Survive the Night by Riley Sager
INT. DINER—NIGHT
The jukebox is still playing when they return indoors, although Don McLean’s no longer saying bye, bye to Miss American Pie and the Beatles are instead saying hey to Jude. At Josh’s overly polite insistence, Charlie enters first, marching inside feeling both defeated and frightened.
That didn’t go at all like she planned. Now she has no idea what to do next. The only other option, short of running out of the diner and hoping Josh doesn’t catch up to her, is to tell Marge.
Which isn’t much of an option at all.
Marge, despite a formidable combo of tip-garnering sass and grandmotherly concern, is no match for Josh. He’d hurt her, if he needed to. And then he’d hurt Charlie. And then it would be over.
As for the cook, Charlie hasn’t even seen him. Unless he’s a former professional wrestler, she doubts he’s going to be much help.
She returns to the table because, for now, it’s all she can do. She’ll tuck herself into the booth, pretend to not be terrified out of her mind, and try to come up with a new plan. Meanwhile, she’ll continue to hope that Robbie got the hint and called the police and that in five minutes this place will be swarming with cops.
Outside, the pay phone begins to ring. Charlie hears it, sounding tinny through the window’s glass. Josh hears it, too, and gives her a questioning look.
“You expecting a call?”
The phone rings a second time.
“No,” Charlie says.
Third ring.
“You sure?” Josh says. “Maybe you should go answer it.”
Fourth ring.
Charlie stares at it, knowing it’s Robbie using *69 to call her back. She’s certain because it’s exactly what she would do if their roles were reversed.
Fifth ring.
Josh starts to slide out of the booth. “Fine. I guess I’ll do it.”
“No,” Charlie says, reaching across the table to grab Josh’s forearm. It’s thick, the muscles taut. She assumes the rest of him is the same way. Strong. Stronger than her. She lets go, her hand slithering back across the table and into her lap.
Outside, the phone has gone silent.
“Too late,” Josh says. “We missed him.”
“It wasn’t my boyfriend,” Charlie says.
“Sure,” Josh says, unconvinced. “Whatever you say.”
They sit in silence, Charlie eyeing her scalding hot cup of tea while Josh alternates sips of Coke and coffee. Eventually, Marge emerges from the back of the diner with their food.
“Soup’s on,” she says cheerily, placing their plates in front of them. “Eat up before it gets cold.”
Charlie stares at the plate of French fries, which glisten with grease. The sight of them makes her stomach do a sickly flip. Across from her, Josh tucks his napkin into his shirt collar like he’s a farmer at a picnic. He grabs his utensils—a fork and a surprisingly sharp steak knife—and looks at the food on his plate. A circle of meat smothered with gravy, creamed corn, and a clump of gray stuff that Charlie assumes is supposed to be mashed potatoes. Josh lowers the fork but keeps the knife in hand.
“Something’s been bugging me,” he says. “Outside, when you were on the phone, talking to your friend.”
“Boyfriend,” Charlie says, hoping those three extra letters make a difference. She thinks they might. They mean there’s someone out there who seriously cares about her. Someone who’ll be angry if something should happen to her.
Josh nods. “Boyfriend. Right. When you were talking to him, were you using some sort of code?”
Charlie picks up a French fry and takes a nervous bite. She washes it down with still-too-hot tea. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. ‘Things took a detour’? No one talks that way. In the movies, maybe, but not in real life.”
Charlie should have known how ridiculous she sounded on the phone. Because he’s right. No one talks that way and Josh saw right through it, which is why he now stares at her across the table, a steak knife still gripped in his fist. He holds it with the blade aimed her way, the light glinting off its tip, letting her see how sharp it is, how easy it would be to sink into her flesh.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she says, which is the truth. She’s not sure if Josh wants an explanation, an apology, or simply a reason to shove that knife into her heart.
“You don’t need to say anything. I just think it would be nice to admit it.”
“Admit what?”
Josh reaches across the table, grabs one of her fries, and pops it into his mouth. “That you’re still scared of me.”
Charlie scans the diner, hoping to see Marge or the cook or even a couple of other patrons come inside. But it’s still just her and Josh.
And the knife.
That sharp, glinting extension of his hand.
