by Riley Sager
Opening the door a crack, she looks inside. The only lights she sees come from the dessert case, the pies within still aglow, still spinning, and the jukebox. All the booths are empty. Chairs have been placed upside down on the counter. Under her feet, the floor glistens with moisture. It’s just been mopped.
“Hello?”
Charlie pauses, hoping for a response. When none comes, she steps inside and says, “Please. I need help.”
She turns to the booth she and Josh occupied a mere hour ago, shocked by how much can change in that short span of time. Sixty minutes ago, she was just a scared college student. Now she’s a killer.
Charlie hears a noise from the rear of the diner, just behind the door to the kitchen. She whirls around to see the door swinging open as Marge pushes through it, still in her uniform. In her hand is a wet rag. She sees Charlie and stops just beyond the door, surprised.
“Charlie?” she says. “Sweetie, what happened?”
Charlie can only imagine how she looks to the waitress.
Panting.
Sweaty.
Bloody.
“Josh,” she says. “He attacked me. And I—I stabbed him.”
A bony hand flies to Marge’s mouth. “Are you okay?”
Charlie’s body answers for her. Her legs, numb from shock and fear and all that running, buckle. The rest of her sways. At first a little, then a lot. A sudden, shocking tilt during which she manages to blurt out a complete sentence.
“I think we should call the police.”
“Of course,” Marge says, rushing toward her. “Of course, of course.”
Charlie’s still tilting when Marge reaches her and shuffles behind her, out of view. At first, she thinks the waitress is trying to keep her upright. But then one of Marge’s hands clamps over her nose and mouth.
In that hand is the rag she was holding, now wet against Charlie’s skin, stinking of mildew and something else. Something strong that makes Charlie twitch and grow dizzy.
The tilting continues. The diner doesn’t spin so much as fade, the walls, the floor, the ceiling all turning to mist. The jukebox is the last to go. Its colored lights flare like a match just before it’s blown out.
Then it, too, is gone.
ONE A.M.
INT. DORM ROOM—DAY
Charlie wakes up in bed.
Her bed.
The one in her dorm room at Olyphant. She knows this without even opening her eyes because of the way it sags in the center like a hammock, which always helped her sleep better even though it meant she’d wake with her lower back throbbing.
There’s no throb now, though. She feels like she’s floating. Not in the bed but slightly above it, hovering like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
Someone else is there. Standing by the bed. Smelling like cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5.
Maddy.
“Wakey wakey,” she says.
Charlie’s eyes flutter open as she takes in the welcome sight of her friend. Maddy’s wearing a Chanel suit. A classic. The kind Jackie Kennedy wore in Dallas, only hers is lime green and the fabric on the sleeve is pilled. In one white-gloved hand is a glass of champagne. The other holds a plate topped with a slice of cake.
“Happy birthday, Charlie.”
Maddy smiles.
Wide.
Her red lips curdle into a grimace that reveals a dark space where one of her canine teeth should be. It’s still bleeding—a steady trickle that overflows Maddy’s bottom lip and spills down her chin before dripping onto the cake in crimson dollops.
INT. DINER—NIGHT
Charlie wakes with a start.
Not in bed. Not in her dorm room.
She’s in a wooden chair. Creaky. Uncomfortable. Its ramrod-straight back forces her to sit unnaturally upright, her spine pinched from the effort. She tries to slouch but can’t. It’s as if she’s been glued to the chair.
It isn’t until she tries to move her arms that she notices they’ve been strapped down with ropes. They wind around her wrists and the chair’s arms, binding them together, the ropes so tight they dig into her skin and cut off the circulation in her hands. Her fingers have turned white. She wiggles them but feels nothing.
It’s the same with her toes, thanks to rope around her ankles, lashing her legs to the chair.
More rope winds around her upper body in two spots—just under her rib cage and again at the base of her neck. It’s so tight that she struggles to breath. Panic fills her like water, threatening to drown her.
“Help!” she yells, her voice gurgling, like there really is water in her lungs. “Someone please help me!”
Marge speaks in the darkness, her voice husky, hushed.
“No one can hear you, sweetie. No one but me.”
A light is switched on. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling that casts a bright, unsparing light on her surroundings.
A small room.
Perfectly square.
Along the walls, shelves stretch from floor to ceiling. Filling them are cans and boxes and cartons and bins. Marge leans against one of the shelves, watching her.
“Welcome back,” she says.
Through the doorway behind her, Charlie can see a walk-in refrigerator on the other side of a narrow hallway. Its door is shut tight, a steady hum muffled behind it. To the right of the fridge is a stack of wooden crates, beyond which Charlie can see a sliver of kitchen.
She’s still in the diner.
She has no idea why.
Charlie struggles beneath her restraints, the chair bucking. “What’s going on?” she says.
“It’s best if you stay quiet,” Marge says.
That’s not going to happen. Not while Charlie’s tied to a chair in what looks to be a storeroom.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, but it’s not too late to stop. You can just let me go and I’ll leave and never tell anyone.”
