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New Jersey.
That’s at least one check in the Trust Josh column.
“I’ll be right back,” Charlie tells him, even though it’s not a given. It’s entirely possible she might decide to never enter that car again. There’s also the possibility Josh might kill her before she gets the chance to make that decision.
Charlie quickens her pace as she walks to the restrooms. It’s unnervingly quiet here, not to mention secluded. Behind her, about a hundred yards from the parking lot, is the interstate. Up ahead, looming darkly behind the facilities, is a forest of unknown size and density.
Just outside the door to the restrooms is a pay phone. Charlie pauses in front of it, knowing it’s still not too late to call Robbie. Which is what she should have done at the 7-Eleven before they hit the highway. Charlie knows that now. She regrets, with an intensity that aches, not picking up the phone and saying those four magical words.
Things took a detour.
Charlie’s about to reach for the phone when she notices a piece of masking tape stuck over the coin slot. She grabs the receiver anyway, lifting it from its cradle. There’s no dial tone. Just her luck.
It isn’t until after she slams the phone back into place that Charlie realizes Josh could be watching her. She’s still outside the building, in full view of anyone in the parking lot. She shoots a quick, cautious glance toward the Grand Am. Josh is there, outside the car now, stretching his arms to the sky while rolling his neck. He hasn’t seen a thing.
Good.
Charlie steps into the building, finding the inside as depressing as the outside. The walls are gray. The floor is dirty. The lights overhead buzz out a wan, yellow glow. Vending machines line the wall to the left, offering three choices: snacks, sodas, hot beverages. To the right are the bathrooms, men’s room by the door, ladies’ room toward the back.
Hanging on the wall between them is a large map showing the state of Pennsylvania, with wide slices of New Jersey and Ohio on either side. Charlie’s entire route home is visible—the long red line of Interstate 80 slithering its way across the Keystone State. And they’ve barely made it past the border, as evidenced by a tiny white arrow marking their current location. On top of the arrow, in minuscule red letters, it readsyou are here.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Charlie mutters, aware that she could still be in the Grand Am, lost in another mental movie.
Hell, why stop there? There’s nothing to keep her from thinking that the entire night’s all a movie in her mind. She could snap out of it and find herself back at Olyphant. Or, even better, back in September, waking up the morning after marching away from that bar and awful Cure cover band to see Maddy still asleep on the other side of the room, the past two months nothing but a horrible nightmare.
Charlie closes her eyes, hoping for that exact scenario. She waits, her body still, trying to will that version of events into existence. But when her eyes open, she’s in the same spot, facing the map and its white arrow, which now feels like a taunt.
YOU ARE HERE.
Fuck.
If the map says it, then it must be true. It’s about the only thing she can trust.
INT. REST STOP BATHROOM—NIGHT
Disheartened, Charlie pushes into the ladies’ room. It’s dim inside, thanks to the fact that only one row of lights seems to be working. The result is a rectangle of brightness centered near the sinks while the stalls on the other side of the bathroom sit in shadow. It also smells awful. A mix of urine and industrial cleaner that makes her gag.
Using a hand to cover her nose and mouth, Charlie retreats to one of the stalls on the dim side of the bathroom. The last one in the row, farthest away from the door. She backs herself inside and sits on the toilet, trying to think, trying to come up with some kind of plan.
She could wait. That’s certainly an option. She could stay in this bathroom, inside this stall, and not emerge until someone else arrives at the rest stop, which they’re bound to do soon. Another vehicle could be pulling into the parking lot this very second. Charlie could ask them for help and beg for a ride to the nearest police station. If they ask why, she could tell them the truth—that the man she’s with sort of, kind of, could be a serial killer.
Not a very convincing argument.
And that’s what has Charlie so on edge. If she knew with certainty that Josh was dangerous, she’d be barricading the bathroom door or running for the highway or hiding in the woods.
But nothing about the situation is certain. She could be wrong about Josh. It could all be a huge misunderstanding. Her fanciful imagination running at full gallop because her life has been a guilt-ridden train wreck for two months.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door. A single, sharp rap that startles Charlie so much that she gasps when she hears it.
Josh.
Charlie doesn’t think a woman would knock. It’s the ladies’ room. She would just walk right in. Which is exactly what happens next. Charlie hears the creak of the door opening, followed by the sound of footsteps on the sticky tile floor.
The bathroom’s lone working light starts to flicker, on the cusp of joining the others. There’s a moment of pure darkness, followed by staccato buzzes of light that continue in a strobe-like pattern.
Charlie hears a rap on the first stall in the row, as if Josh is checking to see if someone’s inside. After another quick rap, the door is opened with a rough shove. Rather than going in, he moves to the second stall, raps on the door, pushes it open.
He’s on the hunt.