Charlie swoops in, picks it up, thrusts it out in front of her. It’s the first time she’s ever held a gun, and she hates the feel of it in her hands. Her arms quake, the gun barrel unsteady as she points it at Marge.

Behind her, Robbie sits on the walkway, his right hand pressed to his left shoulder. Blood trickles out from beneath his palm. Charlie gasps when she sees it.

“Are you hit?”

“Grazed,” Robbie says. He starts to let out a low, disbelieving chuckle but stops midway. Eyes widening, he gasps and says, “Charlie, watch out!”

Charlie instantly understands what’s happening. Marge is on the move. At first, Charlie thinks she’s coming for the gun. She is, but not in the way Charlie expects.

Marge crawls toward her, not stopping until the pistol is inches away from her forehead.

“Do it,” she says, looking up at Charlie with a pained, pitiful expression. “Pull the trigger. Please. Put me out of my misery. I was going to do it anyway. Right here. Tonight.”

Charlie steadies the gun and thinks about all the damage Marge has caused that night. She deserves to pay for what she’s done. Not just to her, but to Josh and to Robbie. All in a misguided quest for information.

Then she thinks of Maddy and her habit of calling her mee-maw on the phone every Sunday. Charlie pictures her doing it. Sitting in the jade silk kimono she preferred over a bathrobe, the phone cord wound around her finger, laughing at something her grandmother had just said. The same woman who made her laugh now kneels in front of her, begging to die, and Charlie can’t bring herself to do it.

“No,” she says. “Maddy wouldn’t want that.”

Charlie tosses the pistol into the pool. It lands with a splash and disappears in the black water.

Marge says nothing. She simply stares at the spot where the gun now rests, a vacant look in her eyes.

Charlie moves past her, going to Robbie, who still has a hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood runs down his sleeve and drips from his elbow.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” she says, helping him to his feet.

“First, we need to get away from this place.”

Another rumble erupts from inside the lodge, followed by the sound of timber cracking. Charlie knows what it means. The support beams holding up what’s left of the room are about to fall.

And they don’t want to be here when it happens.

The two of them hurry along the back of the building, leaving the walkway and entering the woods to put more distance between them and the lodge. When it comes time to round the corner of the building, Charlie pauses long enough to check on Marge.

She sits next to the pool, watching the fire that will in all likelihood consume her should the lodge collapse.

Which it’s about to do in a matter of minutes.

But Marge doesn’t look scared. In fact, Charlie thinks she looks at peace, bathed in the orange glow of the flames. Maybe she’s thinking about Maddy. Maybe Marge even sees her. A movie in her own mind.

Charlie hopes that’s true.

She even wishes it as Robbie grabs her coat sleeve and tugs her until Marge fades from view.

THREE A.M.

EXT. LODGE—NIGHT

It’s all so loud.

That’s what Charlie thinks as they trudge out of the woods and head to Robbie’s Volvo.

The roar of the fire. The roar of the falls. It’s deafening, those twin sounds, like a pair of beasts in the thick of battle. It even looks like they’re fighting. Charlie sees the burning lodge to her right, the frothing head of the falls to her left, and, in between, a spot where the rushing creek reflects the flames.

Yet through that din, Charlie thinks of Josh.

He’s here. Somewhere.

“We need to get Josh.”

“Who?” Robbie says.

“The guy I was riding with. He’s here.”

“Where?”

Charlie doesn’t know. Not where he is or even if he’s still alive. Marge could have been lying about that.

“He was shot,” Charlie says.

“So was I,” Robbie says, jerking his chin toward his wounded shoulder. “And we’re running out of time.”

Charlie eyes the fiery lodge. Tall, fingerlike flames break through the roof and reach toward the sky, bringing with them sparks that pinwheel through the air and drift down around them like pulsing orange confetti.

Robbie’s Volvo is parked right behind Marge’s Cadillac. Although the portico the cars sit under remains untouched by fire, it won’t really matter if the lodge collapses. Charlie knows Robbie is right.

They need to leave.

Now.

At the car, Robbie leans against the hood.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asks, when it’s obvious he isn’t.