Josh catches her looking at it and says, “You shouldn’t be scared, is what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not going to hurt you, Charlie. We’re friends, right? Or at least friendly.”
He lowers the knife, as if to prove his friendliness. It doesn’t make Charlie feel any better. Nothing about the situation has changed. They’re still alone, and Josh is still the Campus Killer.
“Listen,” he says. “I think it’s best if we don’t do this anymore. I think that maybe, once I’m done eating, you should stay here.”
Charlie does a little headshake, thinking she misheard him. “What?”
“You should stay here. I get back in the car, drive off, and you find another way to get home.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” Josh leans back in the booth, his hands up and palms open, like a magician showing there are no more tricks up his sleeve. “I mean, I don’t like the thought of just ditching you here. But you clearly don’t trust me. And while I’m hurt by that, I also understand that you’ve been through some hard times. Your friend being killed and all that. It would make anyone suspicious. I’m happy to have taken you this far. Now it’s time for us to part ways.”
Charlie sits in utter silence, not moving, not even blinking.
He’s lying.
She can’t help but think that.
He isn’t really offering to simply go away and leave her alone, no questions asked. That doesn’t make any sense, therefore it must be false.
On the flip side, she wonders if maybe he’s being serious. That, through some small miracle she’ll never understand, Josh really is letting her go. Maybe he’s decided she’s not worth the risk or the effort. Or that he’s bored with toying with her. Or that he’s taking pity on her.
“So you’re letting me go? Just like that?”
“Letting you go makes it sound like I’ve been holding you hostage,” Josh says. “That’s never been the case. I didn’t force you into my car. You got in all on your own.”
Charlie doesn’t see it that way. Yes, she eagerly accepted a ride from Josh, but only because she was desperate to get away and he told all the right lies. And he continued to lie so she’d stay in the car long after she suspected who he was and what he’d done. So even though she was far from forced into his Grand Am, she was definitely deceived into it.
Part of her thinks she’s still being deceived. That, instead of a movie in her mind, this is Josh toying with her some more. Getting her hopes up and then enjoying her crushed reaction when he snatches it all away.
A patch of heat forms on the back of her neck. An angry prickle. It matches her mood. Having been gaslit all night, she’s nothing if not prickly. As for anger, Charlie can feel it spreading just as quickly as the warm spot on her neck.
She’s tired of being lied to.
Tired of being deceived.
Tired of being so fucking sad all the time.
Tired of feeling guilty and confused and living a life so pathetic that she has to make imaginary movies in her head just to be able to cope.
Charlie’s so tired that she’s tempted to tell Josh she knows everything. She’s struck with an overwhelming urge to shatter the good-guy facade he’s created and watch the pieces fall away, revealing the monster behind the mask. She almost does it, too. Her jaw unclenches and her tongue loosens, ready to unleash the truth.
But then Marge appears, coming through the swinging door with a pot of coffee. “Let me top that off for you, handsome,” she says, even though Josh hasn’t taken more than a few sips.
She fills the cup to the brim and pulls back, her elbow moving across the table. Charlie watches its progress, the elbow as sharp and spindly as the knife discarded next to Josh’s plate. It keeps moving, even after it hits Charlie’s teacup.
The rest is as quick as it is inevitable.
Elbow moving.
Teacup sliding.
Both not stopping until the cup is knocked off the table and the tea spills over Charlie’s red coat.
Charlie leaps from her seat, dripping tea that, while no longer scalding, is still hot enough to sting through her wet clothes. Marge backs away, aghast, one age-spotted hand to her mouth while the other continues to grip the coffeepot.
“Aw, shit,” she says. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Charlie slides out of the booth, pressing her napkin to the front of the coat.
“It’s fine,” she says, more relieved than angry. Marge’s accident gives her a chance to get up, to get away from Josh, to regroup. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Marge points to a small alcove next to the swinging door. “Right there, hon.”
Charlie makes a beeline toward it, the napkin still pressed to her coat even though it’s now so soaked that tea squishes between her fingers. Inside the alcove, she sees two doors, one marked guys and the other, disconcertingly, dolls. She pushes the door open and rushes inside, not bothering to take one last look at Josh.
Even though this is the perfect time for him to, as he put it, part ways, Charlie has a feeling he’s not going anywhere.
When she returns from the bathroom, he’ll still be waiting for her.
