by Riley Sager
No state trooper riding up beside them to rescue her like a cowboy in a John Ford flick.
No huffing hot breath onto the window. Or writing “HELP” on the fogged glass. Or plotting a daring leap from the moving car.
Is such a thing even possible? Could she have gotten so lost in her own specific brand of make-believe that it’s started to bleed into reality?
That’s never happened before.
Until now, Charlie had thought of the movies in her mind as brief moments. Small windows of time in which fantasy eclipses harsh reality. No different from the way cinematographers used to rub Vaseline on the camera’s lens to give the leading lady a gauzy glow.
And when one ends, Charlie knows it’s over. Her body snaps back to the present—the equivalent of the credits rolling and the theater lights coming up.
But the past hour was more like a fever dream. Real and surreal and alive.
The idea that some of her memories, her past, her life might not have occurred the way she assumes they did is almost as unnerving as thinking she’s in a car with a serial killer. It’s so concerning that she’s reluctant to believe it. Why should she trust Josh over her own mind?
So she’s back where she started. Wanting to believe Josh but also unwilling to. And as the Grand Am continues down the highway, heading farther into the uncertain night, Charlie is conscious of four things.
None of it might have happened. Or all of it might have happened.
One of them would make Josh completely harmless. The other might mean he’s the Campus Killer.
And Charlie has no idea which one is the truth.
INT. GRAND AM—NIGHT
“Mind if I turn the music back on?”
Josh’s voice cuts through Charlie’s thoughts, jerking her out of the deep mental well into which she’d fallen. She looks at Josh. She looks at his finger, poised above the stereo’s play button. She wonders if she just experienced another movie in her mind and that none of the past ten minutes actually happened.
“What was the last thing you said to me?”
“Mind if I turn the music back on,” Josh says, this time without the questioning inflection.
“Before that.”
“That we hadn’t played Twenty Questions.”
Charlie nods. Good. It wasn’t a movie in her mind. Unless it’s still going on. Thinking such things makes her feel simultaneously drunk and also in need of a strong drink. Part of her wants to tell Josh to pull off at the next exit, where she can put her fake ID to good use at the first bar they pass.
Instead, she’ll settle for a rest stop, which, according to a highway sign they’re just now passing, sits a mile up the road.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, eyeing the sign as it slides past the passenger window.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. It was all that coffee,” she says, even though she hasn’t had a sip since first seeing Josh’s driver’s license.
What she really wants is to get out of the car and get away from Josh. Just for a moment. She needs to be alone with the crisp night air on her face, hoping that will bring some clarity. Because right now she has nothing. “I’ll be quick.”
“Fine,” Josh says, letting out a weary sigh exactly like the ones her dad would sometimes make during those long-ago road trips. “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs myself.”
When the off-ramp comes into view, Josh hits the right turn signal and slides off the highway. Ahead of them, the building housing the restrooms sits squat and silent. It’s a sad, ungainly single-story rectangle of beige bricks with doors and a roof painted shit brown.
The parking lot is empty, save for a car driving away as they pull in, its taillights winking red. Charlie’s heart sinks as she watches it depart. She had hoped the place would be crowded, providing peace of mind while she stops to regroup. An empty rest stop provides no such comfort. Right now, Josh could slit her throat, yank her tooth, and drive away without anyone knowing.
If he’s the Campus Killer, that is.
Something else Charlie’s not completely certain about. She doubts the Campus Killer would park directly beneath one of the parking lot’s streetlamps, as Josh does now.
It could be a sign that she should trust him.
Or it could be him trying to trick her into giving him that trust.
Sitting in the parked car under the cone of light coming from the streetlamp, Charlie knows she needs to stop thinking this way. All this doubt—her mind veering wildly between two very different scenarios—will only get worse the longer the night goes on. She needs to pick a lane and act accordingly.
To help with that decision, Charlie does what she should have done the moment Josh pulled up to her dorm: check the Grand Am’s license plate. She gets out of the car and stands behind it, pretending to stretch. Rolling her head and swinging her arms, she sneaks a look at the license plate.
New Jersey.
That’s at least one check in the Trust Josh column.
“I’ll be right back,” Charlie tells him, even though it’s not a given. It’s entirely possible she might decide to never enter that car again. There’s also the possibility Josh might kill her before she gets the chance to make that decision.
Charlie quickens her pace as she walks to the restrooms. It’s unnervingly quiet here, not to mention secluded. Behind her, about a hundred yards from the parking lot, is the interstate. Up ahead, looming darkly behind the facilities, is a forest of unknown size and density.
Just outside the door to the restrooms is a pay phone. Charlie pauses in front of it, knowing it’s still not too late to call Robbie. Which is what she should have done at the 7-Eleven before they hit the highway. Charlie knows that now. She regrets, with an intensity that aches, not picking up the phone and saying those four magical words.
Things took a detour.
Charlie’s about to reach for the phone when she notices a piece of masking tape stuck over the coin slot. She grabs the receiver anyway, lifting it from its cradle. There’s no dial tone. Just her luck.
