The ground is split and dead. Air thick with dust, like ash
that won’t settle. Nothing moves — except a torn dress,
dragging itself across the dirt.
An abandoned church stands stiff, weather-beaten. Paint
peeled to the bone. Drag marks scar the dirt, leading
straight to the open doorway — dark, still, waiting.
Muffled thuds. Something heavy being dragged. A cry — choked.
Female.
The wind shifts — sucked into the open doorway - then MOANS.
INT. ABANDONED CHURCH - CONTINUOUS
Graffiti stains the walls like rot.
Window frames gape open — glass long gone — leaking in the
first breath of daylight. Tattered white curtains stir.
A sound — wet, urgent — slices the quiet. A muffled whimper.
A choked gasp. A woman. Gagged. Hurt. Somewhere below.
The floor groans — wood bowed, splintered — veins warped by
time and weight.
Then — something shifts beneath it.
The cries rise — strangled, desperate — drawing us downward,
into the dark.
Genres:
["Horror","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
2 -
The Final Strike
INT. ABANDONED CHURCH - CELLAR - CONTINUOUS
A flickering lantern sways on a hook, painting dirt-crusted
concrete walls in sickly yellow light.
The room’s a wreck — broken furniture, dust-choked relics,
rusted tools caked in something dry and dark. A skeleton key
dangles from its chain, catching the light.
A WOMAN lies bound to a rusted bed frame — wrists and ankles
cinched tight with frayed rope.
Her face is grotesquely swollen — barely human. One eye
sealed shut, the other glazed, twitching. Duct tape stretches
tight across her mouth.
Her TORTURER straddles her — knees planted, face hidden.
Sweat beads on his skin.
She pleads — muffled, frantic. He rips the tape away.
WOMAN
You think this makes you God?
A boyish smirk clings to his face — disturbingly casual, like
he’s admiring a painting. He wipes his brow.
TORTURER
You don’t understand me. You are
not meant to.
She coughs out a bitter laugh. He leans in closer.
TORTURER (CONT’D)
I am beyond your comprehension.
She exhales. Closes her eyes. Still.
He grips a hammer. Raises it. The head catches the light —
just once — before shadows swallow it.
TORTURER (CONT’D)
YOU WILL NOT DEFY ME.
WHOOSH-CRACK.
Wet.
Final.
Bone gives.
Blood fans the wall.
The hammer buries deep — handle trembling from the force.
Ropes go slack.
Her head drops forward — just out of frame.
He stares — not at her, but through her.
A flicker of pride... then nothing.
CUT TO:
TITLE CARD: DEATHBED
BEGIN TITLE SEQUENCE - MONTAGE
- A trunk creaks open in silence. Inside: tangled jewelry, a
child’s shoe, a lock of hair in a plastic bag. None of it
belongs together. None of it feels untouched.
- Flash cuts. Wide eyes. Duct tape. Screams. Gone. Then
again, clearer, a bound hand trembling beneath stained
sheets.
- A map on a basement wall, lit by a bare bulb. Pins and red
thread stretch across state lines. One pin sits alone.
Unconnected. Waiting.
- Crime scene tape snaps in the wind. A forensics team moves
methodically. We glimpse: a smeared handprint on glass, a
bloody hammer half-buried in sand, a crucifix dangling.
- A bulletin board — dozens of victim photos. Some black-and-
white, others recent. Faded post-it notes. A single locket
pinned dead center swinging like a pendulum.
- Paperbacks slide across a table. Cheap thrillers — lurid
covers — each one with violent titles. But the author's name
is the same. Again. And again. Charles Covington.
- A newspaper presses into frame, headline sharp:
“DAUGHTER OF BESTSELLING AUTHOR CRACKS COLD CASE”
“CLAIRE COVINGTON: PROFILER OR PRODIGY?”
- A mirror, cracked down the middle. One side reflects
Claire. The other side — her father.
TYLER (PRE-LAP)
Welcome to Secrets from the Graves.
The show that peeks into the
darkest corners of unsolved
mysteries, forgotten cold cases,
and the hidden truths that refuse
to stay buried. I’m your host,
Tyler Graves.
END TITLE SEQUENCE.
DISSOLVE TO:
Genres:
["Thriller","Horror","Crime"]
Ratings
Scene
3 -
Unraveling Justice: A Conversation on Wrongful Convictions
INT. PODCAST STUDIO - DAY
Colorfully lit. Acoustic foam and framed photos of infamous
serial killers line the walls. The “SECRETS FROM THE GRAVES”
logo glows on a large screen.
CLAIRE COVINGTON (late 30s) elegant, composed, in a fitted
blazer, sits across from TYLER GRAVES (20s) — casual, fan
boy. Microphones in place. Headphones on.
TYLER
Alright, today we’re tackling a
case that haunted Cedar Ridge for
almost two decades... the murder of
Jessica Monroe. And with me? The
badass criminologist who exonerated
an innocent man and caught the real
killer. Welcome, Professor Claire
Covington.
CLAIRE
Thank you for inviting me, Tyler.
TYLER
Let’s jump in. How’d you get pulled
into this one?
CLAIRE
The Innocence Project contacted me
about Robert Tate. They were
convinced of his innocence. No
physical evidence tied him to the
crime. But the prosecution still
got a guilty verdict... fast. A
little too fast.
TYLER
Really... how so?
CLAIRE
You have to take into account that
this was during the time of the
Richmond Spree Murders --
TYLER
-- Oh yeah! The Riley Brothers!
