Free Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs

lot were a rusty gray pickup and an ancient red Ford Escort. I parked beside the truck and got out.
    Through the iron-barred glass door I could see a single clerk behind a chest-high counter. An alarm beeped when I entered.
    I noted ceiling cameras, one facing the counter, another in a corner, pointed at the door. Both looked old. I guessed they were programmed to rerecord every twenty-four hours.
    If they functioned at all.
    Note to self. Ask Slidell about security tapes.
    A man in Bermuda shorts, high-top sneakers, and a Panthers jersey was paying at the register. While waiting him out, I took in more detail.
    Beer, soft drinks, and milk in the coolers. Racks of salted this and fried that, with warnings of health hazards printed on the bags. Donuts under warming lights, glistening like plastic. Hot dogs revolving on a greasy rotisserie. The place was an intestinal terrorist attack.
    Wordlessly, the clerk handed Bermudas his change. She had platinum hair, milky skin, and dark goth eyes. The effect was both tough and innocent. Like a preteen Halloween mishap.
    As Bermudas exited, I plucked a pack of mints and approached the counter.
    “Busy shift?”
    “That it?”
    “It is.” I held out a ten. “Were you working last night?”
    “I work every weeknight.”
    “So you saw the accident?”
    The Morticia eyes rose to mine. Narrowed. “Sort of.”
    “What’d you make of it?”
    “Why are you asking?”
    “I’m with the medical examiner’s office. I examined the victim.”
    “Like, her body?”
    No, genius. Her argyle socks. “Yes, her body.”
    “You’re, like, the coroner?”
    “I work for the medical examiner.”
    “Like, at a morgue?”
    Remove the word
like
from her vocabulary and the kid would be tongue-tied.
    “Yes.”
    “I guess that’s cool.” She slammed the register and handed me my change. “Did you have to go to school for, like, decades?”
    “Yes. May I ask your name?”
    “Shannon King.”
    “Are you a student, Shannon?” I gestured at an anthology of short stories lying on the counter.
    “I’m taking some classes at CPCC.”
    “That’s very enterprising.”
    “My English instructor makes us keep a blog. It’s a bitch, because, you know, I’m here every night, some afternoons. How much can you say about Cheetos and Pepsi?”
    “Must make you a good observer.”
    King eyed me, uncertain if I was mocking her. Then, “I guess.”
    “The accident, for example.”
    “I saw zip. Heard nothing until the sirens.”
    “Really?”
    “Look, I thought what you’re thinking. I said to myself, Shannie, you must’ve heard something. Tires. Wham-o. Something. I didn’t.”
    “Until the sirens.”
    She drew a breath, then her upper teeth came down on her lower lip.
    “Except?” I prompted.
    “I don’t want to sound stupid.”
    Too late.
    “Of course you won’t,” I said.
    “I’m not sure. I may be like, backfilling.”
    “Any little thing could turn out to be important.”
    “Maybe someone screamed. But not nearby. And it was more like a yelp. But it could have been a passing driver changing radio stations. Or a cat.”
    “Or a scream.”
    “Yeah, a scream.”
    “You didn’t go out to check?”
    “Yeah, I did. The store was, like, totally empty. But there was nothing. Same as every night.”
    “Did you see any vehicles slowing or accelerating rapidly?”
    “Nuh-uh.”
    “It was good that you looked.”
    “Listen, I’ll try to comb my memory.” She shrugged, embarrassed at what she viewed as unbridled enthusiasm. “Might help my blog. That’s all.”
    “That would be good.”
    “Or I can ask customers. Be cool about it, you know. Like, ‘Did you see that accident Monday night?’ The way you did with me.”
    I passed her the Polaroid I’d taken in the morgue cooler. “Have you ever seen this girl?”
    “Is that her?” Staring at the photo. “The girl that got killed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Holy shit. She’s young.”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s her