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She thinks: In a few seconds, this will all be over.
But then another thought emerges, one less hopeful than the others.
She thinks: Right now—this very moment—could be another movie in her mind. It doesn’t matter that Marge also hears him, her lips forming an irritated scowl. That might also just be part of the movie. Irrational hope projected onto the backs of her eyelids.
Robbie calls her name again, prompting Marge to reach into her apron pocket and remove what she’s been hiding there.
A pistol.
It’s small. Almost dainty. There’s ivory at the handle and a polished shine to the slate-gray barrel.
“Make one sound,” Marge whispers, “and I’ll shoot him.”
She leaves the storeroom and pushes into the dining room. Left alone, Charlie feels hope and fear collide in her chest as, silent behind the makeshift gag, she listens to Marge unlock the front door and open it just a crack.
“Sorry,” Marge says, using her sassy-yet-weary waitress voice. “We’re closed.”
Charlie pictures her standing by the dessert case, the gun hidden in her apron as Robbie tries to peer around her, deeper into the diner.
“Was there a girl here earlier?” Robbie says.
“Lots of girls come here, hon.”
“How many were here tonight?”
“Can’t say I was keeping count.”
Charlie’s tempted to make noise, whether it’s screaming into her gag or toppling the chair or trying to throw herself against one ofthe shelves. She knows Robbie could easily overpower Marge. He’s got her beat by several inches and probably fifty pounds of muscle. The only thing keeping her silent is the gun.
Before tonight, Charlie wouldn’t have believed that someone like Marge was capable of doing harm. But in the span of a few hours she now knows better. Now she knows that ordinary people are capable of violent, vicious deeds. Look at her, for example. She just plunged a knife into a man’s stomach and left him to die.
So, no, she’s not going to test Marge. She’s going to stay silent and still because she refuses to let Robbie get hurt. Charlie has enough regret for one lifetime. She can’t take any more.
“My girlfriend called me from here earlier tonight,” Robbie says. “About two hours ago.”
“Are you sure she was calling from here, hon? There’s lots of places like this around here.”
“Yes,” Robbie says. “She referred to it by name. The Skyline Grille. She told me she was in danger.”
“What kind of danger?”
“She didn’t say. But I know she was here and in trouble and I—” Robbie, flirting with sounding hysterical, stops to collect himself. “I haven’t heard from her since, and I’m very worried about her.”
“What does she look like?” Marge asks, as if she doesn’t already know.
“She’s young. Twenty. Brown hair. Pale complexion. Her name is Charlie, and she would have been wearing a red coat.”
“Now I remember her,” Marge says. “Pretty girl. Friendly. Told me goodbye on her way out the door. She was here with another fella. Big guy. Good-looking.”
“But they’re gone now?”
“There’s no one here but me, sweetie.”
Robbie pauses, thinking. Even without being able to see him, Charlie knows he’s got his head lowered and the thumb of his right hand running along his bottom lip. His usual lost-in-thought pose.
“Did she look scared in any way?” he says. “Or like she appeared to be in danger?”
“Not from what I can recall,” Marge says. “They weren’t here long. Just ordered some food and some drinks, scarfed it down, and left.”