“Did we play Twenty Questions?” she says.

Josh, about to take a drink from his cup of coffee, stops mid-sip. “What?”

“The game. Twenty Questions.”

“I know what it is, Charlie.”

“So did we play it? After you shut off the stereo?”

Charlie presses the stop button on the car stereo, as if Josh needs a demonstration to fully understand. The sudden quiet in the car is discomfiting. It makes her realize just how long Josh waits before answering. Is that because he has no idea what she’s referring to? Or is it because he knows exactly what she means and is debating whether to lie about it?

“I never turned off the stereo,” Josh says.

“You did. You turned off the music and we played Twenty Questions. I asked. You answered. And I need—” Charlie’s voice catches on the word, dragging it out, making it clear just how important this is to her. “I need to know if that actually happened.”

“Why?”

Because the answer would tell her if she might be trapped in a car with a serial killer, that’s why. Only Charlie can’t say that to Josh. If he knew what she was thinking, then he’d undoubtedly lie. Yes, there’s a chance he could lie even without knowing her suspicions, but Charlie’s not going to make that decision for him.

“Please just tell me,” she says. “Did we play Twenty Questions?”

Josh’s answer comes startlingly fast. No waiting this time. Just an instant “No” tossed at her like a lit firecracker.

The answer she wanted yet dreaded.

“Positive?” she says.

“Yes, Charlie. I’m absolutely certain we didn’t play Twenty Questions.”

Charlie sits with that a moment, letting it seep into her brain like one of those little orange pills she used to take. And should still be taking. Because without them, there’s nothing stopping the movies in her mind from taking over. From not knowing what is reality and what is an illusion. A fucked-up form of Hollywood magic.

No seeing Josh’s real name on his real driver’s license.

No state trooper riding up beside them to rescue her like a cowboy in a John Ford flick.

No huffing hot breath onto the window. Or writing “HELP” on the fogged glass. Or plotting a daring leap from the moving car.

Is such a thing even possible? Could she have gotten so lost in her own specific brand of make-believe that it’s started to bleed into reality?

That’s never happened before.

Until now, Charlie had thought of the movies in her mind as brief moments. Small windows of time in which fantasy eclipses harsh reality. No different from the way cinematographers used to rub Vaseline on the camera’s lens to give the leading lady a gauzy glow.

And when one ends, Charlie knows it’s over. Her body snaps back to the present—the equivalent of the credits rolling and the theater lights coming up.

But the past hour was more like a fever dream. Real and surreal and alive.

The idea that some of her memories, her past, her life might not have occurred the way she assumes they did is almost as unnerving as thinking she’s in a car with a serial killer. It’s so concerning that she’s reluctant to believe it. Why should she trust Josh over her own mind?

So she’s back where she started. Wanting to believe Josh but also unwilling to. And as the Grand Am continues down the highway, heading farther into the uncertain night, Charlie is conscious of four things.

None of it might have happened. Or all of it might have happened.

One of them would make Josh completely harmless. The other might mean he’s the Campus Killer.

And Charlie has no idea which one is the truth.

INT. GRAND AM—NIGHT

“Mind if I turn the music back on?”

Josh’s voice cuts through Charlie’s thoughts, jerking her out of the deep mental well into which she’d fallen. She looks at Josh. She looks at his finger, poised above the stereo’s play button. She wonders if she just experienced another movie in her mind and that none of the past ten minutes actually happened.

“What was the last thing you said to me?”

“Mind if I turn the music back on,” Josh says, this time without the questioning inflection.

“Before that.”

“That we hadn’t played Twenty Questions.”

Charlie nods. Good. It wasn’t a movie in her mind. Unless it’s still going on. Thinking such things makes her feel simultaneously drunk and also in need of a strong drink. Part of her wants to tell Josh to pull off at the next exit, where she can put her fake ID to good use at the first bar they pass.

Instead, she’ll settle for a rest stop, which, according to a highway sign they’re just now passing, sits a mile up the road.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, eyeing the sign as it slides past the passenger window.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. It was all that coffee,” she says, even though she hasn’t had a sip since first seeing Josh’s driver’s license.

What she really wants is to get out of the car and get away from Josh. Just for a moment. She needs to be alone with the crisp night air on her face, hoping that will bring some clarity. Because right now she has nothing. “I’ll be quick.”

“Fine,” Josh says, letting out a weary sigh exactly like the ones her dad would sometimes make during those long-ago road trips. “I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs myself.”

When the off-ramp comes into view, Josh hits the right turn signal and slides off the highway. Ahead of them, the building housing the restrooms sits squat and silent. It’s a sad, ungainly single-story rectangle of beige bricks with doors and a roof painted shit brown.

The parking lot is empty, save for a car driving away as they pull in, its taillights winking red. Charlie’s heart sinks as she watches it depart. She had hoped the place would be crowded, providing peace of mind while she stops to regroup. An empty rest stop provides no such comfort. Right now, Josh could slit her throat, yank her tooth, and drive away without anyone knowing.

If he’s the Campus Killer, that is.

Something else Charlie’s not completely certain about. She doubts the Campus Killer would park directly beneath one of the parking lot’s streetlamps, as Josh does now.

It could be a sign that she should trust him.

Or it could be him trying to trick her into giving him that trust.

Sitting in the parked car under the cone of light coming from the streetlamp, Charlie knows she needs to stop thinking this way. All this doubt—her mind veering wildly between two very different scenarios—will only get worse the longer the night goes on. She needs to pick a lane and act accordingly.

To help with that decision, Charlie does what she should have done the moment Josh pulled up to her dorm: check the Grand Am’s license plate. She gets out of the car and stands behind it, pretending to stretch. Rolling her head and swinging her arms, she sneaks a look at the license plate.

New Jersey.

That’s at least one check in the Trust Josh column.

“I’ll be right back,” Charlie tells him, even though it’s not a given. It’s entirely possible she might decide to never enter that car again. There’s also the possibility Josh might kill her before she gets the chance to make that decision.

Charlie quickens her pace as she walks to the restrooms. It’s unnervingly quiet here, not to mention secluded. Behind her, about a hundred yards from the parking lot, is the interstate. Up ahead, looming darkly behind the facilities, is a forest of unknown size and density.

Just outside the door to the restrooms is a pay phone. Charlie pauses in front of it, knowing it’s still not too late to call Robbie. Which is what she should have done at the 7-Eleven before they hit the highway. Charlie knows that now. She regrets, with an intensity that aches, not picking up the phone and saying those four magical words.

Things took a detour.

Charlie’s about to reach for the phone when she notices a piece of masking tape stuck over the coin slot. She grabs the receiver anyway, lifting it from its cradle. There’s no dial tone. Just her luck.

It isn’t until after she slams the phone back into place that Charlie realizes Josh could be watching her. She’s still outside the building, in full view of anyone in the parking lot. She shoots a quick, cautious glance toward the Grand Am. Josh is there, outside the car now, stretching his arms to the sky while rolling his neck. He hasn’t seen a thing.

Good.