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“No,” Marge says. “I’m doing it because I know I can get away with it.”
She throws open the car door and steps outside, taking the satchel but leaving the wig. She then goes to the other side of the car and opens the rear door, aiming the pistol at Charlie’s temple as she slides out.
With the pistol again at Charlie’s back, Marge marches her to the lodge’s entrance—a tall set of mahogany doors inlaid with twin windows of stained glass.
“Nudge it open,” Marge instructs. “It’s already unlocked.”
Charlie uses her shoulder to push the doors open. Beyond them is total darkness.
“Step inside,” Marge says.
Again, Charlie does as she’s told. She knows not to try to put up a fight. Because Marge is right—she can get away with anything she wants. She’s terminally ill. Already sentenced to death.
And if Charlie’s learned anything from the movies, it’s that few things are more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose.
INT. LODGE LOBBY—NIGHT
Inside the lodge, all is dark. Charlie can only see what’s immediately beyond the rectangle of pale moonlight spilling through the open door. Still, she can tell the lobby is as big as the lodge’s exterior suggests. Every footfall on the parquet floor echoes to the ceiling high above.
The whole place reeks of neglect, the odors inside heightened by the darkness. The smell of dust is thick and overpowering. There are other scents, too. Mold. Damp. Traces of animals that have gotten inside. Charlie’s nose twitches. She tries to scratch it, but her range of motion is useless thanks to the rope around her wrists.
Behind her, Marge rustles through the satchel, never pointing the pistol away from Charlie. Eventually, she pulls out a large flashlight and flicks it on. As the light sweeps across the lobby, Charlie catches quick glances of dust-streaked floor, unadorned walls, support timbers vanishing into the gloom above them.
Marge nudges the pistol into Charlie’s back, moving them toward the rear of the lobby. There’s another entrance there—a set of French doors flanked by rows of tall windows. The glass on theFrench doors is opaque with dirt on both sides. Drapes cover the windows next to the French doors, pulled completely shut, their fabric turned gray and fuzzy by dust. The result is such a scarcity of light that it might as well be another wall.
The area has already been prepared for their arrival. In the glow of the flashlight, Charlie sees a large canvas drop cloth spread over the floor. Atop it sit a wooden chair, a stool, and two kerosene lanterns.
Marge drops the satchel on the floor, does more shuffling through the contents inside, and pulls out a box of matches, which she uses to light the two lanterns. Their combined glow brightens the lobby considerably, revealing a massive space made all the more cavernous by how empty it is. What Charlie assumes had once been filled with armchairs, potted plants, and guests bustling about is now a wide expanse of nothing.
To the right, the front desk sits dust-covered and unused. Behind it are bare patches on the wall where paintings had once hung. A lounge sits to the left, now empty save for an oak bar and emerald-colored lighting fixtures that hang over spaces where tables must have been.
Closer to the back of the lobby, the front desk and lounge give way to wide halls that lead to the lodge’s two wings, one on each side. Charlie tries to look down each one, searching for a means of escape, but she can’t see beyond their entrances. Even with the flickering glow of the lanterns, they’re nothing but tunnels of darkness.
Marge, apparently tired of rifling through the satchel, dumps its remaining contents into a clattering pile on the canvas drop cloth.
There’s the bottle of chloroform, of course, and the rag already used to apply it.
What’s worse are the other items now spread out on the floor.
A knife.
Bigger than the one Charlie had used on Josh.
A carving knife.
Marge removes it from its leather sheath, exposing a wide blade and an edge so sharp it looks like it could slice bone.
She sets it down next to a pair of slip-joint pliers.
Charlie’s body clenches at the sight of them, her muscles sparking with the urge to run.
She doesn’t care that Marge still holds the gun and that running is impossible and that she doesn’t know where to run even if she could.
All Charlie and her twitching body and racing brain care about is getting away.
Now.
Right now.