Survive the Night by Riley Sager
INT. DINER—NIGHT
Marge swore she wasn’t going to intervene, even though she sensed trouble the moment they entered the diner. It was clear from their body language that something wasn’t right with the two of them. The girl in the red coat looked scared and the man she was with looked surly. Never a good combo in Marge’s experience.
Yet she held her tongue, which has gotten her in trouble more often than not. She only speaks up when she’s truly concerned, like when that other couple left still three sheets to the wind. They didn’t listen to her—people their age never do—but she had to say something, even if it was just to keep her conscience clean. She offered advice. They ignored her. Whatever happens after that isn’t her concern.
And these two were none of her business. They looked to Marge like a couple that just had a fight in the car and needed to stop somewhere to decompress. She sees it all the time.
Concern didn’t truly set in until she took the surly-looking man’s order.
“What’s your blue-plate special?”
Marge was watching the girl when he said it, thinking about how she looked like a hostage and how much that fact worried her. Then the girl went to the pay phone and he followed her out, like some kind of stalker, afraid that his prey was going to run away. Yet another reason for concern.
After that, Marge knew she absolutely had to do something, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She couldn’t help herself. Standing back and doing nothing just isn’t in her nature.
So she grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, flexing her elbow in the process. They were pointy, her elbows. Marge knew it because she’d been told so her entire marriage. Howard, bless his dearly departed heart, always complained that she elbowed him in her sleep. “Damn, Marge,” he used to say, “do you use a pencil sharpener on those things before you go to bed?”
She can only imagine what he’d say now that the cancer has whittled her down to nothing but skin and bones.
Pot in hand, Marge went back to that corner booth and put one of those pointy elbows to use. She hated to do it, knocking over the cup of tea like that. Especially on that pretty red coat. But the way Marge sees it, she didn’t have a choice. She needed to get the girl alone. And so she did.
Now the girl is in the bathroom and Marge is grabbing a clean washcloth from the kitchen, which is stacked with dirty plates because she told the high school boy who usually washes the dishes not to come in. It’s a Tuesday night in November. There’s no crowd beating down the door. Which is a good thing, Marge thinks as she grabs a bottle of club soda from the mini fridge under the fountain drinks.
It means she won’t be bothered by other customers.
She and the girl in the red coat will have plenty of time for a long talk.
