One Night At The Shop Stop

“You’re that girl, ain’t ya?” The man said.
Addison gave him the side eye and returned to stocking. She had clocked him the moment he stepped in the Shop Stop. Long dark coat, the man was skinny. Not lanky or a little underweight but rail thin, he bordered on meth chic. His skin was pale and reminded Addison of undercooked fish. Dude had a mullet for Christ’s sakes. Addison focused on the orderly shelves.
“Yeah it’s you the one nobody believed. Can I get a pack of Winstons?” Skinny asked. Arms folded, he leaned against the ice cream freezer.
Addison slammed down a box of Slim Jims and marched behind the cash register. With a flutter of his long black leather coat, Skinny slinked to in front of the register. Addison recoiled.
“I don’t want trouble, Mister,” Addison said.
She set the cigarettes in front of him. He pointed one long skeletal finger. Addison handed him a book of matches. Skinny handed her his credit card.
“I’m not in the business of giving trouble away for free. I just wanted to say I believe you. I believe you about the pretty rich boy and the school coverup. You can bury yourself in this go nowhere job in this go nowhere town. Or you can just bury your problem.”
Addison froze. In fast sinewy strides Skinny walked to the entrance. He tipped his fedora to her, opened the store’s front door, and disappeared into the night. Addison wrapped herself in her arms and locked down. On the Shop Stop counter there was a used matchbox empty but for a handwritten phone number.

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