It isn’t until after she slams the phone back into place that Charlie realizes Josh could be watching her. She’s still outside the building, in full view of anyone in the parking lot. She shoots a quick, cautious glance toward the Grand Am. Josh is there, outside the car now, stretching his arms to the sky while rolling his neck. He hasn’t seen a thing.
Good.
Charlie steps into the building, finding the inside as depressing as the outside. The walls are gray. The floor is dirty. The lights overhead buzz out a wan, yellow glow. Vending machines line the wall to the left, offering three choices: snacks, sodas, hot beverages. To the right are the bathrooms, men’s room by the door, ladies’ room toward the back.
Hanging on the wall between them is a large map showing the state of Pennsylvania, with wide slices of New Jersey and Ohio on either side. Charlie’s entire route home is visible—the long red line of Interstate 80 slithering its way across the Keystone State. And they’ve barely made it past the border, as evidenced by a tiny white arrow marking their current location. On top of the arrow, in minuscule red letters, it reads you are here.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Charlie mutters, aware that she could still be in the Grand Am, lost in another mental movie.
Hell, why stop there? There’s nothing to keep her from thinking that the entire night’s all a movie in her mind. She could snap out of it and find herself back at Olyphant. Or, even better, back in September, waking up the morning after marching away from that bar and awful Cure cover band to see Maddy still asleep on the other side of the room, the past two months nothing but a horrible nightmare.
Charlie closes her eyes, hoping for that exact scenario. She waits, her body still, trying to will that version of events into existence. But when her eyes open, she’s in the same spot, facing
the map and its white arrow, which now feels like a taunt.
YOU ARE HERE.
Fuck.
If the map says it, then it must be true. It’s about the only thing she can trust.
INT. REST STOP BATHROOM—NIGHT
Disheartened, Charlie pushes into the ladies’ room. It’s dim inside, thanks to the fact that only one row of lights seems to be working. The result is a rectangle of brightness centered near the sinks while the stalls on the other side of the bathroom sit in shadow. It also smells awful. A mix of urine and industrial cleaner that makes her gag.
Using a hand to cover her nose and mouth, Charlie retreats to one of the stalls on the dim side of the bathroom. The last one in the row, farthest away from the door. She backs herself inside and sits on the toilet, trying to think, trying to come up with some kind of plan.
She could wait. That’s certainly an option. She could stay in this bathroom, inside this stall, and not emerge until someone else arrives at the rest stop, which they’re bound to do soon. Another vehicle could be pulling into the parking lot this very second. Charlie could ask them for help and beg for a ride to the nearest police station. If they ask why, she could tell them the truth—that the man she’s with sort of, kind of, could be a serial killer.
Not a very convincing argument.
And that’s what has Charlie so on edge. If she knew with certainty that Josh was dangerous, she’d be barricading the bathroom door or running for the highway or hiding in the woods.
But nothing about the situation is certain. She could be wrong about Josh. It could all be a huge misunderstanding. Her fanciful imagination running at full gallop because her life has been a guilt-ridden train wreck for two months.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door. A single, sharp rap that startles Charlie so much that she gasps when she hears it.
Josh.
Charlie doesn’t think a woman would knock. It’s the ladies’ room. She would just walk right in. Which is exactly what happens next. Charlie hears the creak of the door opening, followed by the sound of footsteps on the sticky tile floor.
The bathroom’s lone working light starts to flicker, on the cusp of joining the others. There’s a moment of pure darkness, followed by staccato buzzes of light that continue in a strobe-like pattern.
Charlie hears a rap on the first stall in the row, as if Josh is checking to see if someone’s inside. After another quick rap, the door is opened with a rough shove. Rather than going in, he moves to the second stall, raps on the door, pushes it open.
He’s on the hunt.
For her.
Two stalls away, Charlie pulls her legs onto the toilet seat so Josh won’t be able to see them under the door. If she stays like this, completely silent and still, then maybe Josh will think she’s not in here, that she’s left without him noticing, that she simply disappeared.
Then he’ll go away.
Josh is at the third stall now. Right next to Charlie’s. The flickering lights splatter his shadow across the floor in uneven bursts that make it hard to track his precise location. It’s there for a slice of a second, then gone, then back again, only slightly closer this time.
Charlie stares at the floor, watching the stutter-start progress of the shadow as the door to the stall next door is thrown open. She clamps a hand over her mouth, trying to mute the sound of her breathing. A useless act. She fears her heartbeat alone will give her away, pounding like a drum in her chest.
Josh is now in front of her stall, his strobing shadow stretching under the door and into the stall itself, as if it’s trying to grab Charlie.
There’s a rap on the door.
Then another.
So hard it rattles the door and makes Charlie realize, with nerve-scalding horror, that she never turned the latch.
