What Robbie didn’t understand—what he couldn’t understand—was that Charlie knew and didn’t care. She was a willing audience to Maddy’s antics. It gave her quiet life the drama it otherwise would have lacked, and Charlie loved her for that.

But that’s all over now. Maddy’s dead. Charlie’s retreated from the world. And since she’ll never lay eyes on Josh again once they reach Youngstown, she sees no point in turning him from stranger to friend.

Just as she resigns herself to spending the next six hours in awkward, pine-scented silence, Josh pipes up from behind the wheel, suddenly chatty.

“So what’s in Youngstown that you’re so eager to get back to?”

“My grandmother.”

“Neat,” Josh says with an amiable nod. “Family visit?”

“I live with her.”

Over the years, she’s learned that answer requires less explaining than the truth. Telling people that her grandmother technically lives in the house Charlie inherited from her dead parents usually leads to follow-up questions.

“I gotta say, I didn’t expect to find someone to share the drive with me,” Josh says. “Not many people are leaving campus. Not this time of year. And everyone there seems to own a car. You ever notice that? The parking lots are filled. I’m surprised you don’t have a car.”

“I don’t drive,” Charlie says, knowing it sounds like she doesn’t know how.

In truth, she doesn’t want to drive. Not since her parents’ accident. The last time she was behind the wheel of a car was the day before they died. When her license expired three months ago, she never bothered to renew it.

Charlie’s okay with being a passenger. She has to be. She knows that riding in a car is unavoidable, just like she knows something bad could happen regardless of whether she’s behind the wheel or not. Just look at her mother. She was simply along for the ride when Charlie’s father steered the car off the highway and into the woods, killing them both instantly.

No one knows what prompted him to drive off the road, even though theories abound. He swerved to miss a deer. He had a heart attack behind the wheel. Something went tragically awry with the steering column.

Accidents happen.

That’s what Charlie was told in the weeks following the crash, when it became clear she had no intention of ever driving again. Accidents happen and people die and it’s a tragedy, but she shouldn’t live in fear of getting behind the wheel of a car.

What no one understood was that dying in a car crash wasn’t what frightened Charlie. Culpability—that was her big fear. She didn’t want to cause the same pain her father had. If there was an accident and people died, including her, she didn’t want to be the one responsible.

The irony is that someone has died and Charlie is responsible and it didn’t involve a car at all.

“Lucky we found each other, I guess,” Josh says. “You ever use the ride board before?”

Charlie shakes her head. “First time.”

She’s never had to before. Nana Norma used to drive her to campus at the start of a semester and pick her up when it was over. After her eyesight started going bad last fall and she, too, stopped driving, Robbie took over. The only reason Charlie’s not in his Volvo right now is because he couldn’t find someone to cover his TA and coaching duties for the two days it would take for him to drive to Youngstown and back.

“Mine, too,” Josh says. “I went to the board thinking it would be a waste of time, and there you were, just putting up your flyer. Charlie. Interesting name you’ve got there, by the way. Is that short for something?”

“Yes. Charles.”

Maddy had loved that answer. Whenever Charlie used it—usually at whatever loud, intimidating mixer she’d been dragged to—Maddy would let out a wicked cackle that made her feel pleased with herself for coming up with it. It was sassy, for Charlie. Like something Barbara Stanwyck would have said in a screwball comedy.

“Your real name is Charles?” Josh says.

“It was a joke,” Charlie says, bummed that she’s forced to explain it. Barbara Stanwyck never explained things. “Not my name. That really is Charlie, although it’s not short for anything. I was named after a character in a movie.”

“A boy character?”

“A girl. Who, incidentally, was named after her uncle.”

“What’s the movie?”

“Shadow of a Doubt.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Alfred Hitchcock,” Charlie says. “Released in 1943. Starring Joseph Cotten and Teresa Wright.”

“Is it good?” Josh asks.

“It’s very good. Which is lucky for me, because who wants to be named after a character in a shitty movie, right?”

