Day 7
Kiara peddled faster than she thought possible to make it to the impound lot before her curfew. The last thing she wanted was to destroy the one remaining shred of trust her mom had in her. The hot summer air left her hair sticking to the back of her neck. Beads of sweat gathered on her collarbone.
Finding the Twinkie in a sea of rusty Toyota Corollas was thankfully much easier than finding a needle in a haystack. The sun was still high in the sky, but Kiara hoped she could be in and out without drawing any attention. She dropped Sarah's bike at the gate and ran the last few yards through the lot, to where the van was parked. Kiara lowered her forearm through the crack in the driver's side window to pull on the old locking mechanism, which opened easily. Once inside, she crawled to the back to find what she came for.
The copies John B had made of Denmark's diary signaled to Kiara from under a loose volleyball, which had apparently been used as a makeshift paperweight.
Perfect. Kiara wrestled the pages out and smoothed a hand over the creases. While the combination of symbols and notes written about farming didn't seem hugely important to her, she knew to someone like Pope they might be useful. Kiara folded the pages up neatly to tuck in the basket of her bike.
She felt sad to leave the Twinkie here, rotting away. Maybe she could convince her parents to pay whatever fine would get it out?
Kiara hopped back on Sarah's bike and began making her way home. She felt lighter than she had in days. All she needed to do was figure out how to save her friends - maybe she could use the diary pages as leverage?
Her reverie was broken by a complete asshole on a Ducati motorcycle pulling up behind her. Kiara felt the residual heat coming off the bike and the loud sounds of the engine. Her first thought was sympathy for the Earth's ozone layer. Her second thought was please, don't let this be who I think it is.
"KIARA!" Rafe's hoarse scream made her whip her head around.
Oh, great, she thought. Kiara peddled harder.
He stopped the motorcycle, on a dime. "KIE! You can't outrun me on my sister's bike!"
Kiara's legs pushed harder than she'd thought possible. She didn't want to start a conversation with Rafe. Her feelings swirled inside her, fighting to take control. Her mind knew what he was, what he'd done. But, even still, he'd wormed his way inside her somehow.
"Kie! We need to talk!"
"Can't!" Kiara yelled back, halfheartedly. "I'm gonna be late for dinner!"
Rafe, frustrated, threw his helmet back on, and launched his motorcycle after Kiara.
"Listen, Rafe," Mike Carrera started, his arms crossed across his chest. "It's nothing personal, but we just want to be alone with our daughter tonight." On the front porch of the Carrera's house stood the notorious Rafe Cameron, beaded with sweat, and slightly disheveled from the motorcycle ride. Mike's feelings about him were completely at odds. On one hand, he was terrified: Rafe rode a motorcycle here, for God's sake. He was riddled with nervous energy and his eyes flashed with something like unbridled rage. On the other - he was a Cameron. There was no better family in the Outer Banks for Kiara to choose to befriend. Anna had been trying to get in Rose's good books for years.
Rafe, for reasons he wasn't sure he understood, followed Kiara all the way home. Was it because he could see the diary pages rolled up in the bike's basket? Or was it Kiara herself?
Either way, he found himself on her front porch, asking her dad if he could come in.
"Of course, yeah," he muttered, nervously tapping out a beat on the side of his thigh. "I understand. Sorry for bothering you...sir."