INSERT - MONTAGE
- A man plunges a knife into a woman - again and again.
- Three men kick down a front door, storming inside.
- A terrified family huddles, backs pressed together.
- A man steps forward, knife raised, face in shadow.
TYLER (V.O.)
Earl Riley killed his wife, then
went on a crime spree...
(unsure)
With his two younger brothers?
CLAIRE (V.O.)
Tony and Jimmy. Your memory serves
you well.
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
Tate had an extensive criminal
history including domestic
violence, battery, and drug
charges. He was an easy target.
TYLER
Sounds like the West Memphis Three
or The Central Park Five.
Claire gives a faint, knowing smile — the kind that hides
more than it reveals.
CLAIRE
Something like that. Police wanted
a clean, simple case. They built
their story around motive, witness
testimony, and --
TYLER
-- Blunt force trauma.
BLOODIED HAMMER ON THE GROUND
CLAIRE (V.O.)
A hammer. Tate was a handyman. The
connection was convenient.
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
For 18 years, he swore he didn’t do
it. No memory past leaving the Low
Key Lounge.
TYLER
Where Jessica worked.
CLAIRE
Right. She cut him off that night.
He was drunk, causing trouble.
BAR SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE
Tate, drunk, yelling, being restrained.
BACK TO SCENE
TYLER
Whoa. That definitely makes him
look guilty.
CLAIRE
It definitely raises suspicion.
Exactly why detectives zeroed in on
him. After 20 hours of
interrogation... they convinced him
he must’ve done it.
TYLER
And her body was found only a few
blocks from the bar, right?
CRIME SCENE FOOTAGE
Blood trails to Jessica’s body — crumpled beside a dumpster.
CLAIRE (V.O.)
Right. But police believed she was
killed somewhere else, then dumped
behind Palano’s Pizzeria.
BACK TO SCENE
TYLER
Okay... so when did you realize
Tate wasn’t the guy? I mean, what’s
your process? How do you do it? We
need to dive inside Claire
Covington’s mind for a minute.
Claire is amused by the compliment.
CLAIRE
When I look at the evidence, it
plays back later... visions, I
guess. More like recreations.
Victim’s perspective. It’s like
snapping in the last puzzle piece.
Suddenly, it just fits.
TYLER
What did you see in this case?
CLAIRE
It was something small. A scrap of
fabric found near her body.
TYLER
Fabric?
CLAIRE
It was dismissed as garbage. But it
had a faded paisley pattern.
CLAIRE EXAMINING EVIDENCE BAG
Claire lifts the bag, tilting it so the fabric inside catches
the light — its faded pattern barely visible.
TYLER (V.O.)
And that mattered because...?
NEWS FOOTAGE
Stokes wears greasy mechanic coveralls. Claire scrubs through
the video, pausing on a specific frame.
CLAIRE (V.O.)
Later, while reviewing news
footage, I noticed something.
Stokes turns and gestures down the street. A bandana peeks
from his back pocket — paisley print.
BACK TO SCENE
TYLER
(excited)
Ohhh, that’s wild!
CLAIRE
I dug deeper. Turns out, police did
bring Stokes in for questioning.
INTERROGATION FOOTAGE
Stokes leaves, the detective follows behind. The bandana sits
on the chair, unnoticed.
The detective returns, spots the bandana, steps out, then
reappears with a paper evidence bag. He lifts it with a pen,
drops it in, seals, and labels it.
CLAIRE (V.O.)
Fortunately, the detective noticed
the bandana and placed it in a
proper evidence bag.
TYLER (V.O.)
Proper?
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
Yes, you see, evidence suspected
of containing DNA is placed in a
paper bag. Plastic can trap
moisture, which can degrade the
DNA.
TYLER
Wow. You learn something new every
day!
Claire allows a rare smile — slight, controlled.
TYLER (CONT’D)
But they never tested it?
CLAIRE
The FBI didn’t connect it to the
crime. I had them perform a DNA
test instead.
FBI REPORT
“Salivary DNA consistent with Jessica Monroe was identified
on the interior surface of the bandana recovered from the
suspect, Stokes.”
BACK TO SCENE
TYLER
No way.
CLAIRE
Way. And that scrap of fabric at
the crime scene? It was his
bandana... torn when Jessica fought
back.
TYLER
That’s insane.
CLAIRE
When confronted, Stokes confessed.
RECREATION OF THE CRIME
Stokes watches Jessica at the bar. She rejects him.
Later — walking home, she passes his van. Stokes grabs her.
She struggles as he gags her with the bandana.
Jessica goes limp.
BACK TO SCENE
Tyler exhales, shaking his head. Almost enjoying this.
TYLER
That’s brutal.
CLAIRE
He dumped her behind the pizza
place to make it look random.
TYLER
How do you stay so... composed?
When the stakes are that high?
CLAIRE
Composed? I’d say detached.
(conviction)
Emotion clouds judgment. It makes
you miss details. You get sloppy.
And in my line of work, that
doesn’t just derail a case... it
gets people killed.
(beat)
And really, for me, it’s about
closure for the family.
Claire exhales. Something flickers behind her eyes — a rare
moment of vulnerability she doesn't intend to share... but
does anyway.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
I do it for the families. The ones
who never get answers. Who never
get to bury their dead and move on.
(beat)
Nothing is worse than a case that
just... vanishes. Like they never
existed. But.. sometimes the
answers hurt more than the silence.
Tyler - nodding - fidgets, unsure what to say. He glances at
his notes — eager to escape the weight of her words.
