All the Pretty Dead Girls - By John Manning Page 0,2

bit.

She walked over to the door and pushed it open, greeted by the high-pitched wail of a Christmas carol—Rockin’ around the Christmas tree, have a hap-pee holiday—and a blast of hot air. Sue smiled at the girl behind the counter and headed for the bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door. The bathroom smelled vaguely like pine. It was relatively clean—she’d used worse on this trip—but she wiped down the seat anyway before dropping her jeans. She let her head rest on her hands. Almost there, she reminded herself as her eyes began to droop.

Washing her hands, she ran the sink water until it was hot, then splashed it into her face. She grabbed her brush out of her purse and ran it through her blond hair. What a mess, she thought, grimacing at her reflection. Whatever happened to that pretty college freshman?

She never really existed, Sue thought with a terrible sensation in her chest.

When her hair was in some sort of order, she dropped the brush back into her purse and looked again at herself in the mirror. That’s better. Not pretty, but at least presentable. Her hair needed to be washed—a shower would be heaven—but she dried her face and walked out of the bathroom.

At the counter, a fresh pot of coffee was almost finished brewing. The coffee in the other pots looked like mud, scorched by hours on their burners. Her stomach growled again. A glass case full of doughnuts next to the coffee stand enticed her. She opened the case and picked up two glazed doughnuts, slipping one into a bag and taking a bite out of the other as she waited for the pot to stop brewing. She finished the rest of the doughnut, dropping a third into the bag, and poured herself a large cup of the fresh coffee. After adding creamer and sweetener, she took a sip. Not bad for gas station coffee, she thought.

The girl working behind the counter was about Sue’s age. She was short and carrying an extra thirty pounds, give or take. A home perm had frizzed her mousy brown hair around her head. She looked as if she’d received an intense electrical shock. Her cheeks were thick, narrowing her brown eyes until they were almost invisible. Acne scars pitted both cheeks. Her lips were thin and painted orange. Her plump arms were freckled where they extended out from her blue smock, and on the upper left arm in blue script the name Jason was tattooed. The smock was open, revealing a black T-shirt with A Touch of Class silk-screened in gold over her breasts. A charm bracelet jangled as she punched numbers into the register. On her heavy left breast a name tag read MYRNA LEE.

“New York plates,” Myrna Lee said, gesturing with her head out the window. “You’re a long way from home.” Her voice was high-pitched and her accent thick. “Don’t see many of those around here.”

Sue offered the clerk a small smile. “I want to get twenty in gas, too.” Act normal, like anyone else. That’s the most important thing. Don’t act funny in any way.

The register beeped as Myrna Lee typed that in. “Twenty-three forty-seven.” The clerk grimaced, her lips pulling back to expose crooked yellow teeth. “Where ya heading, so far away from home?”

She’s just making conversation to be polite. Or—she could be one of them…

A chill went down her spine. “Los Angeles,” she lied, handing over a twenty and a ten, trying to keep her hand from shaking. “Going to go live with my boyfriend.”

Myrna Lee took her money, but kept her beady eyes fixed on her face.

“How far is the next town, or where I can get something to eat?” she asked the clerk, who finally averted her eyes. She felt could feel her heart pounding.

“We-ell, let me think.” Myrna Lee put her change down on the counter and tapped her chin. “There’s Amite, Shiloh, Independence, then Tickfaw, and then Hammond. I reckon it depends on how hungry you are. There are more choices in Hammond, I’d imagine. College town.”

“And how far is that?” Don’t act too interested in Hammond. Even if she isn’t one of them, they could always ask her, and you don’t want to give too much away.

“Twenty, thirty minutes maybe. It ain’t far.”

“And New Orleans?”

“New Orleans? ’Bout another hour past Hammond.” Myrna Lee grimaced again. “It ain’t the same since the hurricane, though. You just keep taking 55 past Hammond, and then you go east on I-10.