Survive the Night

by Riley Sager

  “I’m sorry,” she says, surprised by the hitch in her voice that she’s forced to swallow down. “I know this is hard.”

  “It’s been worse for you,” Robbie says. “I understand why you need to do this. I should have understood sooner. And what I hope happens is that your time away will be exactly what you need and that when the spring semester rolls around, you’ll be ready to come back to me.”

  Charlie’s hit with another pang of guilt as Robbie looks down at her with those huge brown eyes of his. Bambi eyes, Maddy used to call them. So round and soulful that Charlie couldn’t help but be mesmerized the first time they met.

  Although she suspects that initial meeting was probably mundane, her memory of it is like something out of a classic romantic comedy. It was at the library, she a sophomore strung out on Diet Coke and midterm stress and Robbie a ridiculously handsome first-year grad student simply looking for a place to sit. He chose her table, one that comfortably sat four but had been commandeered by Charlie and all the books she’d spread across it.

  “Room for one more?” he said.

  Charlie looked up from the Pauline Kael book she was reading, saw those eyes, and promptly froze. “Um, sure.”

  She didn’t clear space for him. Didn’t move at all, in fact. She only stared. So much so that Robbie swiped a palm across his cheek and said, “Do I have something on my face?”

  She laughed. He sat. They started chatting. About midterms. And college life. And life in general. She learned that Robbie had been an undergrad at Olyphant and chose to remain there for his graduate studies, well on his way to becoming a math professor. Robbie learned that Charlie’s parents took her to see E.T. three times in the theaters and that she bawled all the way home after each screening.

  They ended up talking until the library closed. And talking more after that at an all-night diner off-campus. They were still talking when they strolled up to Charlie’s dorm at two a.m. That was when Robbie told her, “Just so you know, I wasn’t really looking for a place to sit. I just needed an excuse to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re special,” he said. “I could tell the moment I saw you.”

  Just like that, Charlie was smitten. She liked Robbie’s looks, obviously, and how he seemed to be oblivious to them. She liked his sense of humor. And that he didn’t care at all about movies, which seemed so refreshingly foreign to her. It was a far cry from the Godfather-obsessed man-children who populated most of her film classes.

  For a time, things were good between them. Even great. Then Maddy died and Charlie changed, and now there’s no going back to being the girl she was that night at the library.

  Robbie checks his watch and announces the time. Five past nine. Josh is late. Charlie wonders where that should fall on the worry spectrum.

  “You don’t need to wait with me,” she says.

  “I want to,” Robbie says.

  Charlie knows she should want that, too. It would be normal to want to spend as much time with him as possible before they part. But, to her, normal is wanting to avoid a rushed goodbye in front of an almost complete stranger. Normal is desiring a sad, quiet farewell witnessed by no one else but them. Bogart putting Bergman on the plane at the end of Casablanca. Streisand sweeping a hand through Redford’s hair in The Way We Were.

  “It’s cold,” she says. “You go on back to your apartment. I know you have an early class tomorrow.”

  “You sure?”

  Charlie nods. “I’ll be fine. I swear.”

  “Call me when you get home,” Robbie says. “No matter how late it is. And call me from the road, if you see a pay phone. Let me know you’re safe.”

  “We’re driving from New Jersey to Ohio. The only danger is dying of boredom.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Charlie knows, because she’s thinking what Robbie’s thinking. The thing neither of them wants to articulate because it will ruin this goodbye.

  Maddy was killed.

  By a stranger.

  One who’s still out there. Somewhere. Likely waiting to do it again.

  “I’ll try to call,” Charlie says. “I promise.”

  “Pretend it’s one of those movies you were always making me watch,” Robbie says. “The ones with the French-sounding name.”

  “Film noir?” Charlie shakes her head. After a year of dating, has she taught him nothing?

  “Yeah, one of those. You’re being held captive against your will and the only way to get help is by speaking in code to your worried boyfriend.”

