She took out her phone again and the man snatched it out of her hand. He led her to his automobile and opened the passenger door. "Get in," he said, giving her a gentle shove. She got in, frantically looking around for something she could use as a weapon.

The man hurried around to the driver's side. He opened the door, knelt down, then got inside the car, no longer holding her phone. He shut the door and turned on the engine.

"Behave and you won't get hurt," he said. "This can end horribly for both of us, or we can both play it cool."

"Show me the proof that Gertie's alive."

"When we're in the clear." He reached under his shirt and took a revolver out of the waistline of his jeans. "Just in case you thought I was bluffing. I don't want to use this, so don't make me."

He backed out of the parking space. As they drove away, Charlene saw her phone on the pavement, where the front tire had rolled over it.

"Somebody's gonna find my phone," she told him.

The man shrugged. "I don't care if they find it there. I just don't want them tracing it."

"So you're Warren?"

"Ken, actually."

Charlene really, really didn't like that he'd told her his real name. She wished she hadn't asked in the first place. Maybe he was lying. Maybe Ken wasn't his name. God, she hoped it wasn't.

"You're a pretty selfless girl," said Ken. "I saw that on the news. Offering to be that psychopath's hostage and stuff. Well, we're going to have to tap into that, because you may get scared and try to escape. If you try—even if you don't succeed, which you won't—Gertie will die. And I mean die. Keep that in mind."

"I'm not going to try to escape," Charlene assured him. She could no longer see the restaurant in the rearview mirror.

"Good girl," said Ken. "Keep making this easy."

Ken drove down the street, sticking to the speed limit. He was in the right-hand lane, so when he stopped at a red light, there were no adjacent drivers for Charlene to signal to. She wouldn't do anything with her hands, but a mouthed "Call the police!" might send the message without him noticing.

The revolver was in his lap. He was mostly steering with his right hand, but even when he had both hands on the wheel, she didn't see any way she could grab the weapon. A sudden attack would probably just end with her being gut-shot...though she would keep watching for an opportunity.

"Hypothetical question for you," said Ken.

"Okay."

"Do you know what color nail polish Gertie wears?"

"No."

"You sure? Think hard."

Charlene wanted to throw up. This line of questioning could not be headed anywhere good. "I really don't know."

"Are her nails short or long?"

"Short, I think. Long nails aren't good when you're carrying trays all day."