That idea doesn’t go over well with Marge. The waitress scowls and thrusts a hand into her apron pocket.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Charlie says.
“I don’t know yet,” Marge replies. “Maybe. That depends on you.”
Charlie doesn’t know what to do with that information. It sits in her brain like a rock in a stream—heavy and immobile, even though the current swirls all around it.
“What do you want from me?”
A circle of light forms on the refrigerator behind Marge, growing larger. Charlie assumes it’s from a car pulling into the parking lot, its high beams shining through the round window in the door leading to the main dining room. That would put the door and dining room to their left. Good to know for when Charlie tries to escape. If she gets the chance. The ropes around her remain tight no matter how much she strains against them.
The light on the fridge vanishes.
Charlie hears—or thinks she hears—a car door slowly opening. She’s only certain when she hears a telltale slam two seconds later.
Definitely a car door.
Someone’s out there.
And from the look of concern that crosses Marge’s face, she’s not expecting whoever it is.
Charlie’s heart pounds in her ears. This could be help. It could mean rescue. She opens her mouth to scream, but Marge is upon her before she can let it out, stuffing a dish towel into her mouth. It tastes faintly like dish soap. Enough to make Charlie gag as Marge connects the ends of the towel in a tight knot at the back of her head.
Out front, someone tries the diner’s front door, finding it locked. Undeterred, whoever it is raps on the glass.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Charlie gasps beneath the dish towel, sending more soap taste against the back of her throat.
She’d recognize that voice from a mile away.
Robbie.
“Hello?” he calls again, punctuating it with another knock on the door.
Charlie goes completely silent and still, wondering if she’s mistaken. There’s no way it could be Robbie. It must be someone else. The police. A hungry motorist. Anyone but her boyfriend, who would have needed to drive more than an hour to get here. She’s proven wrong when the person outside calls, “Charlie? Are you in there?”
It is Robbie.
Charlie thinks: He’s here to rescue her.
She thinks: He can easily overpower Marge.
She thinks: In a few seconds, this will all be over.
But then another thought emerges, one less hopeful than the others.
She thinks: Right now—this very moment—could be another movie in her mind. It doesn’t matter that Marge also hears him, her lips forming an irritated scowl. That might also just be part of the movie. Irrational hope projected onto the backs of her eyelids.
Robbie calls her name again, prompting Marge to reach into her apron pocket and remove what she’s been hiding there.
A pistol.
It’s small. Almost dainty. There’s ivory at the handle and a polished shine to the slate-gray barrel.
“Make one sound,” Marge whispers, “and I’ll shoot him.”
She leaves the storeroom and pushes into the dining room. Left alone, Charlie feels hope and fear collide in her chest as, silent behind the makeshift gag, she listens to Marge unlock the front door and open it just a crack.
“Sorry,” Marge says, using her sassy-yet-weary waitress voice. “We’re closed.”
Charlie pictures her standing by the dessert case, the gun hidden in her apron as Robbie tries to peer around her, deeper into the diner.
“Was there a girl here earlier?” Robbie says.
“Lots of girls come here, hon.”
“How many were here tonight?”
“Can’t say I was keeping count.”
Charlie’s tempted to make noise, whether it’s screaming into her gag or toppling the chair or trying to throw herself against one of the shelves. She knows Robbie could easily overpower Marge. He’s got her beat by several inches and probably fifty pounds of muscle. The only thing keeping her silent is the gun.
Before tonight, Charlie wouldn’t have believed that someone like Marge was capable of doing harm. But in the span of a few hours she now knows better. Now she knows that ordinary people are capable of violent, vicious deeds. Look at her, for example. She just plunged a knife into a man’s stomach and left him to die.
So, no, she’s not going to test Marge. She’s going to stay silent and still because she refuses to let Robbie get hurt. Charlie has enough regret for one lifetime. She can’t take any more.
“My girlfriend called me from here earlier tonight,” Robbie says. “About two hours ago.”
“Are you sure she was calling from here, hon? There’s lots of places like this around here.”
“Yes,” Robbie says. “She referred to it by name. The Skyline Grille. She told me she was in danger.”
“What kind of danger?”
“She didn’t say. But I know she was here and in trouble and I—” Robbie, flirting with sounding hysterical, stops to collect himself. “I haven’t heard from her since, and I’m very worried about her.”
“What does she look like?” Marge asks, as if she doesn’t already know.
“She’s young. Twenty. Brown hair. Pale complexion. Her name is Charlie, and she would have been wearing a red coat.”
“Now I remember her,” Marge says. “Pretty girl. Friendly. Told me goodbye on her way out the door. She was here with another fella. Big guy. Good-looking.”
“But they’re gone now?”
“There’s no one here but me, sweetie.”
Robbie pauses, thinking. Even without being able to see him, Charlie knows he’s got his head lowered and the thumb of his right hand running along his bottom lip. His usual lost-in-thought pose.
“Did she look scared in any way?” he says. “Or like she appeared to be in danger?”
“Not from what I can recall,” Marge says. “They weren’t here long. Just ordered some food and some drinks, scarfed it down, and left.”