  “What’s the code?” Charlie says, playing along, grateful for the way Robbie’s choosing to wrap up this goodbye.

  Not sad.

  Cinematic.

  “ ‘Things took a detour.’ ”

  The way Robbie says it makes Charlie assume he’s trying to imitate Bogart, even though it sounds more like Jimmy Stewart to her ears.

  “And if everything is fine?”

  “ ‘It’s smooth sailing, sweetheart.’ ”

  This time he really does sound like Bogart, and hearing it makes Charlie’s heart crack open a bit.

  “I love you,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Charlie can’t tell if Robbie’s response is an intentional Star Wars reference or if it’s just a happy accident. Either way, she doesn’t care, because now he’s kissing her again and hugging her one last time and saying goodbye for real, in a way that’s sadder than any movie. The pain in her chest grows—an acute ache Charlie expects will stay with her the entire ride home.

  “You’re still special, Charlie,” Robbie says. “I need you to know that.”

  Then he’s gone and it’s only her. Standing alone at the curb with her box and two suitcases, the situation finally feels real.

  She’s doing it.

  She’s actually leaving.

  In a few hours she’ll be home, probably watching a movie with Nana Norma, maybe on her way to returning to the person she used to be.

  Charlie opens her backpack and fishes out the orange pill bottle that’s been rattling around at the bottom of it since September. Inside the bottle is more orange—tiny tablets that always reminded her of M&M’s when she took one. Back when she did take them.

  She lied to Robbie about that. It’s been three days since she gulped one down, even though the psychiatrist who prescribed them promised they’d keep the movies in her mind at bay. And they did. But they also made her both drowsy and restless, her body constantly veering between those two extremes. The result was weeks of sleepless nights and lost days. A vampire. That’s what the orange pills turned her into.

  To counteract that, the psychiatrist also gave Charlie a prescription for little white pills to help her sleep.

  Those were worse.

  So much worse that she had already gotten rid of them.

  Now it’s time to say goodbye to the orange ones. She’s through with pills of any color.

  Charlie steps off the curb and walks a few yards to a storm drain carved into the asphalt. She pours the pills into it, enjoying the twinge of satisfaction she gets from watching them bounce off the metal grate before dropping into the darkness below. The bottle goes into a nearby trash can.

  Returning to her box and suitcases, Charlie pulls her red coat tighter around her. The November night is pitched precisely between autumn and winter. The sky is clear and the stars are bright, but there’s a sharp chill to the air that makes her shiver. Or maybe the shiver comes from the fact that she’s now alone outside while there’s a killer on the loose.

  Even if she didn’t realize that danger on her own, she’d be reminded by the Take Back the Night flyer taped to the streetlamp next to her. The flyers are a direct response to Maddy’s murder. As were the candlelit vigils. And guest speakers. And grief counselors who d
escended onto campus armed with pamphlets and good intentions.

  Charlie avoided all of it, preferring to grieve alone. As a result, she also missed out on the sense of fear that’s gripped campus for the past two months. She spent most of her time locked in her room and thus had no reason to be scared.

  Now, however, she feels a frigid tingle on the back of her neck. Not helping is the list of rules printed on the flyer, most of which she’s currently disobeying.

  Never go out alone at night.

  Always walk in pairs.

  Always tell someone where you’re going.

  Never trust a stranger.

  That last one gives Charlie pause. Because as much as she likes to think otherwise, Josh is a stranger. Or he will be, if he ever shows up. Charlie doesn’t wear a watch and has no clue what time it is. But she suspects it’s close to quarter after nine. If he doesn’t show up soon, she’ll have no choice but to return to the dorm. She probably should have done that already. Hell, according to the Take Back the Night flyer, she shouldn’t even be here at all, alone at the curb with suitcases and a box, clearly looking like someone about to leave and who no one would miss for a few days.

  Because her need to get away far outweighs her fear, she stays put, watching the entrance to the parking lot. Soon enough, a double-barreled glow appears on the horizon.

