by Riley Sager
It means she won’t be bothered by other customers.
She and the girl in the red coat will have plenty of time for a long talk.
INT. DINER BATHROOM—NIGHT
The bathroom is small and windowless. A prison cell with pink walls that make Charlie think of Pepto Bismol. There’s a single stall, also pink, and a sink that’s white but stained with rust around the drain. On the wall next to the soap dispenser is a sign.
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS.
Charlie yanks off her coat and holds it up to examine the damage in the wan light coming from a UFO-shaped fixture in the ceiling.
The stain is both big and noticeable. A dark splotch roughly the same shape as the state of Texas. Tears burn in Charlie’s eyes as she sees how deeply the tea has seeped into the fabric. And even though she sees the irony that this, of all things, is what’s going to make her lose it tonight, she also understands why.
This coat, so not her style in any way, is the only reminder of Maddy she has left. Now it’s, if not completely ruined, at least damaged. She can wear it again—and there’s no doubt she will—but it will be just like her memories of Maddy.
Irrevocably marred.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, followed quickly by the smoke-scarred voice of Marge the waitress.
“You okay in there, hon?”
“I’m fine,” Charlie says, not knowing why, because no, everything isn’t fine. Everything is about as far from fine as it can get.
“I brought you a washcloth and some club soda,” Marge says. “In case you need it.”
Charlie opens the bathroom door, and Marge slinks in with an apologetic look on her face. She takes the coat from Charlie, goes to the sink, and, tut-tutting at her own handiwork, pours club soda over the stain and starts to dab.
“I feel awful,” she says. “Just awful. Give me your address before you go. I’ll mail you a check and you can buy yourself a nice new coat.”
Charlie doesn’t have the heart to tell Marge that the coat is almost as old as she is and therefore can’t be easily replaced. Nor does she tell the waitress that she doesn’t even particularly like the coat, that she only wears it because it reminds her of Maddy.
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” she says. “But it’s not necessary. Accidents happen.”
“Not on my watch. Been doing this for decades and I can count on one hand the number of times I spilled something on a customer. Such a pretty coat, too.” Marge flips it open and checks the label. “Pierre Balmain. Fancy.”
“It was given to me by a friend,” Charlie says.
“That’s some generous friend.”
“She was,” Charlie says. “I just didn’t appreciate it enough at the time.”
Charlie wills herself not to cry. Not here. Not in a crappy diner bathroom in front of a stranger. But she can’t stop thinking about how much Maddy would have loved this place. So unironically retro. She would have gabbed with Marge and played Peggy Lee on the jukebox and laughed like mad when she saw the dolls sign on the ladies’ room door. Imagining herself here with Maddy instead of with Josh makes the tears pooling in Charlie’s eyes keep coming. When one escapes down her cheek, she quickly wipes it away.
At the sink, Marge dribbles some more seltzer on the coat and resumes dabbing at it. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Marge says, not even trying to hide her surprise. “I’ve met a lot of Charlies in my day, but none of them looked like you. Family name?”
“Kind of,” Charlie says.
“That’s nice. Family’s important. It’s everything, if you ask me.”
Marge pauses, seemingly reluctant to say what else is on her mind, which Charlie assumes to be a first. The waitress doesn’t strike her as someone who holds back or minces words.
“Listen, Charlie, I know I should mind my own damn business, but is everything okay? I saw you out there with your friend, and you seemed, well, a little distressed.”
“Little” is the only part of the sentence that surprises Charlie. She’s a lot distressed, especially in her current state of being perched on the razor’s edge between fear and anger. That’s another surprise—how mad she got at the table. It was a new feeling for her. Since Maddy died, she’d only been mad at herself.
But Josh has certainly earned her ire, even though she’s also scared shitless in his presence, terrified by what he’s done and what he still might do. Charlie never knew one could be both furious and frightened at the same time. Now she does, and the result is what Marge saw back at the table.
Distress.
“Like I said, it’s none of my business, but is he—” Marge pauses, trying to be delicate. “Is he treating you okay?”
Charlie knows she could—and should—tell her about Josh. Marge would believe her. Watching the waitress furiously dab at her coat, worry wrinkles joining her regular ones, Charlie begins to doubt the spill at the table was an accident. Marge is a pro, and that was a rookie mistake. It’s more likely she saw Charlie looking distressed, got worried for her, and devised a way to get them alone. Now that they are, all Charlie needs to do is tell her what’s going on, ask to use the diner’s phone, and call the police without Josh ever knowing a thing. Then this long, horrible night will be over.
But it might already be over. It all depends on if Josh is serious about leaving her behind. Charlie doubts he is. Josh has been dishonest all night. Why stop now? Either way, it doesn’t mean she should get Marge involved. Doing so might make things worse. If Josh isn’t planning on leaving her behind and does get wind that Charlie told Marge about her suspicions, it could put both of them in danger.
Charlie doesn’t want that. Marge is a good person. A nice person. And nice people shouldn’t be mixed up in what she’s going through.