“Did you see what kind of car they were in?” Robbie asks. “Or what direction they went?”
“I didn’t. I was in the kitchen when they left. Came back to an empty table. They paid the check and left.”
A shout forms in the back of Charlie’s throat, rising upward, threatening to slip free. She’s lying! it wants to yell. I’m here! I’m right here!
She forces the words back down, even though Robbie’s now preparing to leave.
“If she comes back, could you tell her Robbie is looking for her?” he says.
“I will,” Marge says. “But I won’t be here for much longer. I’m fixing to leave myself in a few minutes. Sorry I couldn’t be more of a help.”
“It’s fine,” Robbie says. “Thank you for your time.”
“No problem, hon. Hope you get in touch with her real soon.”
Charlie hears the door close, the lock being snapped into place, the start of a car engine. The circle of light appears on the fridge door again before sliding away. A moment later, Marge returns to the storeroom, the pistol back in her apron and a dark-brown bottle and handkerchief now in hand.
“Your boyfriend says hi,” she says. “Devoted fella you’ve got there. I hope you appreciate him.”
Charlie nods, unable to speak and too overwhelmed to do anything else.
She does appreciate Robbie. More than he could possibly know. He came for her. Even though she was leaving him—and breaking his heart in the process—he drove all this way to help her. A tear slips down her cheek, making it all the way to the side of her mouth before being sucked up by the gag.
“There’s nothing to cry about,” Marge says, more judgmental than consoling. “You stayed quiet and I didn’t hurt him. I kept my part of the deal.”
Yet another tear falls. Charlie can’t help it. She had been so ready to abandon what she and Robbie had. Because she felt guilty. And that she didn’t deserve him. And that he would leave her soon enough. But then he showed up here, and now she understands that she was wrong. Yes, she still feels guilty, and, no, she doesn’t deserve him. But he never intended to leave her. He came to get her back. And now it might be too late.
“We’re leaving,” Marge says. “In order to do that, I need to use this again.”
She holds up the bottle and handkerchief, making sure Charlie can see them.
“I’m going to remove the gag now. If you scream, I will shoot you. If you fight me, I will shoot you. Do I make myself clear?”
Charlie nods.
“Good,” Marge says. “I hope you really mean that. Because I’m warning you, hon, you don’t want to fuck with me.”
She opens the bottle, letting out a noxious vapor that hits Charlie all the way on the other side of the storeroom. Marge places the handkerchief over the bottle before tipping it, dousing the cloth. Then she steps toward Charlie.
“Please,” Charlie says, struggling to form the word behind the gag. “Don’t.”
Marge yanks the gag from Charlie’s mouth. Now free to speak clearly, she says, “Please just let me go.”
“Now why in the world would I do that, sweetie?” Marge says. “You were never supposed to leave. I knew you’d be back, but I didn’t think it would be on your own.”
It takes Charlie a moment to understand what she means. Her brain’s still reeling from a night full of movies in her mind, stress, shock, and whatever liquid Marge has been dousing onto the handkerchief. Chloroform, most likely. Something not carried by an ordinary waitress in an average greasy spoon.
Marge had been waiting for her. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment detour. Josh had brought her here on purpose.
The entire night had been planned in advance.
“Are you working with Josh?”
“Who?”
“Jake,” Charlie says, correcting herself. “Jake Collins. Are you working with him?”
“It’s more like he’s working with me.”
Marge is upon her now, swooping in with the handkerchief and slapping it over Charlie’s nose and mouth. Charlie tries to hold her breath, but it’s not possible for very long. The pressure from Marge’s hand makes her body thirst for air. Charlie cries out from beneath the handkerchief as the fumes fill her nose, her mouth, her lungs.
Everything begins to fade. Marge’s face and the storeroom and even her thoughts. As her surroundings once again evaporate, Charlie manages one single thought, spurred by what Marge just said.
He’s working for me.
Charlie thinks it means that Josh isn’t the Campus Killer.
Or, at least, he’s not the only one.
EXT. DINER PARKING LOT—NIGHT
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie shuffles out of the diner still woozy from the chloroform, which lingers far longer than a movie in her mind. Those she snaps out of almost instantly. But the chloroform takes it sweet time to go away. Right now, only half of her world has returned. Just what’s directly in front of her. Everything on her periphery is still out of focus. Nothing but shifting blurs.
But she’s aware of Marge directly behind her, holding the pistol at the small of her back. The end of the barrel knocks against Charlie’s spine as they move, awkwardly, toward Marge’s Cadillac.
When she came to in the storeroom, Charlie found herself in a standing position, propped against a shelf like a mummy on display. An apt description, seeing how she has again been wrapped with rope. This time it’s around her ankles, binding them closely together, hence the shuffle.
Her wrists are also tied, forcing her to hold her forearms awkwardly together in front of her. Marge clearly hadn’t searched her, otherwise she would have found Josh’s handcuffs still in the front pocket of Charlie’s jeans and used those instead. It would have been more comfortable for Charlie—even though she suspects making her comfortable isn’t something on Marge’s agenda.