After my tank is full, I look into the store. That old man is still behind the counter, and the owner of the truck is moving around inside the store. I dig around inside my pocket and pull out my cell phone. I keep my eyes on the store as I drop the phone into the back of a pickup truck, below a blue tarp. I don’t know if anyone can track me with my phone, but if they do, they’ll track me to wherever this guy is going. Maybe that will buy me some time.
The first thing I see when I get into the store is the television monitor set up behind the counter. The old man is watching it to entertain himself. It’s tuned in to the local news.
“Lousy weather we’re having, eh?” the old man says. There’s a glob of drool in the corner of his mouth.
I offer him a ghost of a smile. “Yes…”
I stand there for a moment, trying to decide if I should take my hood off or not. The hood conceals my hair and some of my face. But then again, I don’t want him to remember me as the lunatic walking around with a furry hood on indoors. After a moment of deliberation, I leave it on.
There are some sandwiches set up in a refrigerated area, but I don’t know about eating egg salad from the gas station store. This egg salad might be older than I am. Instead, I stick with grabbing a few packs of trail mix and nutrition bars. Then I see a pack of cheese doodles. I love cheese doodles. I don’t think I’ve eaten cheese doodles in the last two years. Derek kept a close eye on what I ate.
Stuffing your face again, Quinn? You’re getting pretty chunky.
During dinner with some friends of his, he became enraged when I ordered a chocolate mousse for dessert. He marched me to the bathroom scale when we got home, and after that, we did regular weigh-ins. He would write the number each week in a little notebook. As I would step on the scale, I would hold my breath, knowing if my weight was even a pound higher than last week, he would go crazy.
I put back the trail mix and nutrition bars. Instead, I grab the cheese doodles and a pack of Oreos. To hell with Derek. He’s dead anyway.
Before I pay for my purchases, I hit the ATM. My fingers are shaking as I type in my PIN number. The upper limit on withdrawals is only two hundred dollars. Not enough, although it will have to be. Dammit.
As I’m pulling out my cash, I feel a pair of eyes on my back. I glance behind me—it’s a guy around twenty-five who’s nearly a foot taller than me with arms and legs like tree trunks. He’s probably the owner of the pickup truck. He flashes me a smile, and I nod as imperceptibly as I can.
I go to the refrigerator and grab a couple of bottles of water, but I still feel his eyes on my back. Derek was always accusing men of staring at me, but right now I’m wearing a big puffy coat and my hood is on. Why is he looking at me?
I don’t need this right now. I need to get out of the store and back on the road.
I’m juggling my water, cheese doodles, and the Oreos as I make my way to the counter. The large man follows me, his boots squishing as they make wet footprints on the ground. This time I don’t turn to look at him.
I dump all my purchases on the counter. And I grab a couple of Twix bars for good measure. I’ll pay with my credit card this one last time. I already used it at the gas station, so I might as well.
“That all?” the old man behind the counter asks me.
I nod. The gaze of the man behind me is boring into me. I’ve got to get out of here.
While the old man rings up my purchases, I glance at the television screen. It’s still tuned to the news. The local news. I hold my breath as I wait to hear what stories they announce. They’re talking about some sort of problem with the school heating system. That’s good. They wouldn’t be talking about a bunch of heaters if they found a dead body in a local couple’s house.
But it’s just a matter of time. They’re going to find him.
“Here you go.” The man slides a paper bag with my purchases across the counter at me. His eyes dip down to look at the name on my credit card. “Have a good day, Quinn.”
I flinch at the mention of my name. But it’s fine. I’m getting back on the road, and by the time the police track me to this place, I’ll be long gone.
But as I head for the door, so does the man from the pickup truck. He’s following me.
I rifle around in my pocket for my keys. All I can do is get to my car as quickly as I can. The old man is still watching, so it’s not like the guy is going to attack me.
As I step outside, a gush of cold smacks me in the face. It must’ve gotten at least ten degrees colder while I was in that store. The rain hasn’t quite turned into snow yet, but it will soon. How much longer can I stay on the road?