Josh gives her a glance, one brow arched, looking either impressed or surprised by her enthusiasm. That raised brow tells Charlie she’s talking too much, which only happens when the subject is movies. She could be mute for hours, but if someone mentions a film title, the words pour out. Maddy had once told her that movies were her version of wine coolers. They really loosen you up, she said.

Charlie knows it’s true, which is why asking people about their favorite movie is the only icebreaker she has. It instantly tells her how much time and energy she should spend on a person. If someone mentions Hitchcock or Ford or Altman or even Argento, they’re probably worth talking to. On the flip side, if someone brings up The Sound of Music, Charlie knows it’s best to just walk away.

But Josh seems okay with her chattiness. Giving a slight nod of agreement, he says, “Not me. It would be like being named after a serial killer or something.”

“That’s what the movie’s about,” Charlie says. “There’s this girl named Charlie.”

“Who’s named after her uncle and you’re named after her.”

“Right. And she idolizes Uncle Charlie, which is why she’s so happy when he comes to visit for a few weeks. But Uncle Charlie is acting suspicious, and one thing leads to another until Charlie begins to suspect her uncle is really a serial killer.”

“Is he?”

“Yes,” Charlie says. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be much of a movie.”

“Who does he kill?” Josh asks.

“Wealthy widows of a certain age.”

“Sounds like one bad dude.”

“He is.”

“Does he get away with it?”

“No. Charlie stops him.”

“I thought so,” Josh says. “From the way you talk about her, I assumed she was plucky.”

Charlie feels a minor jolt at the word, mostly because she’s not sure she’s ever heard someone say it in conversation before. She’s certain no one has ever used it to describe her. She’s been called a lot of things in her life. Weird? Yes. Shy? Yes. Standoffish? Sad, but true. But never plucky. And knowing she’s not plucky now makes Charlie feel oddly guilty for not living up to the reputation set by her namesake.

“Is that your thing?” Josh says. “Movies?”

“They’re more than just my thing,” Charlie says. “Movies are my life. And my major. Film theory.”

“Like, learning how to make them?”

“Studying them. Learning how they tick. Understanding what works and what doesn’t. Appreciating them.”

She’s said all this before, at one time or another. To Maddy, when they were thrust together in the same dorm room the first day of their freshman year. To Robbie, the night they met in the library. To anyone who would listen, really. Charlie is a disciple, preaching the gospel of cinema.

“But why movies?” Josh asks.

“Because they take our world and improve upon it,” Charlie says. “Movies are magical that way. Everything is magnified. The colors are brighter. The shadows are darker. The action more violent and the love affairs more passionate. People break out into song. Or they used to. The emotions—love, hate, fear, laughter—are all bigger. And the people! All those beautiful faces in full close-up. So beautiful it’s hard to look away.”

She pauses, aware she’s been swept up in movie talk. But there’s still one more thing she wants to say. She needs to say it, because it’s true.

“Movies are like life,” she finally says. “Only better.”

She leaves out another truth, which is that you can get lost in movies. Charlie learned that the day her parents died, when Nana Norma came to stay for good.

The wreck happened on a Saturday morning in mid-July. Her parents had left early to go to the lawn and garden place two towns over, waking her long enough to say they’d be back by ten.

Charlie didn’t think much of it when ten came and went and they still weren’t home. Same thing when the grandfather clock in the living room struck eleven. Fifteen minutes later, a cop came to the door. Deputy Anderson. Her friend Katie’s dad. She’d slept over at Katie’s house once when she was ten, and Mr. Anderson made them pancakes the next morning. It was the first thing Charlie thought of when she saw him on the doorstep. Mr. Anderson standing over the stove, spatula in hand, flipping pancakes as wide as dinner plates.

But then she saw the hat in his hands. And the gray tint to his face. And the uncertain half shuffle he did on the welcome mat, as if forcing his legs not to run away.

Seeing all of that, Charlie knew something horrible had happened.