TYLER
Okay... yeah. We’ve gotta pays some
bills. When we come back, uh... I
want to talk about your dad.
Claire smiles, but glances away — to the serial killer
photos.
TYLER (CONT’D)
Charles Covington, one of the
greatest crime novelists of all
time! Well, for me, the greatest.
Claire — a quiet flicker of pride surfaces, softening her
features.
Tyler looks directly into camera.
TYLER (CONT’D)
Be right back.
Tyler stands, stretches.
CLAIRE
You take commercial breaks on a
podcast?
TYLER
My producer think it makes us look
fancy. Like a real TV show. Gives
us a sec to reset, check gear...
grab a drink. You want anything?
CLAIRE
Sure. Coffee?
Tyler leads her to a rickety table with a coffee pot. He
pulls a flask from a nearby shelf.
TYLER
You look like a Bourbon kinda gal.
Claire stiffens — smile fading.
CLAIRE
No, thanks. I was.
Tyler shrugs. Pours a splash of whiskey into his cup before
coffee into both cups.
TYLER
Sugar?
CLAIRE
Please.
TYLER
Sweet.
Tyler awkwardly waits for a laugh. Nothing.
He turns and pours sugar, stirs, hands her the cup.
TYLER (CONT’D)
Didn’t mean to offend.
CLAIRE
You didn’t. I just... don’t
anymore.
She lifts her coffee in a subtle toast, forcing a small
smile. Tyler studies her — piecing it together.
TYLER
Got it.
Claire retrieves an AA coin from her pocket. Displays it to
Tyler like a badge. He sees the words arched across the top —
“ONE DAY AT A TIME” — before she slips it away.
CLAIRE
Ten years.
TYLER
Oh wow. That’s awesome. Congrats!
CLAIRE
Thank you.
He lets it go. Nods. Shifts gears.
TYLER (GIDDY)
So... I’m a huge fan of your dad.
(beat)
Serial killers too.
Claire eyes the framed photos of infamous killers lining the
studio walls.
CLAIRE
I can see that.
(beat)
Yeah, I’m a big fan too.
TYLER
I mean, I’ve read every one of his
books. He’s kind of the reason I do
what I do.
CLAIRE
Well, we have that in common.
TYLER
Oh yeah? What was it like growing
up with him?
CLAIRE
It was great. He was my best
friend. He always made time, came
to every fencing match... every
tennis game.
(beat)
Well... almost every game.
TYLER
Almost?
CLAIRE
When he was on his press tours, Ms.
Mitchell... Deborah, filled in. I
used to call her “Little Debby”.
She hated it.
(soft chuckle)
But she was always good to me.
TYLER
Like... your nanny?
Claire takes a sip of her drink. Her eyes drift — lost for a
moment in the past.
CLAIRE
Sort of.
Claire’s phone buzzes. Retrieves — glances at the screen.
PHONE SCREEN - A TEXT
“Andrew”
A photo of a dead woman. She scrolls:
"Need to see you tomorrow. My office."
She scrolls back to the photo, exhales. Pockets her phone.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
(distracted)
More like an executive assistant.
She managed the house, handled my
father’s schedule, finances...
everything.
TYLER
Cool.
CLAIRE
I’m actually headed over to the
house to see him after this.
TYLER
Nice! How’s he doing?
PRODUCER (O.S.)
Alright. Let’s get back to it,
people!
Claire shoots Tyler a fleeting, unreadable glance, then walks
back to her seat. He follows without a word.
Genres:
["Crime","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
4 -
Echoes of the Past
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION - DRIVEWAY - DAY
The mansion sits like a monument — sharp lines, cold
elegance. Stone washed pale by the afternoon light. Windows
shaded, unlit — the house gives no sign of life.
A car pulls in. Tires crunch over gravel. Stops.
The door creaks open. Claire steps out. She lingers —
fingertips brushing the edge of the door - staring.
A breeze stirs. Then — CHILDREN’S LAUGHTER. Faint. Echoing.
But she hears it — a memory.
She looks at the car window - her reflection stares back.
Distorted. Warped by the curve of the glass. A version of
herself she doesn’t quite recognize.
The house waits.
Claire draws a breath. Exhales.
Steps forward.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - FOYER - MOMENTS LATER
Dust floats in the fading light.
Claire steps inside. Her heels strike the hardwood — crisp,
unhurried.
From the shadows DEBORAH MITCHELL (60s) emerges. Petite,
composed. Eyes that miss nothing. Her Southern lilt —
softened, but still tucked into her vowels.
DEBORAH
Claire. My goodness, you look sharp
as ever.
CLAIRE
Still at it?
DEBORAH
Always. This house doesn’t run
itself.
Claire nods — a mechanical gesture, not unkind, just...
efficient.
Deborah’s smile lingers a second longer than it should. She
gestures toward the study.
Genres:
["Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
5 -
Tension in the Study
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY - CONTINUOUS
Claire steps into the study behind Deborah. Everything is
immaculate — not just clean, but curated.
Folders aligned perfectly on a beautiful, custom cherry wood
desk — polished to a mirror sheen. But near the corner, a
small chunk of wood is missing.
Bookshelves stretch wall to wall, full, untouched.
Deborah approaches the desk, lifts a folder, turns and hands
it to Claire.
DEBORAH
First quarter financials.
Claire flips through the pages — skimming more than reading.
CLAIRE
How is he?
DEBORAH
I’m increasingly concerned.
Claire glances up. The tone is off — not the usual update.