  Headlights.

  They swoop farther into the lot before curving in a wide arc and aiming right at her. She squints against their brightness and looks to the sidewalk, where her shadow stretches like a ghost into the snow-dusted grass behind her. A second later, a car is waiting at the curb. The driver’s-side door opens, and Josh climbs out.

  “Charlie, hi,” he says, speaking the words with a shy smile, as if it were a first date.

  “Hey.”

  “Sorry about the night drive,” Josh says. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  In the past two months, Charlie’s become well-acquainted with the dark. More nights than not, she was wide awake until dawn, thanks in part to her pills, the dorm room aglow from the light of the TV and whatever movie she happened to be watching.

  “Well, your chariot awaits,” Josh says as he pats the roof of the car. “Not quite a limousine, but it’ll get us where we need to go.”

  Charlie takes a moment to examine the car. The slate-gray Pontiac Grand Am—to her eye, at least—looks far from junky. Exterior freshly washed. No obvious scratches or dents. Definitely no tinted windows. Charlie can see right into the front seat, which is blessedly empty. It’s the kind of car her father might drive, if he was still around. Sensible. Hopefully dependable. A car built to blend in with the crowd.

  Josh eyes the box and suitcases at her feet. “I didn’t think you’d be bringing that much. You plan on being gone awhile?”

  “Hopefully not too long,” Charlie says, not meaning it but also wondering if she secretly does. And why shouldn’t she want that? Doesn’t she owe it to Robbie to at least try to come back for the spring semester? Doesn’t she owe it to herself?

  Even though Maddy’s the reason she’s doing all this, Charlie knows she’d disapprove.

  You’re being an idiot, darling. That’s what Maddy would have said about her plan to leave campus.

  “Is there enough room for it all?” Charlie says.

  “Plenty,” Josh says as he quickly moves to the back of the car and unlocks the trunk.

  Charlie grabs the cardboard box and starts to carry it toward the open trunk. Josh swoops in before she can get near it, taking the box from her arms and leaving Charlie only with her backpack.

  “Let me get that for you,” he says.

  Her arms suddenly unburdened, Charlie spends the next few seconds watching Josh load her things into the trunk. In that short span of time, she notices something strange about the way he’s standing. Rather than pack everything from directly behind the car, Josh remains at an angle, his broad back blocking whatever view Charlie might get of the open trunk. Almost as if there’s something else inside. Something he doesn’t want her to see.

  Charlie suspects it’s nothing.

  She knows it’s nothing.

  People sometimes do weird things. She’s the girl who sees movies in her mind, and Josh is the guy who fills his trunk in a weird way. End of story.

  But then Josh turns around after slamming the trunk shut and she notices something else about him. Something that, to her mind, is stranger than how he loaded the trunk.

  Josh is dressed the same as he was at the ride board.

  Exactly the same.

  Same jeans. Same sweatshirt. Same nice hair. Yes, they’re at a college and everyone dresses like this; it’s the unofficial uniform of Olyphant. But Josh wears it uncomfortably, almost like these are not his normal clothes. There is, Charlie realizes, a bit of Central Casting to his look, as if he’s been hired as an extra. Generic College Hunk #2.

  Josh smiles again, and Charlie notices that it’s absolutely perfect. The smile of a matinee idol, intimidating in its full glory. It might be sexy. It might be sinister. Charlie can’t decide which.

  “We’re all set,” he says. “Ready to ditch this pop stand?”

  Charlie doesn’t immediately answer. She’s distracted by the idea that these all could be warning signs. The trunk. The clothes. They’re exactly the kinds of things she’d sworn would make her turn around and go straight back to her dorm.

  It’s not too late for that. She could easily inform Josh she’s changed her mind and that he should just take her things out of the trunk. Instead, she tells herself to stop being so suspicious. This isn’t about Josh. Or what he’s wearing. Or how he loads the trunk. It’s about her and the fact that, now that she’s on the cusp of leaving, she’s suddenly seeking out reasons to stay.

