Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Most damning of all, the script is extremely mediocre. It’s not as bad as Max seems to think, but it’s definitely nowhere near the level and quality I’ve come to expect from Cowan. His films are beautifully shot and cinematic, but their heart lies in the expert writing, and this script is so far from expert it’s almost embarrassing.
There’s no way we can make this movie using this pile of garbage.
The bell for the door rings and Baptist stalks over. He’s in all black today and looks good. His hair is still wet from the shower and he slumps down into the chair opposite me, looking tired, but with a smile on his lips.
“I fully expected to have to track you down today, Webb,” he says, cracking his neck. “And yet here you are.” His eyes slip to the script and there’s a hunger in his expression that makes me want to dig a hole and bury myself. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed about this—I didn’t write the damn thing—but for some reason, I’m taking it personally.
Like by entrusting me with it, Cowan also shifted responsibility of it over to me.
“We gotta talk about this.” I jab a finger down on the script’s blank cover page. “I read it last night.”
“And?”
“Max read it this morning.”
He laughs lightly. “Figures your brother would read our script before I do.”
I hesitate then push it over. “Take a look.”
He accepts it and is about to skim through when Zoe comes over with his coffee. He thanks her and winks at me before opening to the first page, clearing his throat, and diving in.
“I just want to say that I was really surprised when I read it,” I say as his eyes move across the beginning, skimming down, and on to the next page. “I read it three times last night trying to see if I was missing something. It took me forever to understand Cowan’s freaking awful handwriting, but honestly, it’s just—” I try to find the words. How do I say it’s bad without saying it’s bad?
Baptist’s face slowly darkens. He goes from interested, to confused, to angry, and begins turning pages. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”
“Uh, I mean, I don’t think so. I know it’s not very good—”
“Blair.” He closes the pages. The sound of my actual name makes me stiffen all over. “I’m not fucking around right now. Is this some kind of joke?”
“Don’t be a dick to me,” I say, my own anger rising to match his. “Cowan gave me that stupid script but I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t write it, I didn’t consult on it—”
“He just handed it over and that’s it? He didn’t say anything else about it?”
“No, why the hell would he?”
Baptist leans back in his chair and stares at me for a few seconds before speaking in a quiet, gravelly tone.
“Cowan didn’t write this.”
I shake my head, confusion replacing my anger. I reach for the script but he holds it back, pulling it out from under my fingers. “If he didn’t, who the hell did? And how do you even know that?”
Baptist stands and begins to pace, flipping through the pages, his eyes skimming over the words. He looks deadly serious and a horrible feeling begins to slide through my stomach. Something is wrong, something is very wrong, and Baptist is barely keeping himself from flipping out.
Finally, he stops pacing and looks at me.
“Late in my father’s life, he started writing movies.”
His words are like hammers to my face. I sit there, transfixed, shocked, horrified. I can’t move, like I’m nailed to the seat.
“He sent me some of the scripts,” he says, holding up the papers. “I read everything because I loved him, but he wasn’t very good. I think he might’ve been once, when he was younger and wasn’t addled by oxycontin, but the scripts he sent me were mediocre at best.”
“Baptist,” I say, shaking my head, “what the hell are you saying?”
“My father wrote this script. It’s called The Hole That Swallowed Him and it was the last thing he sent me before he died.”
Chapter 20
Baptist
It’s a sick joke. It’s a disgusting, morbid, nightmarish prank. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.
How the hell did Cowan get this script?
I pace back and forth, reading the words. The writing in the margins is definitely Cowan, but the typed pages are my father’s work. As far as I know, Dad drafted on a typewriter and there was only a single copy of each manuscript he created. I read this one and gave it back to him days before he overdosed, which means it must have been with all his estate stuff after he passed.
I don’t remember what we did with everything. Those early days were a blur of funeral planning and mourning, and so much stuff fell through the cracks. I was a shell of a man trying to pick myself up from the sewer, broken and bitter and angry, and so much of that time is lost now.