CLAIRE
What do you mean?
DEBORAH
His cognition... seems to be
slipping, faster each day.
CLAIRE
We’ve known that.
(mocking)
Dementia isn’t exactly a subtle
decline.
DEBORAH
He’s been talking about crime
scenes. Murders. Quite disturbing.
CLAIRE
(sarcastic)
Guess his stories had staying power
after all.
DEBORAH
(unflinching)
Claire.
Claire’s smile fades — eyes meet Deborah’s.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
I just don’t like hearing it. I’m
concerned about his well being.
Claire looks down the hall — toward the master bedroom.
Claire looks back to her. A small nod — not agreement, just
acknowledgment.
CLAIRE
Is he awake?
DEBORAH
I believe so. For now.
I gave him his meds...
(glances at watch)
fifteen minutes ago.
CLAIRE
Doctor Franklin still have him on
five milligrams of Donepezil?
DEBORAH
(nods)
Yes.
Claire doesn’t move. The folder stays open in her hand —
forgotten. Something in her face hardens.
CLAIRE
I’m thinking of calling Dr.
Franklin. See if we can bump the
dosage.
DEBORAH
(cautious)
You sure that’s wise?
CLAIRE
He’s barely coherent. Slipping in
and out.
DEBORAH
He’s fragile, Claire. More meds
might do more harm than good.
CLAIRE
Or they might help him hold on to
what’s left.
DEBORAH
(small pause)
I just think we should be careful.
That’s all.
CLAIRE
(small nod)
Alright. We’ll hold off... for now.
TV ANCHOR (PRE-LAP)
A groundbreaking discovery from
Harvard Medical is shaking up the
healthcare world...
Genres:
["Thriller","Drama","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
6 -
Fleeting Clarity
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM
Sunlight slants through the windows, casting long, golden
streaks across the lavish room. The day nearing its end.
A flat-screen TV above the fireplace plays the news — the
anchor’s voice calm, authoritative, filling the silence.
TV ANCHOR
...a potential “Fountain of Youth”
drug that could change medicine as
we know it. Aqua Da Vida. A
cocktail of cutting-edge compounds
designed to target aging at the
cellular level.
CHARLES COVINGTON (70s) lies frail in a hospital bed, skin
thin, veins mapped beneath it.
An IV bag hangs nearby. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. The sound cuts
through the steady hiss of the oxygen concentrator.
Plastic tubing winds to a nasal cannula — feeding breath into
a body that looks almost finished.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.) (CONT’D)
Scientists believe it could slow,
or even reverse, the effects of
aging, offering unprecedented gains
in longevity and health-span.
Footsteps echo from the hallway - slow, deliberate. Charles
eyes stay fixed on the IV bag. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
His fingers twitch in rhythm, involuntary - like his body is
remembering something his mind can’t reach.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.) (CONT’D)
While the promise is real, Aqua Da
Vida isn’t ready for public release
just yet.
Claire stops just outside the open doors. Charles’ gaze
shifts — trance breaks. He sees her, backlit in the doorway.
In his eyes, she’s ten years old again. His little angel.
Frozen in time.
CLAIRE
Hello Daddy.
The blankness lifts. His eyes catch the light — a flicker of
recognition, warmth bleeding in.
CHARLES
Claire Bear!
Claire approaches. There’s something in his eyes she can’t
place. The news anchor continues — echoing through the large
bedroom.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.)
The drug is currently in human
trials, as researchers study its
safety and possible side effects.
Developers are urging patience as
testing and regulatory reviews
continue.
Claire picks up the TV remote from the bedside nightstand and
turns the TV volume down — although still audible.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.) (CONT’D)
(lowered volume)
The Harvard Medical team believes
Aqua Da Vida could hit the market
in a matter of months...
(MORE)
TV ANCHOR (O.S.) (CONT'D)
a move that may redefine the future
of healthcare.
Charles' face lights up at the sight of his little angel.
CHARLES
Claire Bear, I haven’t seen you
since before lunch... were you out
playing with your friends?
CLAIRE
Working, dad.
Charles blinks — slow, deliberate. Like a system rebooting.
TV ANCHOR (O.S.)
(lowered volume)
If it works, Aqua Da Vida won’t
just change how we treat aging...
it could change how we live.
His eyes open. The fog lifts. He sees her — not a child, but
a woman.
CHARLES
There’s more to life than work, you
know.
Amused, Claire leans in — a gentle kiss to his forehead.
CLAIRE
Well, I learned from the best.
CHARLES
(grinning, interrupting)
Damn right you did. I taught you
that wicked back swing.
He lifts one trembling arm, makes a slow, feeble swing — the
ghost of a motion, barely there.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
You had those little girls crying
before the second set.
Claire exhales a soft laugh — genuine, laced with sadness.
She pulls up a chair and sits beside him.
CLAIRE
I was referring to work, dad.
CHARLES
I never worked a day in my life.
It’s not work when you love what
you do.
A knowing smile — then a hollow cough. The charm shatters. A
thin line of drool slips from the corner of Charles’ mouth.
Claire reaches for a handkerchief on the nightstand and
gently wipes it away.
She folds it with care. Slips it into her jacket pocket.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
Do you love what you do?
Claire pauses, eyes drifting to the TV as she collects her
thoughts.
TV ANCHOR
(lowered volume)
For now, all eyes are on the
scientific community. The future is
looking brighter, and maybe... a
little longer.
CLAIRE
Anything interesting on the news?
CHARLES
Eh, another scheme to keep people
breathing longer than they should.
