“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.