She stabbed an innocent man.
She likely killed him.
Knowing that she thought it was in self-defense no longer matters.
She is a murderer.
“That coat of yours used to be mine, by the way,” Marge says. “I gave it to Maddy when she turned sixteen. It’s how I knew who you were the moment you walked into the diner.”
Charlie remembers being in the bathroom, watching as Marge checked the coat’s label. At the time, she thought the waitress was looking to see if it could be replaced. Now she knows that Marge was really just confirming her identity.
“You can have it back,” Charlie says, even though it’s the only thing she has to remember Maddy by. “I want you to have it.”
“I’d rather have my granddaughter back,” Marge says. “Do you know what it’s like to bury someone you love, Charlie?”
“Yes.”
Charlie knows it all too well. Those twin caskets. Those side-by-side graves. That double funeral that she was so unequipped to handle that it rewired her brain. Every movie in her mind can be traced back to that horrible moment in time, and no amount of little orange pills will change that.
“I thought I did,” Marge says. “I buried my husband, and it hurt like hell. But nothing prepared me for losing Maddy. Other than a doctor and a nurse, I was the first person to hold her. Did she ever tell you that? Her father—that deadbeat—was already out of the picture, so I was there when she was born. She came out a screaming, wriggling mess, but when the nurse put her in my arms, all I saw was her beauty. In a dark world, she was light. Bright and blazing. And then she was snuffed out. Just like that.”
Marge snaps her fingers, and the sound echoes like a gunshot through the cavernous lobby.
“My daughter went through a bad spell. There’s no denying that. She was messed up after Maddy was born, so I took on the burden of raising her. For the first four years of Maddy’s life, I was her mother. And that kind of bond? It never goes away. Ever.”
She grabs the knife and holds it up, bringing it so close that Charlie can see her reflection in the blade.
“When I found out Maddy was dead, it felt like someone had jammed this knife right into my heart and plucked it out. The pain. It was too much.”
Charlie thinks about four days ago. Filling her cupped palm with little white pills. Swallowing them all. Watching Gene Kelly twirl in the rain as her eyelids grew heavy. All the while hoping that it would bring an end to every rotten thing she was feeling.
“I felt that way, too,” she says. “I wanted to die.”
“Well, I am dying,” Marge says. “Whoever first said life’s a bitch, hoo boy, they really nailed it. Life is a bitch. A nasty one. Because that feeling I had? Of wanting to be put out of my misery? That went away the day we buried Maddy. As I watched them lower her into the ground, something in me just snapped. In its place was rage. Like whoever had yanked out my heart had plugged the hole left behind with a hot coal. It burned. And I welcomed the feeling. After we put Maddy in the ground, I looked at my daughter—my only child, who had just buried her only child. I looked at her and vowed that I would make the person responsible pay for what they’d done. I swore that I was going to find who killed my Maddy. I was going to find them and rip a tooth out of their mouth, just like what they did to her. And that tooth would become my most cherished possession because it was proof. Proof that the person who slaughtered my granddaughter got the justice they deserved.”
Marge pauses to stare at Charlie. She stares back, knowing they’re alike. Two women made mad by grief.
“The irony is that as soon as I found some sense of purpose again, I got a call from the doctor telling me about the cancer,” Marge says. “My daughter’s in denial. She keeps saying a miracle can happen. But that’s bullshit. There’s no miracle coming my way. My time’s almost up. Which is why you’re here.”
She lowers the knife and picks up the pliers, letting Charlie know exactly what this is about.
Revenge.
The same kind she had fantasized about getting during those sleepless nights when both anger and those little orange pills kept her awake. It never occurred to Charlie that someone else who had known and loved Maddy would have that same thirst for revenge.
And that she’d be on the receiving end of it.
Yet Charlie also understands. Since she blamed herself for what happened to Maddy, it’s natural for Marge to do the same. And since Charlie, at the lowest point of her guilt and grief, had tried to end it all, it makes twisted sense that Marge would want to end her as well.
“You’ve brought me here to kill me, haven’t you?”
Charlie’s amazed at how calm she sounds, considering all the fear churning inside her. It’s how she felt as Josh drove them away from the diner. A combination of terror and inevitability.
Acceptance.
That’s what Charlie thinks has come over her. A grim understanding that this is the way things are going to end.
“No, sweetie,” Marge says. “I’m here for information.”
Her answer doesn’t make Charlie feel any better. Nor does the way Marge flexes the pliers in front of her, opening and closing them like a hungry bird’s beak.
“I don’t know anything,” Charlie says.
“Yes, you do,” Marge says. “You were there. You saw the man who killed my granddaughter. Now you’re going to tell me who he is.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know something. You saw something. Even if you don’t think you did. Maddy told me all about that, you know. Your delusions. How you sometimes see things that aren’t there. But the man who killed Maddy, he was there. He was real. And your eyes saw him, even if your brain saw something else.” Marge taps Charlie’s forehead. “That information’s in there somewhere. You’re going to give it to me. Even if I have to pry it out myself.”
“Maddy wouldn’t want you to do this.”
Marge flashes her another dark look. “Maybe not. But she’s no longer with us, thanks to you. Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions about what you saw that night. And if there’s something you don’t think you remember, well, I’ll make you remember.”
Charlie stares at the pliers, still opening and closing. They make a little clicking sound each time they connect.
Click.
Pause.
Click.
“We’ll start with an easy one,” Marge says. “Just to get that memory going. Were you with my granddaughter the night she was killed?”
“Yes,” Charlie says. “I was.”