Some lives aren't meant to be
stretched... they're meant to end.
Claire watches as Charles rubs his trembling hands together —
compulsive, surgical — then curls them into a strangling
motion, sneering at nothing.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
I loved it.
(beat)
I fucking love it.
Claire stiffens. That voice — it isn’t his.
CLAIRE
Dad?
Charles blinks back to life. His eyes lock on Claire — wide,
searching. The rubbing stops. To him, she’s ten again.
CHARLES
Claire Bear! I haven’t seen you
since before lunch... were you out
playing with your friends?
Claire leans in, gently steadying his hands.
CLAIRE
Work, Daddy.
CHARLES
Ah. Yeah. Work. There’s more to
life than work, you know?
His gaze lingers — something shifts. He sees her — not ten,
but grown.
CLAIRE
Well... I solved another case,
daddy. Thought you’d be proud of
me.
Claire aches for his approval.
Charles starts to drift — then blinks himself back.
CHARLES
(blissful)
I enjoyed my work. Constructing
characters. Controlling their
destiny.
He looks at her — a flicker of lucidity.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
(whispers)
It’s not easy to kill someone, you
know?
Claire — close enough to feel his breath — freezes.
CLAIRE
(unnerved)
Dad? You mean... the characters in
your books?
CHARLES
(drowsy)
Huh? Construction? Oh... yes.
(reminiscing)
The construction site. They found
the body there.
(chuckle)
But that wasn’t...
His lids droop. Mouth slackens. The meds pull him under.
Claire sits, still. His words echo — tightening around her.
After a beat, she lifts the blanket and tucks him in. Gently.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Family"]
Ratings
Scene
7 -
Restless Inquiry
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY - NIGHT
Claire lingers in the doorway.
Deborah freezes mid-task — a ledger open, pen hovering. Her
eyes lift — sharp. Reading Claire before she speaks.
CLAIRE
Has my father mentioned anything
about a construction site?
DEBORAH
Not that I recall.
She gives a small nod — noted.
CLAIRE
‘Night. I’ll be back tomorrow.
DEBORAH
Good night, dear.
Deborah watches Claire leave. A flicker of curiosity in her
eyes — brief, but sharp. Then it’s gone.
She returns to her work.
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION - DRIVEWAY - NIGHT
Claire reaches her car. The house looms behind her, lit just
enough to feel alive. She exhales — sharp, shallow. Digs into
her purse. Finds the cigarette. The lighter.
Flick. Nothing.
Flick. Flick. Still nothing. Her grip tightens.
Flick. Flick. Flick. The wheel skips. No flame. She freezes.
The cigarette shakes at her lips. Then — sudden rage. She
crushes it in her fist. Drops it. Useless.
A sharp inhale. Controlled. Back into the purse — nicotine
gum. She unwraps it. Pops it in — chews.
She slips into the car — no glance back. Door shuts.
Engine starts.
She drives away.
INT. CLAIRE’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
Claire lies restless in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
Sheets twisted. Jaw tight.
She turns. Grabs her laptop from the nightstand. Opens it.
The screen lights her face — pale, tired. She types without
thinking:: “Body Discovered at Construction Site.”
Results flood the screen — St. Louis. Portland. Los Angeles.
She skims. Nothing interesting. She closes the laptop.
Exhales — sharp. Dry.
CLAIRE
You just can’t stop, can you?
She shifts onto her back. Stares at the ceiling. Still.
Then — a turn. A pillow adjustment. Eyes close.
A beat.
They open again — alert, unsettled.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
8 -
Shadows of the Past
EXT. FBI BUILDING - DAY
A brutalist block of concrete and glass — cold, unwelcoming.
Authority in architectural form.
Cars ease forward, one at a time. Each stops at the gate.
A red light scans. Click. Access granted.
Engines idle.
Tires hiss across clean pavement.
A surveillance camera pivots — smooth, silent. Tracking.
Everything here is order. Control. Observation.
INT. FBI BUILDING – HALLWAY
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The corridor is sterile.
Claire walks with purpose. She stops at a door: "Special
Agent in Charge – Andrew Chen." A brief hesitation. She
exhales. Knocks once. Then pushes the door open.
INT. FBI BUILDING - AGENT CHEN OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
Meticulous. Commendations perfectly aligned. Whiteboards
dense with notes. Maps pierced with pins — red threads like
veins.
A large corkboard fills the wall — crime scene photos,
timelines, strings radiate outward — chaotic. At the center:
a blank portrait marked only by a bold question mark.
ANDREW CHEN (50) sits at his desk, composed, reviewing files.
The kind of calm that’s earned, not performed.
The door clicks behind Claire. Her professional armor can’t
hide the wear. Eyes hollow. Shoulders locked.
ANDREW
Claire. Always a pleasure.
CLAIRE
You only say that when something’s
about to fuck up my day.
ANDREW
Fair enough.
Andrew smiles faintly, gestures to the chair.
Claire hesitates — then sits. Her eyes move to the corkboard:
organized chaos. Her kind of chaos.
CLAIRE
You’ve been busy.
ANDREW
That’s why you’re here.
He pulls a folder, opens it. Slides it across the desk.
A crime scene photo: a young woman. Face down in the dirt.
Cruciform pose. Ritual circle carved in the soil.
Claire looks. Expression unreadable.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Ring any bells?
CLAIRE
Should it?
ANDREW
Emily Frazier. Found two weeks ago,
Easter Sunday. Outside Roanoke.
Strangled. No witnesses. No trace.
