, but inside, her chest remained cold, hollow, and heavy. She scrubbed a heavy iron skillet with a steel wool pad, her muscles aching with every stroke.
"Clara."
She turned around. Hank was standing in the doorway of the dish pit. His face was unusually pale, his posture hunched, and in his hands, he held a clean, dry white chef’s apron and a thick, wool thermos cup filled with steaming hot soup.
"Hank?" Clara asked nervously, drying her sudsy hands on her damp apron. "Did I miss a dish? I'm almost done with the pans—"
"Take this," Hank said gruffly, shoving the thermos and the dry apron toward her. He wouldn't look her in the eye. "Go sit in the corner booth by the radiator. Take off those wet shoes before you get sick."
Clara stared at him, completely dumbfounded. "What? Hank, the lunch rush is starting—"
"I said go sit down!" Hank barked, though his voice lacked its usual cruel bite; it sounded jittery, almost frightened. "Your shift is covered. For the rest of the week. Just... go sit by the heater."
He turned on his heel and hurried back toward the grill as if escaping a fire.
Clara stood alone in the steaming kitchen, holding the hot thermos of soup. Her mind raced wildly, unable to comprehend the sudden, terrifying shift in her boss's behavior. Hank never gave dry aprons. He never gave hot soup. And he certainly never let anyone sit by the radiator during the afternoon rush.
She walked slowly out of the kitchen, pushing open the swinging doors.
The diner was quiet. The song on the jukebox had ended, leaving only the sound of rain drumming on the tin roof.
She looked toward the front counter. The tall, broad-shouldered stranger with the tattoos and the scarred face was gone. His empty coffee mug sat on the counter beside a clean, dry paper napkin.
Clara walked over to table three, her canvas shoes making a soft, damp sound against the floor. She sat down in the vinyl booth, leaning her shoulder against the warm iron radiator mounted on the wall. The heat began to penetrate her wet clothes, sending a long, involuntary shiver through her spine.
She looked out the window.
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Standing in the pouring rain near his motorcycle, his heavy leather vest soaked black by the storm, was Silas. He was holding a thick, rectangular package wrapped in a yellow oilskin tarp, tied tightly with black electrical tape.
He walked toward the front entrance of the diner.