“I’m just tired,” she says. “It’s been a long drive.”
“I understand,” Marge says. “Especially this time of night. All I’m saying is, you’re welcome to stay here awhile. If you don’t feel safe with him.”
“I’m fine,” Charlie says. “Really.”
Marge gives the coat two more dabs before studying the result. “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like the club soda worked.”
She holds up the coat, revealing only a wet patch where the tea stain had been. Handing it back to Charlie, she says, “Give it a little while to dry and it should look like new.”
Charlie examines the wet spot. The wool there is now pilled slightly and specked with bits of lint from the washcloth, but she’s okay with that. Maddy would have said it added character.
Marge pauses by the door. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with all those questions.”
“I know. And you didn’t. Everything’s fine.”
“I was just looking out for you,” Marge says. “Women need to do that, you know. Look out for each other. There’s a special place in hell for those who don’t.”
“I appreciate it,” Charlie says. “I really do. But I’m doing great. Thank you for cleaning my coat.”
Marge nods and slips out of the bathroom. “Anytime, sweetie.”
Left alone, Charlie slips into the coat and stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, shocked by how pale she looks. Like Greta Garbo. That’s another one of Nana Norma’s sayings. You’re as pale as Garbo.
In this case, it’s true, although it looked good on an icy beauty like Greta Garbo. Charlie just looks sickly, as if she’s going to pass out. She assumes that’s because she is. Her legs are weak and wobbly, and her vision comes in and out of focus, thanks to the tears. Charlie wouldn’t be surprised if, at any second, she crumpled to the floor. Considering the night she’s having, who could blame her?
Staring at the ghost of who she had once been, Charlie assures herself she did the right thing by not telling Marge t
he truth about Josh. It’s better this way. Now only one of them is in danger.
She also knows it’s a lie. Just like thinking that no one will believe her if she tried to get help. Or that Josh will charm and fib his way out of it. Or that he has no intention of leaving without her, despite flat-out stating he does.
They’re all lies.
Ones different from what Josh has been feeding her all night, but lies nonetheless. Meager excuses to hide the truth: that part of her doesn’t want to get away from Josh.
Not just yet.
Charlie had left home with only a vague understanding about all the dangers young women face. Youngstown wasn’t Mayberry. Bad things happened there all the time. Date rape and abuse and a hundred tiny threats directed at women. But Charlie hadn’t given them much thought. Not even after her high school health teacher did a lesson on sexual assault. Or on the day she left for Olyphant and Nana Norma gave her that tiny pink bottle of pepper spray. Or during the self-defense class every female Olyphant student had to take the week of orientation.
It took Maddy being killed for her to understand the brutal truth that there are men out there who won’t hesitate to hurt women.
Men like Josh.
After Maddy’s murder, Charlie had assumed there was nothing she could do about it. She loved Maddy and Maddy loved her and they would have been friends forever, no matter what Robbie thought. But then she was gone and all that remained was a burning rage. So Charlie internalized it and blamed herself.
For leaving Maddy behind.
For telling her to fuck off as she departed.
For not being able to identify Josh after she saw him outside the bar.
She blamed herself and hated herself and punished herself because that’s what women are taught to do. Blame themselves. Blame the victims. Tell themselves that since the Angela Dunleavys and Taylor Morrisons and Madeline Forresters of the world had sat through the same lessons on assault, received the same tiny bottles of pepper spray, and endured the same self-defense classes, it must have been their fault they were attacked. Or raped. Or killed.
No one tells women that none of it is their fault. That the blame falls squarely on the awful men who do terrible things and the fucked-up society that raises them, molds them, makes excuses for them. People don’t want to admit that there are monsters in their midst, so the monsters continue to roam free and the cycle of violence and blame continues.
A thought pops into Charlie’s brain, so sudden and jolting she can actually hear it. A light click at the back of her head as her synapses explode like fireworks.
If Josh leaves, she’ll be safe. But nothing will stop him from hurting someone else. Someone like Maddy. The world is full of them. And none of them are safe while Josh roams free.
Marge was right. There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. Charlie knows it well, having spent the past two months dwelling there. Now it’s time to get the fuck out.
Something in Charlie’s chest begins to harden.
Her heart.
Shattered after Maddy died, it’s now being put back together, its jagged pieces fitting into place, bound together by anger.
Another look in the mirror confirms it. She is changing. Her face has gained some color. A pink flush—brighter than the bathroom walls—spreads across her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
Like her heart, her eyes have also hardened. Where once she had seen only despair, Charlie now sees a flicker of fire.
She feels bold.
Fearless.
Dangerous.
Wrapped in Maddy’s red coat, she feels almost possessed by all the tough women she’s admired in movies. Stanwyck in Double Indemnity. Hayworth in The Lady from Shanghai. Crawford in, well, everything. The kind of women men don’t know if they want to kiss or kill. Women who claw and scrape through life because they have to.