No suspects.
Claire blinks — slow — processing through fog.
CLAIRE
And this is an FBI case because...?
Andrew swivels his laptop.
A scanned page. Highlighted text. A murder described in exact
detail. Title at the top: “SHADOW OF THE SHEPHERD”
Her father’s novel.
Claire freezes — fingers tighten on the edge of the desk.
Andrew slides a folder over — two crime scene photos, side by
side. Emily Frazier 1989 / Emily Frazier 2025
ANDREW
Outside Charlottesville. Easter
Sunday. Same name. Same pose. Same
nothing.
CLAIRE
Emily Frazier?
ANDREW
No known relation. But the name
flagged the cold case. That’s how
it landed on my desk.
(beat)
We think it’s a copycat, inspired
by your father’s book... Shadow of
the Shepherd.
Silence. Claire’s jaw tightens.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
New information has come to light
about the timeframe your father
wrote the novel... something
doesn’t add up.
CLAIRE
OK... So what do you want from me?
Andrew hesitates. Then —
ANDREW
There’s something in the book that
no one outside law enforcement ever
saw. Not the public. Not the press.
Not even the victim’s family.
Claire looks amused but equally confused.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
There was a skeleton key... the
type used in old churches --
CLAIRE
-- Yes, Andrew, I’m aware of what a
skeleton key is.
Andrew absorbs the hit.
ANDREW
It was found under the body.
(beat)
Your father wrote about it.
Claire stands. Pacing now. Something winding up inside her.
CLAIRE
You think my father was there?
Claire turns, eyes hard.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Seriously?
A sharp, bitter laugh.
ANDREW
No. Of course not. I’m just saying
he wrote about it in his book and I
want to know how he knew abut it.
CLAIRE
Cut the shit, Andrew. What are you
asking?
Andrew leans forward, hands clasped.
ANDREW
Claire, you’re the best
investigator I know.
(beat)
You’re the only one close enough to
get the answers.
Claire looks at the photo. Then the text. Then the timeline.
CLAIRE
He’s a writer. He had sources.
Writers steal from real life cases
all the time.
ANDREW
But what if he wasn’t... stealing?
Claire absorbs it — the weight of the accusation. A flicker
behind her eyes — not fear. Fire. Contained — for now.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
You know I have to follow this
lead, Claire.
A long silence.
CLAIRE
This is ridiculous, Andrew. I
can’t.
ANDREW
You can’t... or you won’t?
Claire snatches the file. Slides it into her bag.
CLAIRE
I have a lecture to give.
She heads for the door. Opens it. Pauses. Doesn’t look back.
Andrew watches her go. Expression unchanged. Eyes linger.
CLICK.
The door shuts.
Genres:
["Crime","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
9 -
Haunted Reflections
EXT. FBI BUILDING - PARKING LOT
Claire steps into blinding sunlight. She squints — caught off
guard. Disoriented.
Stops beside her car. Her hand grips the door handle,
knuckles white. Her reflection stares back from the window —
haunted, uncertain.
FLASH CUTS - CLAIRE’S MIND AT WORK
Not memory. Not imagination. Analysis.
- Crime scene photos. Stark. Brutal.
- A woman thrashing.
- Hands grip around her throat — tightening.
- Fingers digging into flesh.
- Body positioned to obscure the skeleton key.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire flinches. Breath sharp. She digs through her purse —
frantic, clumsy. The lighter.
Flick. Flick. Nothing.
Jaw tight. She hurls it back into the bag.
Exhale. Long. Controlled.
She opens the door. Slides in.
INT. CLAIRE’S CAR - CONTINUOUS
Claire sits, motionless, hands gripping the wheel. The engine
is off. The world outside a muted hum.
On the passenger seat, the case file juts from her bag —
taunting. Waiting.
Her eyes drift to it. She stares.
Then —
Shoves it down. Buries it deep. Out of sight.
A sharp inhale. She starts the engine. Her face: composed.
Her hands: trembling. Whatever comfort was left, it’s gone.
The car pulls away.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
10 -
Shadows of Legacy
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY - NIGHT
A single desk lamp casts a pool of amber light, barely
holding back the dark corners of the room.
Claire stands at the bookshelf, fingers gliding across the
spines of her father’s novels: “The Choir of Bones”, “Ashes
at the Altar”, “The Offering Room”. Her face drawn. Her body
still. But her mind — racing.
A floorboard creaks.
Claire freezes. Listens. Just the old house... maybe.
Her eyes land on a title. "Shadow of the Shepherd."
She pulls it. Flips through the pages — fast, then slower.
Stops. Her lips move — silent. Reading.
DEBORAH (O.S.)
Well hello, dear. How was your
lecture today?
Claire doesn’t react.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Claire?
Claire looks up — like surfacing from deep water.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
How was your lecture?
CLAIRE
Oh. Sorry. Little distracted. Fine.
Cross-Cultural Analysis of Crime
Patterns and Criminal Justice
Systems.
(sarcastic)
The kids loved it.
A faint, mutual laugh. Gone as fast as it came.
DEBORAH
I can only imagine what you’re like
in front of a classroom. With your
voice, your presence... you must
have the same hold over them your
father had when he spoke. It’s a
gift, Claire. Not everyone’s born
with that.
Claire arches an eyebrow. No reply.
As Deborah crosses to the desk - her gaze shifts to the book
in Claire’s hands.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Your father always said that one
was his darkest work. Nefarious, I
think, was the word he used.
(beat)
Revisiting his work?