She makes a desperate grab for the lock, but it’s too late. The door swings inward, revealing Charlie crouched on top of the toilet, caught in the disco glow of the faulty lights. Standing on the other side of the now-open door is a woman. Mid-twenties. Too-tight stone-washed jeans. Bleached-blond hair with a strip of brown at the roots. She lets out a startled yelp as she jumps away from the stall.
“Shit,” the woman says. “I thought it was empty.”
Charlie remains crouched on the toilet like something feral. No wonder the woman scuttles to the sinks on the other side of the bathroom. The wide mirror above them reflects the strobing flash of the overhead fixture, making it look like she’s moving in slow motion.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Charlie says.
The woman locks eyes with her. “Looks like I scared you more.”
“I thought you were someone else.” Charlie steps down from the toilet, still uncertain. “Why were you checking all the stalls?”
“Because this is a rest stop late at night and I’m alone and I’m not an idiot.”
The woman pauses, leaving the harsh remainder of the sentence unspoken.
Like you.
The bathroom light continues to strobe. No wonder Charlie was frightened. It’s very slasher flick. Very Wes Craven. The result is that the woman is now scared of her, as if she’s the danger here. When Charlie steps out of the stall, the woman flinches.
“Did you see a guy out in the parking lot?” Charlie says. “Next to the Grand Am?”
“Yeah.” The woman, still backed against the sink, eyes the stall behind her. Charlie can tell she has to use it but is now wondering if she can wait until the next rest stop. “You with him?”
Charlie risks another step toward her. “I’m not sure I want to be. Is it possible— I mean, could you, please, give me a ride?”
“I’m only going to Bloomsburg,” the woman says.
Charlie doesn’t know where that is. She doesn’t care, as long as it’s not here.
“I don’t mind,” she says, trying to sound accommodating but edging closer to desperation. “You can drop me off somewhere and I’ll find a ride the rest of the way home.”
“Why can’t your boyfriend take you?”
“He’s not—”
My boyfriend.
That’s what Charlie wants to say.
But before she can get the words out, the bathroom door opens again and in saunters Maddy.
“Hello, darling,” she says.
Charlie watches her cross the room to the sinks, as clear and present and real as the woman in the stone-washed jeans. Maddy’s better dressed, of course. Fuchsia dress, black heels, a strand of pearls double-looped around her neck.
Maddy stands at the sinks, oblivious to the other woman in the room. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she puckers her lips before applying crimson lipstick.
“You look wretched,” she says to Charlie, smacking her lips, now red as blood. “But my coat looks fab on you.”
Charlie fingers the buttons on the coat. Big black ones that make her seem impossibly small. A little girl playing dress-up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Freshening up,” Maddy says, as if that’s a perfectly logical excuse to return from the dead. “Also, I needed to tell you something.”
Charlie doesn’t want to ask what that something is. But she does anyway. She needs to.
“Tell me what?”
“That you shouldn’t have abandoned me,” Maddy says.
Then she grabs Charlie by the hair and slams her face against the edge of the sink.
INT. REST STOP BATHROOM—NIGHT
Charlie jerks back to life, her body spasming, as if her head really had been smashed into the sink’s edge. She can still hear the ghastly sound the impact made. Bone banging off porcelain.
But there was no sound like that.
Not one that could be heard by the other woman in the bathroom. And there is only one other woman here. Maddy’s gone. Where she once stood is just
a patch of grimy tile caught in the unremitting flash of the overhead light.
Next to it, the woman in the stone-washed jeans says, “Hey. Are you okay?”
Charlie’s not sure how to answer that one. She just saw her dead best friend in the bathroom of an interstate rest stop. Of course she’s not fucking okay. But the woman didn’t see Maddy. As always, the movie in her mind played to an audience of one.
“No,” Charlie says, conceding the obvious truth.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
Charlie says it the way a drunk person would. Too loud. Too emphatic. Overcompensating in a way that makes it obviously not true, although in Charlie’s case it is. But she knows that’s not the vibe she’s giving off and tries to course correct.
“I just need to get home.”
Charlie moves to the woman. Quickly. Closing the gap between them in three big strides, which only makes things worse. The woman shrinks away, even though she’s backed all the way up against the sink with nowhere to go.
“I can’t take you.”
“Please.” Charlie reaches out to grab her sleeve, prepared to tug and beg, but thinks better of it. “I know that this is going to sound weird. But that guy out there? I’m not sure I trust him.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a chance that he might have killed people.”
Instead of surprise, the woman gives Charlie a wary look. As if this was exactly what she expected and is now disappointed to be so unsurprised.
“Might?” she says. “You don’t know?”
“I told you it was going to sound weird.”
The woman huffs. “You weren’t lying.”
“And no, I don’t know if he killed someone,” Charlie says. “But the fact that I think he might have—even a tiny, little bit—means I shouldn’t get back in the car with him, right? That I should be worried?”
The woman, done with it all, including the idea of using the stall she’d been eyeing, pushes past Charlie and heads to the door.
“If you ask me,” she says, “he should be worried about you getting back in that car. Whatever shit you’ve been drinking, I suggest switching to water. Or coffee.”