Now it’s Charlie’s turn.
She’s no longer the scared, self-loathing girl she was when she left campus. She’s something else.
A fucking femme fatale.
She’s going to leave this bathroom, then the diner, and get back into the car with Josh.
She doesn’t know how and doesn’t know when, but she’s going to make him pay for what he’s done.
And she intends to enjoy it.
“Charlie?”
INT. DINER BATHROOM—NIGHT
Charlie shudders back to the present at the sound of her name. It’s Marge, who punctuates it with a rap on the door.
“Everything still okay in there?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Charlie says. “Just freshening up.”
She checks her reflection in the mirror. She’s still the pale, fragile wraith she was when she walked in. All the tough personas she wore in the movie in her mind have peeled off like snakeskin. The only similarity between that Charlie and the one she sees before her now is the understanding that she can’t let Josh leave.
Not alone.
She’s not sure if she actually thought that or if it was part of the mental movie. She assumes it doesn’t really matter, seeing how it came from her brain either way. A realization is still a realization, even if its delivery is unorthodox.
And the realization consuming Charlie is that Josh needs to be stopped. And she’s the one who must do it. She can’t rely on the hopeful notion that Robbie called the police and that any second now a cop will show up and arrest Josh.
Nor can she enlist kindhearted Marge for help. The waitress might be quick with a cup of scalding-hot tea, but that means nothing when Josh has a knife within reach.
Earlier, Charlie had toyed with the idea that fate is what led her into Josh’s car. She assumed it was punishment for how she’d treated Maddy. But now Charlie suspects that if fate did have a hand in creating the situation, it’s for an entirely different purpose.
Not punishment.
Redemption.
Right now, Charlie has a chance to clear her conscience. The guilt that’s consumed her for two months could be gone in an instant. Her slate thoroughly wiped clean. All she needs to do is make sure Josh doesn’t ride off alone.
She owes it to herself.
And to Maddy.
And to Maddy’s family. And to the other women Josh has killed. And to those he might kill in the future if she lets him get away.
But she’s not going to let that happen.
She’s going to leave this bathroom, then the diner, and get back into the car with Josh.
It’s not smart. It’s not careful. It’s probably not even brave. Right now, it doesn’t really matter. It’s what Charlie feels she must do. And at this point, she has nothing left to lose.
She takes one last look in the mirror, hoping to see that her eyes have hardened just like they did in the movie in her mind. On the contrary, they’re moist and red at the edges. No hardness there. Her whole body, in fact, feels soft and vulnerable. But that doesn’t keep Charlie from flinging open the bathroom door and stepping back out into the main part of the diner.
Josh is still at the table. He leans over his coffee cup, staring into it, waiting for her return as the jukebox plays the last notes of a Rolling Stones song.
“Sympathy for the Devil.”
Ironic, seeing how a devil currently occupies the corner booth. And he’s anything but sympathetic.
Charlie pauses at the jukebox and flips through the selections. Classic rock, mostly, but a few current songs by Bryan Adams, Mariah Carey, and, to Josh at least, the twin scourges of Amy Grant and Paula Abdul. Charlie considers playing the two of them back to back, just to irritate him. A different idea forms when she sees another song. One she absolutely has to play.
She drops one of the quarters Josh gave her for the pay phone into the jukebox and enters the record number. A second later, music fills the din
er.
A guitar riff she’s heard twice before that night.
“Come as You Are.”
Josh lifts his head when he hears it. Slowly. Like a movie villain who knows he’s just been found out. Raymond Burr in Rear Window when he realizes he’s caught in Jimmy Stewart’s telephoto lens.
He turns his head a little bit, listening, making sure his ears aren’t deceiving him.
“Great song, isn’t it?” Charlie says as she slides back into the booth. “Do you want to wait until it’s over? Or should we leave now?”
“We?”
Charlie swallows, knowing she’s about to cross some invisible threshold that might forever change the course of her life. It might even end up getting her killed. But there’s no avoiding it.
She can’t wait for others to stop Josh.
She needs to do it herself.
Even though she has no idea how.
“Yeah,” she says. “As in you and me getting into your car and driving to Ohio like you agreed to do.”
“That’s not happening,” Josh says. “And I already explained why, Charlie.”
“And I’m explaining that you’re not going to get rid of me so easily.” Charlie’s body hums with fear as she talks. She’s doing this. She’s actually going ahead with it. “Here’s the way I see it. The situation hasn’t changed. I need to get home. You can get me there. Now, we can stop wasting time and leave or we can wait until the police get here.”
“What police?”
“The ones that my boyfriend called after I used that code you were so smart to pick up on,” Charlie says, even though she has no clue if Robbie did any such thing. She assumes that if he had, a cop would have shown up by now.
Josh goes quiet, no doubt replaying the conversation at the pay phone in his head. Charlie knows he was listening. It’s why she chose her words so carefully. Now Josh is wondering what, exactly, those words could have meant.