CLAIRE
Just doing a little research.
Claire closes the book, tucks it under her arm.
Deborah’s hand grazes the rough edge of the desk as she
circles then sits.
DEBORAH
Well, if you need assistance, you
know where to find me.
CLAIRE
Thank you. You’re a treat, Little
Debby.
Deborah winces — but says nothing. She watches Claire
disappear down the hall. A quiet sigh escapes her lips.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
11 -
Secrets in the Shadows
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - BASEMENT STORAGE ROOM
The door creaks open. Cold air seeps out — stale, unmoving. A
single bulb buzzes overhead. Its light weak, sickly. Barely
reaching the corners.
Claire steps in. Rows of metal shelves stretch into shadow.
Boxes stacked like forgotten coffins — every label
handwritten, obsessively neat.
She moves slowly. Scanning. Reading.
Her eyes stop on one box: “Research Notes: 1986–1990.”
She pulls it down. Sets it on a nearby table. A puff of dust
erupts — she coughs, waves it away. Opens the lid.
One notebook stands out — black cover. Worn edges. Ink
smudged. Title scrawled across the front in tight, deliberate
handwriting:
“Case Study: Hartwell Construction Incident.”
Claire’s eyes narrow. She opens it.
NOTEBOOK PAGES
Rough sketches of a construction site. Arrows. Annotations:
"Evidence of restraint."
"Body posed post-mortem."
"Location: North edge of foundation."
A folded newspaper clipping slips out. Claire unfolds it.
Scans the bold headline:
"Young Woman Found Dead at Hartwell Construction Site"
Her finger traces the page — victim’s name: Emily Frazier.
Claire freezes. Her breath catches. She flips deeper into the
notebook. Hands unsteady now, tracing handwritten notes.
"Compulsion to return to the scene?"
"Was it guilt or satisfaction?"
BUZZ.
Her phone vibrates. Sharp. Loud. Invasive. She jumps.
Checks the screen: Andrew Chen calling. Her grip tightens.
She lets it go to voicemail.
Then —
A SOUND.
She stops breathing.
FOOTSTEPS. Above her. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
She doesn't move. Her pulse loud in her ears. A flicker of
strain behind her eyes. The weight of the day catching up.
She grabs the notebook. The newspaper clipping. Shoves them
into her bag. Zips it. Fast.
She turns toward the stairs, but there’s a drag in her
posture now. A hesitation she didn’t have before.
At the base of the stairs, she pauses. Listens.
Nothing.
Then —
A faint SOUND.
From the kitchen.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
12 -
Unspoken Connections
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – HALLWAY/KITCHEN
Claire steps into the hallway, the silence pressing close.
The door eases shut behind her. Wall sconces glow low and
amber, casting long shadows across the walls.
She adjusts the strap of her bag — heavier now with the
weight of what she found. Footsteps soft, deliberate. She
listens as she walks.
Then — a SOUND. Soft. Rhythmic. Familiar. The gentle clink of
a knife against a cutting board.
Claire slows, adjusting her grip on the bag.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS
The kitchen glows under a soft stovetop light. Warm. Lived-
in. Unlike the rest of the house — cold, waiting.
At the island, Deborah slices an apple with meticulous care.
Beside her: crackers, cheese, a folded napkin. Perfect.
Measured — like everything she does.
Claire enters quietly. A floorboard betrays her.
The knife slips — clinks sharply. Deborah spins.
DEBORAH
Lord have mercy!
Claire freezes.
CLAIRE
Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to --
DEBORAH
-- Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Claire.
You nearly sent me straight to the
pearly gates.
She shakes her head with a dry laugh, then picks the knife
back up.
Claire smirks, dropping her bag on the island and sliding
onto a stool.
CLAIRE
Didn’t realize anyone else was
still up.
DEBORAH
I always fix myself a little
something before bed.
(taps knife to temple)
Helps quiet the mind.
She arranges the slices beside the cheese, every movement
neat, balanced.
CLAIRE
I may have to try that someday.
Deborah clocks it — the weariness in Claire. A rare crack in
that unshakable armor.
DEBORAH
You know, your father used to call
that “the curse of thinking too
much.”
(beat)
He said that’s why he wrote at
night... when the world was quiet.
Claire nods faintly. She's not here for comfort, but the
warmth in Deborah’s tone is hard to resist.
Deborah nods toward Claire’s bag.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Find anything interesting?
CLAIRE
Some of my dad’s old files.
Deborah offers a small nod. No questions. Just presence. She
arranges the apple slices with surgical precision.
Claire watches — noticing, maybe for the first time, the
rhythm of Deborah’s world.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
You ever stop moving?
DEBORAH
Only long enough to remember why I
started.
She pops a piece of cheese into her mouth. Chews. Smiles.
CLAIRE
I mean... after all this time,
keeping all this up... it has to be
a lot.
Claire sweeps a hand through the air — a loose gesture that
barely scratches the surface of the space around them.
DEBORAH
Oh, it’s been my life’s pleasure,
taking care of your father... and
You, of course.
Her eyes move across the room — high ceilings, rich wood,
curated wealth — all of it hers to care for, but never to
claim.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
(light hearted)
I suppose I’ve been married to this
house longer than most people stay
married to each other.
Claire smirks.
CLAIRE
Ever want the real thing? Marriage?
Deborah pauses — just a blink — then lifts her tea.
DEBORAH
Once. Long ago.
CLAIRE
Yeah?
Deborah sips. Her voice stays calm. Level.
DEBORAH
He was married.
