Marge sniffed. “I’m prepared to give you twenty grand to make that none of your business.”

He agreed, and the rest is history. The job turned out to be not so simple, and Charlie was a problem, albeit one he can’t keep himself from admiring. Now he’s driving over a no trespassing sign into a situation he’s really not physically or mentally prepared for.

Like Charlie’s boyfriend, he cuts the Grand Am’s headlights and lets the wan light of the moon guide him. Not the best idea. When taking the car across a bridge in front of a waterfall, a bolt of pain hits, causing him to swerve close to the wooden guardrail and almost crash into the ravine.

With the bridge behind him, he begins the slow, twisting drive up the hill to the lodge. His body sways with each hairpin turn, the stitches in his side straining. At the top of the hill, he parks the Grand Am just inside the circular drive leading to the front of the lodge and cuts the engine. Both the Cadillac and the Volvo belonging to Charlie’s boyfriend are also there, parked under the portico, no one inside them.

Before leaving the car, he grabs the steak knife Charlie had stabbed him with. It’s sat on the floor of the passenger side the entire drive, still wet with his blood. He wipes it clean with his sweatshirt.

Knife in hand, he gets out of the car, unsure of what will be waiting for him when he enters the lodge.

The only thing he knows is that it’s his fault Charlie’s in this predicament.

And now it’s his job to get her out.

INT. LODGE LOBBY—NIGHT

Charlie stares at Marge, realization bubbling up from the addled depths of her brain. No wonder she thought there was something familiar about the waitress when she first came to their table. Charlie had seen her before tonight. Not in person, but in a photograph. A young looker posing poolside with Bob Hope.

“You’re Mee-Maw,” she says.

“We never had the pleasure of meeting,” Marge says. “But I heard all about you, Charlie. My Maddy talked a lot about you. She said you were a smart cookie. I warned her about that. I told her, ‘Watch out for the smart ones, baby doll. They know how to hurt you.’ And I was right.”

But Charlie wasn’t smart. Not when it came to Maddy. She was devoted. Except for that one time.

And that was all it took.

One slip. One pissy mood. One mistake.

And everything changed.

Now she’s being held hostage by a woman who wants to do God knows what, and all Charlie can think is that she deserves all of it.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

It’s not a plea. She doesn’t expect three words to give Marge a change of heart. It’s just a simple statement, made with all the sincerity she possesses.

“My granddaughter’s dead,” Marge replies. “Sorry doesn’t mean shit.”

“I loved her, too,” Charlie says.

Marge shakes her head. “Not enough.”

“And Josh—I mean, Jake. Is he related to Maddy, too?”

“Him?” Marge says as she absently scratches her tufted scalp. “He was just someone I hired to get you here. Never laid eyes on him until tonight. He’s not my responsibility.”

She glances at the stain on Charlie’s coat where she had wiped Josh’s blood from her hands. When fresh, it had blended in with the red of the fabric. Now dry, it stands out, dark and incriminating. Seeing it causes Charlie’s stomach to churn.

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.”