“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.

In addition to the gun, Marge also sports a black parka thrown on over her uniform. Hanging from her shoulder is a bulky satchel. Whatever’s inside clangs together as they walk around the rear of the car. Charlie also hears a crunching sound beneath her feet. When she looks down, she spots bits of red glass scattered across the parking lot surface.

“Get in,” Marge says as she opens the rear door on the passenger side.

Charlie stares at the inside of the car and thinks about running. She knows it’s not possible. Not with her legs and arms tied like they are. Even if it were, Marge could easily put a bullet in her back.

Yet Charlie considers it all the same.

Just springing away from Marge, hoping the old woman is a lousy shot and somehow misses her as she hops out of the parking lot and into the road, not stopping until she reaches the highway. Surely someone would stop for her. A truck driver or a cop like Officer Tom or someone coming home from the late shift. Some Good Samaritan who’d slam on the brakes as soon as they spotted her hobbling along the road’s shoulder, panic writ large in her eyes.

Charlie pauses beside the car, doing the math, gauging to see how quickly she might be able to do it.

It doesn’t take her long to deduce that it’s impossible.

Even if it takes her only ten seconds to get out of the parking lot, she knows Marge can use those same ten precious ticks of time to jump into the car, start the engine, and make chase. Even if it took Marge minutes—one, five, ten—Charlie would still be shuffling down Dead River Road, with no guarantee of stumbling upon a kindly motorist. Especially at this hour.

“Get in,” Marge says again, this time nudging her with the gun barrel.

Charlie does, with much reluctance and even more struggle. With her arms tied, she’s forced to turn around, bend at the waist, and slide inside. She then twists her legs until she’s completely in the car, leaning awkwardly against the back seat.

Marge shuts the door, rounds the front of the car, and slides behind the wheel. Before turning the key, she hits the button that locks all the doors.

Charlie is trapped. Again.