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