  And there are reasons. She should get an education. She loves her major. Then there’s the simple fact that it would make Robbie happy.

  But would she be happy?

  Charlie doesn’t think so.

  She could pretend to be, for Robbie’s sake. She could go through the motions, just like she’s been doing since September. And maybe—just maybe—the storm cloud she’s been living under would eventually lift and she could go back to being a normal college student. Well, semi-normal. Charlie has enough self-awareness to know she’ll never be exactly like everyone else. There always has been and always will be an aura of eccentricity about her. And that’s okay.

  What’s not okay, at least to Charlie, is remaining in a place where she’s miserable. Where she’s reminded daily of a deep, painful loss. Where memories sting and guilt lingers and not a week, day, hour goes by in which she doesn’t think, I shouldn’t have left her. I should have stopped him. I should have saved her.

  She looks at Josh, still patiently waiting for an answer.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says.

  INT. GRAND AM—NIGHT

  Charlie learned to drive in the car her parents would later die in.

  It was her father who taught her, his patience thinning with each lurching spin around the high school parking lot. He insisted Charlie learn how to drive stick because, in his words, “Then you’ll be able to drive anything.”

  But the manual transmission baffled her. Three pedals instead of two, like in her mother’s car, and all those steps she had to follow. A dance she didn’t know and thought she’d never, ever master.

  Left foot clutch.

  Right foot brake.

  Neutral. Ignition. Accelerate.

  It took an entire afternoon of practice before Charlie could drive a single lap around the lot without stalling or grinding the gears in a way that made her father break out in a cold sweat. It took two more weeks before she truly felt comfortable behind the wheel of that maroon Chevy Citation. But once that happened, the rest came quickly to her
. The three-point turns and parallel parking and slaloms through traffic cones her father had borrowed from a buddy who worked construction.

  She aced her license exam on the first try, unlike her best friend, Jamie, who needed three attempts before she passed. Afterward, Charlie and her father went out for celebratory ice cream, her behind the wheel and him continuing his lessons with advice offered from the passenger seat.

  “Never drive more than five miles over the speed limit,” he told her. “Cops won’t bother you. Not for that.”

  “And over five?” Charlie asked, taunting him with the idea that she intended to be a speed demon.

  Her father gave her one of those Excuse me? looks that had become common during her teenage years. “Do you want to use that brand-new license of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stick to the speed limit.”

  As Charlie shifted the car into second gear, her father seemed to shift, too. He leaned back in his seat and let his gaze roam from the windshield to the passenger-side window.

  “Your mother would be livid if she ever found out I told you this,” he said, “but sometimes, in real life, you can’t avoid speeding. Sometimes your only choice is to drive like hell.”

  Although Josh doesn’t drive like hell, keeping his speed at a legal forty-five miles per hour as they leave campus, it’s good enough for Charlie. After two months of stasis, she’s finally in motion. No, it won’t change what happened. It certainly won’t change her role in it. But Charlie hopes this bit of movement is the first step on the long road to acceptance and forgiveness. And when they pass the brightly lit Olyphant University sign on the way out, she allows herself to enjoy the sense of relief that wraps around her like a warm hug.

  Or maybe that’s just the heater, pumping through slatted vents on the dashboard. After standing in the cold for so long, Charlie feels soothed by the warmth and the fact that the car is as clean inside as it is on the outside. No dirt on the floor or McDonald’s wrappers on the front seat, like in Robbie’s car. It even smells clean, making Charlie think Josh came straight here from a full-service car wash. She catches traces of shampoo rising from the upholstered seat beneath her. Mixed with it is the strong, not entirely pleasant scent of pine, courtesy of a tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It swings as they turn onto the main road that runs parallel to the university, sending a fresh swath of pine stink Charlie’s way. She wrinkles her nose at the smell.