by Riley Sager
So he dials *69 to call back the last number that called him.
He keeps pacing as the phone rings.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Five minutes ago, he’d been sound asleep, lost in a dream he can no longer remember.
Then the phone on his nightstand rang, yanking him like a fishhook back to the present. He took his sweet time answering, resentful of the phone for waking him, even though he knew it was likely Charlie checking in like he asked her to do. He was tempted to ignore it and just let the phone keep ringing. Because Charlie was right. They were going from New Jersey to Ohio. As boring a drive as exists in this country.
But that’s not the only reason Robbie was slow to answer. Charlie had left him, after all. Not officially. But Robbie knows that’s what’s happening. A long, slow, painful uncoupling as opposed to a clean break. And he spent the rest of the night feeling sad and self-pitying about that.
So when the phone rang and he assumed it was Charlie, a petty, wounded part of him didn’t want to pick up. He thought that maybe if he let the call go unanswered, Charlie might think he wasn’t home. That he was out at one of Olyphant’s many off-campus bars, chatting up one of the many drunk co-eds all too willing to go home with him. And that if she thought that, it would make her jealous. And that if she was jealous, then she might also start to miss him. And that if she missed him enough, then maybe she’d decide to come back to him.
Robbie ended up answering—as he knew he would.
Charlie was too special to ignore.
So he grabbed the phone and said hello and prepared himself for a quick check-in and maybe some awkward small talk. He certainly didn’t expect what came next. That dire code he had devised as a joke.
Things took a detour.
At first, he thought Charlie was kidding. A bit of movie-based humor to signify she still loved him and was still thinking about him. But then Charlie said, “I’m serious,” and everything changed.
So now he’s here, pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Meanwhile the phone keeps ringing and he keeps hoping that Charlie will pick up and tell him it was all just a joke, that everything is fine, that it’s smooth sailing, sweetheart.
When the fifth ring goes unanswered, Robbie ends the call, stops pacing, decides on another course of action.
He dials 411. Trusty, reliable information. This time, someone answers. Robbie gives them the name of the diner Charlie told him she was at, says it’s somewhere in Pennsylvania, and asks where, exactly, it might be located. The operator, God bless her, comes through in a jiff.
Monroe County. Peak Township. Dead River Road.
“Do you also have the phone number for the Peak Township police department handy?” Robbie says.
The operator does. She connects them. Two rings later he’s on the phone with a local dispatcher.
“I’m worried about my girlfriend,” he says. “I think she’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she there with you?”
“No,” Robbie says. “She’s in the Poconos. In your town. At a diner called the Skyline Grille.”
“She contacted you from there?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say she was in danger?”
“Not explicitly,” Robbie says. “She had to be vague. There’s a man with her. I think he was listening in. They were supposed to be driving to Ohio together and they got off the interstate and now they’re at a diner.”
The dispatcher’s voice, so calm and efficient seconds earlier, sours into skepticism. “Sir, that’s hardly an emergency.”
“It is,” Robbie says.
Charlie told him to watch Shadow of a Doubt, which he assumed was another code. The main character’s name was Charlie, for God’s sake. And since that Charlie had figured out her uncle was a killer, Robbie took it to mean that his Charlie learned the same thing about the man she was riding with.
“Please believe me,” he says. “This guy she’s with, she doesn’t know him. And I think she’s afraid of him. I think she could be in real danger. Could you please just send a cop over there to see if she’s okay?”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” the dispatcher says, her voice softening again.
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
“Yes,” Robbie says. “It’s a long story.”
“Sir, this whole call has been a long story.” The dispatcher sighs. “I’ll try to send an officer there to check things out.”
Robbie hangs up without thanking her, a bit of rudeness that he assumes can be excused, considering the circumstances. Besides, she merely said she’d try to send a cop to the diner, which means it might not happen soon. Or at all. And Charlie could be in danger right now.
He gets dressed, throwing on a T-shirt, socks, and shoes, opting not to switch out his sweatpants for jeans. On his way out the door, he grabs his coat, his wallet, and his cars keys.
He needs to do more than stay here, pacing back and forth, back and forth, hoping Charlie will call him again.
He needs to act.
And with a lot of miles between the two of them, there’s no time to waste.
INT. DINER—NIGHT
The jukebox is still playing when they return indoors, although Don McLean’s no longer saying bye, bye to Miss American Pie and the Beatles are instead saying hey to Jude. At Josh’s overly polite insistence, Charlie enters first, marching inside feeling both defeated and frightened.
That didn’t go at all like she planned. Now she has no idea what to do next. The only other option, short of running out of the diner and hoping Josh doesn’t catch up to her, is to tell Marge.
Which isn’t much of an option at all.
Marge, despite a formidable combo of tip-garnering sass and grandmotherly concern, is no match for Josh. He’d hurt her, if he needed to. And then he’d hurt Charlie. And then it would be over.
As for the cook, Charlie hasn’t even seen him. Unless he’s a former professional wrestler, she doubts he’s going to be much help.
