Tuesday, May 14, 1996
If the second hand on the wall clock over the cash register hadn't been moving, Linda Turpin would have sworn the batteries had died. It was 2:37 in the morning. She indulged in a huge, gaping yawn that she didn't bother to cover. What was the point? The convenience store was empty except for her.
“It's my own fault.” She spoke aloud, a habit she'd picked up whenever she worked the midnight shift. “I promised
