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All the Marges pull their triggers.
One of the Charlies shatters into a hundred pieces.
Another shot rings out, this time across the ballroom, and a second Charlie is hit, a spiderweb of cracks covering her face.
Then another is shattered.
And another.
Charlie moves to the French doors.
Fast.
Panting.
She pushes through the doors and out of the ballroom.
EXT. ALLEY—NIGHT
Charlie staggers outside, trips, tumbles hard onto cold asphalt.
Before climbing to her feet, she peeks through the French doors into the ballroom she’s just vacated.
Marge isn’t inside.
The room is empty.
All the mirrors are intact.
A movie. Just like she thought.
But then Charlie stands, turns away from the ballroom, and her heart stops.
She’s outside, but it’s not the kind of outside she thought it would be.
Instead of in the lush woodlands that surround the lodge, Charlie finds herself outside the bar she was at the night Maddy was killed. It’s exactly the same, from the beer and puke smell outside to the Cure cover band inside.
And there, right in the middle of the alley, is Maddy, looking the way she did the last time Charlie saw her.
Standing with a dark figure.
Bathed in slanting white light.
Head lowered as she lights a cigarette.
This time, though, she casts a glance Charlie’s way, over the shadowy man’s shoulder, looking straight at her.
Then she smiles.
Such a glorious smile.
She could have been a star, Charlie knows. She had the looks for it. Her beauty was unconventional, incandescent—perfect for the big screen. But it was Maddy’s personality that would have sealed the deal. She was badgering and blunt, charming and chaotic. People who admired such traits—people like Charlie—would have adored her.
Now none of it will happen, and Charlie can’t help but feel sorry for those who missed out. Most of the world never got to experience Madeline Forrester.
But Charlie did.
She experienced it and loved it and misses it dearly.