She returns to the table because, for now, it’s all she can do. She’ll tuck herself into the booth, pretend to not be terrified out of her mind, and try to come up with a new plan. Meanwhile, she’ll continue to hope that Robbie got the hint and called the police and that in five minutes this place will be swarming with cops.
Outside, the pay phone begins to ring. Charlie hears it, sounding tinny through the window’s glass. Josh hears it, too, and gives her a questioning look.
“You expecting a call?”
The phone rings a second time.
“No,” Charlie says.
Third ring.
“You sure?” Josh says. “Maybe you should go answer it.”
Fourth ring.
Charlie stares at it, knowing it’s Robbie using *69 to call her back. She’s certain because it’s exactly what she would do if their roles were reversed.
Fifth ring.
Josh starts to slide out of the booth. “Fine. I guess I’ll do it.”
“No,” Charlie says, reaching across the table to grab Josh’s forearm. It’s thick, the muscles taut. She assumes the rest of him is the same way. Strong. Stronger than her. She lets go, her hand slithering back across the table and into her lap.
Outside, the phone has gone silent.
“Too late,” Josh says. “We missed him.”
“It wasn’t my boyfriend,” Charlie says.
“Sure,” Josh says, unconvinced. “Whatever you say.”
They sit in silence, Charlie eyeing her scalding hot cup of tea while Josh alternates sips of Coke and coffee. Eventually, Marge emerges from the back of the diner with their food.
“Soup’s on,” she says cheerily, placing their plates in front of them. “Eat up before it gets cold.”
Charlie stares at the plate of French fries, which glisten with grease. The sight of them makes her stomach do a sickly flip. Across from her, Josh tucks his napkin into his shirt collar like he’s a farmer at a picnic. He grabs his utensils—a fork and a surprisingly sharp steak knife—and looks at the food on his plate. A circle of meat smothered with gravy, creamed corn, and a clump of gray stuff that Charlie assumes is supposed to be mashed potatoes. Josh lowers the fork but keeps the knife in hand.
“Something’s been bugging me,” he says. “Outside, when you were on the phone, talking to your friend.”
“Boyfriend,” Charlie says, hoping those three extra letters make a difference. She thinks they might. They mean there’s someone out there who seriously cares about her. Someone who’ll be angry if something should happen to her.
Josh nods. “Boyfriend. Right. When you were talking to him, were you using some sort of code?”
Charlie picks up a French fry and takes a nervous bite. She washes it down with still-too-hot tea. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. ‘Things took a detour’? No one talks that way. In the movies, maybe, but not in real life.”
Charlie should have known how ridiculous she sounded on the phone. Because he’s right. No one talks that way and Josh saw right through it, which is why he now stares at her across the table, a steak knife still gripped in his fist. He holds it with the blade aimed her way, the light glinting off its tip, letting her see how sharp it is, how easy it would be to sink into her flesh.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she says, which is the truth. She’s not sure if Josh wants an explanation, an apology, or simply a reason to shove that knife into her heart.
“You don’t need to say anything. I just think it would be nice to admit it.”
“Admit what?”
Josh reaches across the table, grabs one of her fries, and pops it into his mouth. “That you’re still scared of me.”
Charlie scans the diner, hoping to see Marge or the cook or even a couple of other patrons come inside. But it’s still just her and Josh.
And the knife.
That sharp, glinting extension of his hand.
Josh catches her looking at it and says, “You shouldn’t be scared, is what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not going to hurt you, Charlie. We’re friends, right? Or at least friendly.”
He lowers the knife, as if to prove his friendliness. It doesn’t make Charlie feel any better. Nothing about the situation has changed. They’re still alone, and Josh is still the Campus Killer.
“Listen,” he says. “I think it’s best if we don’t do this anymore. I think that maybe, once I’m done eating, you should stay here.”
Charlie does a little headshake, thinking she misheard him. “What?”
“You should stay here. I get back in the car, drive off, and you find another way to get home.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” Josh leans back in the booth, his hands up and palms open, like a magician showing there are no more tricks up his sleeve. “I mean, I don’t like the thought of just ditching you here. But you clearly don’t trust me. And while I’m hurt by that, I also understand that you’ve been through some hard times. Your friend being killed and all that. It would make anyone suspicious. I’m happy to have taken you this far. Now it’s time for us to part ways.”
Charlie sits in utter silence, not moving, not even blinking.
He’s lying.
She can’t help but think that.
He isn’t really offering to simply go away and leave her alone, no questions asked. That doesn’t make any sense, therefore it must be false.
On the flip side, she wonders if maybe he’s being serious. That, through some small miracle she’ll never understand, Josh really is letting her go. Maybe he’s decided she’s not worth the risk or the effort. Or that he’s bored with toying with her. Or that he’s taking pity on her.
“So you’re letting me go? Just like that?”