“I’m fine,” Robbie says as he hands her his car keys. “You’re going to have to drive, though.”

Charlie had assumed that, even though she’s not in the best condition, either. She’s dizzy from the smoke and her chest is tight and the flames and waterfall are too loud and she thinks she’s going to faint.

Still, she dutifully guides Robbie into the passenger seat before rounding the front of the Volvo and sliding behind the wheel. It’s not until she’s fully in the driver’s seat that the realization hits.

She hasn’t driven since the day before her parents were killed.

INT. VOLVO—NIGHT

Four years.

That’s how long it’s been since Charlie sat in the driver’s seat of a car.

Four long years without turning a steering wheel or tapping a brake.

That’s about to end right now.

It has to.

Charlie coughs. A sharp, stabbing hack that makes her double over. But she feels better afterward. Letting out that last bit of smoke and being in the car, where it’s calm and quiet, boosts her consciousness. She’s no longer dizzy, although the weakness remains.

But she can do this.

There’s nothing to be afraid of.

Driving a car is just like riding a bike. Her father told her that.

Charlie starts the car, flinching at the muffled roar created by the engine rumbling to life. At the same time, another deep rumble emanates from inside the lodge. Next to her, Robbie says, “Charlie, we need to get out of here.”

She touches her foot to the gas pedal, hitting it too hard. The Volvo lurches forward and smacks into the Cadillac’s rear bumper. The car shudders.

She slams down on the brakes, puts the Volvo in reverse, starts driving backward. Then it’s back to drive again. This time, when Charlie presses the gas pedal, it’s with more caution. The car eases forward, letting Charlie steer past the Cadillac and out from under the portico.

“We need to get further away,” Robbie says.

“I’m trying.”

Charlie keeps the car moving, rounding the circular drive in front of the lodge and heading toward the twisting road that will take them to the bottom of the waterfall. After that, Charlie has no idea where to go.

“I don’t know where we are.”

She hits the brakes again, puts the car in park, and reaches for the glove compartment in front of Robbie, searching for a map. The glove compartment door drops open, and a small box tumbles out, almost landing in Robbie’s lap.

He tries to catch it but is slowed by his gunshot wound. That leaves Charlie to grab it and pull it toward her.

It’s a jewelry box.

Black.

Hinged.

Big enough for a single engagement ring.

Heat spreads in Charlie’s chest. She’d suspected, back in the recesses of her mind, that Robbie might try to propose before she left. When he didn’t, she was more relieved than disappointed. Guilty and depressed and lost in her own world, she wasn’t ready for such a commitment.

But now—after this long, horrible night—Charlie wonders if she might have been wrong about that.

“Robbie, I—”

“Wait!” he says.

But Charlie’s already opening the box, excitement blooming in spite of herself, the hinge sounding out a light creak as she lifts the lid and things start rolling out of it like dice. That’s what Charlie thinks they are as she cups her hand to catch them.

Dice.

Three startlingly small dice the color of ivory.

It’s not until they’re rattling in her palm that she understands what they really are.

Teeth.

Angela Dunleavy’s tooth.

Taylor Morrison’s tooth.

Maddy’s tooth.

“Robbie, why do you have these?”

She knows the answer.

Robbie took them after killing Angela.

And Taylor.

And Maddy.

Staring at Robbie with her dead friend’s tooth still in her hand, Charlie feels something break loose inside her chest.

Her heart.

There’s now an empty space where it used to be. A void, inside of which the sound of her last heartbeat still echoes. Then it, too, is gone, and she feels nothing.

Charlie thinks it means she’s dying. And wouldn’t that be a relief? Surely better than having to endure this.

Yet she remains alive, her heart still gone but her head spinning and a stark ache in her gut that feels like the inside of her body trying to gnaw its way outside.

The nausea, when it comes, is too fast to stop. The bile rushes up and out, and soon Charlie is bent forward, vomit dripping off the steering wheel.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “Why?”

Charlie says it softly. Barely a mumble. So soft she’s not sure Robbie even heard her. So she says it again, shouting this time, the word smacking off the window and echoing through the entire car.