“Letting you go makes it sound like I’ve been holding you hostage,” Josh says. “That’s never been the case. I didn’t force you into my car. You got in all on your own.”
Charlie doesn’t see it that way. Yes, she eagerly accepted a ride from Josh, but only because she was desperate to get away and he told all the right lies. And he continued to lie so she’d stay in the car long after she suspected who he was and what he’d done. So even though she was far from forced into his Grand Am, she was definitely deceived into it.
Part of her thinks she’s still being deceived. That, instead of a movie in her mind, this is Josh toying with her some more. Getting her hopes up and then enjoying her crushed reaction when he snatches it all away.
A patch of heat forms on the back of her neck. An angry prickle. It matches her mood. Having been gaslit all night, she’s nothing if not prickly. As for anger, Charlie can feel it spreading just as quickly as the warm spot on her neck.
She’s tired of being lied to.
Tired of being deceived.
Tired of being so fucking sad all the time.
Tired of feeling guilty and confused and living a life so pathetic that she has to make imaginary movies in her head just to be able to cope.
Charlie’s so tired that she’s tempted to tell Josh she knows everything. She’s struck with an overwhelming urge to shatter the good-guy facade he’s created and watch the pieces fall away, revealing the monster behind the mask. She almost does it, too. Her jaw unclenches and her tongue loosens, ready to unleash the truth.
But then Marge appears, coming through the swinging door with a pot of coffee. “Let me top that off for you, handsome,” she says, even though Josh hasn’t taken more than a few sips.
She fills the cup to the brim and pulls back, her elbow moving across the table. Charlie watches its progress, the elbow as sharp and spindly as the knife discarded next to Josh’s plate. It keeps moving, even after it hits Charlie’s teacup.
The rest is as quick as it is inevitable.
Elbow moving.
Teacup sliding.
Both not stopping until the cup is knocked off the table and the tea spills over Charlie’s red coat.
Charlie leaps from her seat, dripping tea that, while no longer scalding, is still hot enough to sting through her wet clothes. Marge backs away, aghast, one age-spotted hand to her mouth while the other continues to grip the coffeepot.
“Aw, shit,” she says. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Charlie slides out of the booth, pressing her napkin to the front of the coat.
“It’s fine,” she says, more relieved than angry. Marge’s accident gives her a chance to get up, to get away from Josh, to regroup. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Marge points to a small alcove next to the swinging door. “Right there, hon.”
Charlie makes a beeline toward it, the napkin still pressed to her coat even though it’s now so soaked that tea squishes between her fingers. Inside the alcove, she sees two doors, one marked guys and the other, disconcertingly, dolls. She pushes the door open and rushes inside, not bothering to take one last look at Josh.
Even though this is the perfect time for him to, as he put it, part ways, Charlie has a feeling he’s not going anywhere.
When she returns from the bathroom, he’ll still be waiting for her.
INT. DINER—NIGHT
Marge swore she wasn’t going to intervene, even though she sensed trouble the moment they entered the diner. It was clear from their body language that something wasn’t right with the two of them. The girl in the red coat looked scared and the man she was with looked surly. Never a good combo in Marge’s experience.
Yet she h
eld her tongue, which has gotten her in trouble more often than not. She only speaks up when she’s truly concerned, like when that other couple left still three sheets to the wind. They didn’t listen to her—people their age never do—but she had to say something, even if it was just to keep her conscience clean. She offered advice. They ignored her. Whatever happens after that isn’t her concern.
And these two were none of her business. They looked to Marge like a couple that just had a fight in the car and needed to stop somewhere to decompress. She sees it all the time.
Concern didn’t truly set in until she took the surly-looking man’s order.
“What’s your blue-plate special?”
Marge was watching the girl when he said it, thinking about how she looked like a hostage and how much that fact worried her. Then the girl went to the pay phone and he followed her out, like some kind of stalker, afraid that his prey was going to run away. Yet another reason for concern.
After that, Marge knew she absolutely had to do something, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She couldn’t help herself. Standing back and doing nothing just isn’t in her nature.
So she grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, flexing her elbow in the process. They were pointy, her elbows. Marge knew it because she’d been told so her entire marriage. Howard, bless his dearly departed heart, always complained that she elbowed him in her sleep. “Damn, Marge,” he used to say, “do you use a pencil sharpener on those things before you go to bed?”
She can only imagine what he’d say now that the cancer has whittled her down to nothing but skin and bones.
Pot in hand, Marge went back to that corner booth and put one of those pointy elbows to use. She hated to do it, knocking over the cup of tea like that. Especially on that pretty red coat. But the way Marge sees it, she didn’t have a choice. She needed to get the girl alone. And so she did.
Now the girl is in the bathroom and Marge is grabbing a clean washcloth from the kitchen, which is stacked with dirty plates because she told the high school boy who usually washes the dishes not to come in. It’s a Tuesday night in November. There’s no crowd beating down the door. Which is a good thing, Marge thinks as she grabs a bottle of club soda from the mini fridge under the fountain drinks.