(beat)
Not to me.
Said like it happened to someone else. No drama. Just
history.
Claire leans on the counter. Something about Deborah feels...
real, suddenly.
CLAIRE
That must’ve been hard.
Deborah offers a small smile, setting her cup down.
DEBORAH
Oh, life’s always hard, dear. In
the places that matter.
She offers a gentle smile. One Claire isn’t sure how to read.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
But... we find ways to matter. In
the end, that’s all anyone really
wants. To belong somewhere.
Claire nods slightly — a reflex, not agreement.
Deborah sets a slice of apple on a napkin and slides it
toward Claire. She watches her for a moment, then softens her
voice.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Anyone special in your life these
days?
Claire freezes mid-page. Her expression flattens — like a
door shutting. She stands, collecting the folder.
CLAIRE
(stiffly)
Good night, Ms. Mitchell.
Deborah’s smile fades, her eyes following Claire as she walks
out of the kitchen without another word. She’s alone again.
The apple slice remains untouched.
Genres:
["Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
13 -
Echoes of Truth
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - LATE
The door creaks open. Claire enters. The room flickers with
blue light from the muted TV — images shift across the walls
like ghosts.
Charles lies still in the hospital bed. The hiss of the
oxygen concentrator steady, almost mechanical. His chest
rises. Falls.
Claire steps across the room, eyes fixed on him. She sets the
folder on the nightstand, picks up “Shadow of the Shepherd”
then sinks into the chair — flipping to a dogeared page.
Charles’s eyes flutter — but stay closed.
Claire shifts in the chair, heavy with exhaustion. Her
shoulders sag. She yawns — small, sharp — but doesn’t move.
Then —
CHARLES
(softly)
You’ve been digging, haven’t you?
Claire stills. Unsure if he’s dreaming... or speaking
directly to her.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
The truth... it was always there.
The room tightens. The walls feel closer. Claire inches
forward. Her voice cracks despite her whisper.
CLAIRE
Where, Dad?
CHARLES
(calmly)
Don’t fight it.
His fingers begin to move — dragging slowly over the blanket,
like tracing invisible words.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
I just... wrote it down. That’s
all.
(beat)
Inspiration comes from the darkest
places.
Claire’s eyes burn. She doesn’t blink.
CLAIRE
Where?
A pause.
CHARLES
(barely audible)
Dig.
The word lands like a pin dropped in a cathedral. Heavy.
Echoing. Claire doesn’t move. Can’t. Only the hiss of the
oxygen. The flicker of the screen.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
14 -
Haunted by the Truth
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - CLAIRE’S BEDROOM - LATER
A warm bedside lamp glows low — the only light in the room.
The space looks untouched by time. A museum of her youth. On
the dresser: tarnished tennis and fencing trophies — their
engraved plaques dulled with dust.
Claire sits cross-legged on the floor. The folder lies open.
Crime scene photos. Newspaper clippings. Scrawled notes.
She flips through them in silence — methodical, precise. But
her eyes are heavy. Focus sharp... fraying at the edges.
Victim’s pose. Cause of death. Location. The key.
She chews her cheek, fingers tightening on a yellowed
notebook page.
BUZZ.
Her phone vibrates against the hardwood.
Claire freezes. Glances at the screen. Andrew. This time, she
answers.
CLAIRE
(low, distracted)
Andrew.
His voice comes through the speaker — focused, urgent.
ANDREW (V.O.)
What did you find?
Claire stares at the page before her. Scribbled notes. Her
grip tightens on the phone.
CLAIRE
(quietly)
I’m not sure yet... I need more
time.
Click.
The call ends. Claire exhales. Rubs her temple — not from
pain, but the weight pressing behind her eyes. Then leans
back in. Flips another page.
The room is still. Time thick. Outside, the night deepens.
Inside, Claire keeps reading — driven, haunted. Like stopping
would break her.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
15 -
Unearthing Secrets
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - BASEMENT - LATER
The house is dead silent. Claire descends the stairs slowly.
Each step creaks under her weight. Her flashlight scans ahead
— the beam unsteady, catching on dust and shadow.
She moves with purpose — straight toward the far corner,
where the concrete gives way to dirt. The temperature drops.
Claire exhales — a soft fog escapes her lips.
She slows. Eyes narrowing. Something’s off.
A stack of paintings leans against the wall, covered in drop
cloths stiff with time. She reaches for them — shifts the
weight carefully — one, then another.
Behind them:
A small wooden door. Half-rotted. A skeleton key dangles from
the knob — but there’s no keyhole.
Claire stares. Something primitive stirs behind her eyes —
not fear. Recognition. She reaches out — opens the door. The
key rattles against the wood, vibrating with the motion.
CLAIRE’S POV – FLASHLIGHT BEAM CUTTING INTO THE DARK
A low crawlspace stretches beyond the threshold. Dirt floor.
Webs clinging to the corners like old silk.
Lying in the center: A shovel. Caked in dry soil. The handle
wrapped in age.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire takes a step forward. The flashlight flickers. Dirt
crunches beneath her foot.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Horror"]
Ratings
Scene
16 -
Unearthing Secrets
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - CRAWLSPACE - CONTINUOUS
Claire sets the flashlight in the framing — its beam fixed,
trembling slightly. Grabs the shovel. Starts digging.
Fast. Desperate. Dirt sprays in rhythmic bursts. Her breath
quickens — not panic. Need. Then —
CLUNK.
Metal on something solid. She drops to her knees. Hands
tearing at the packed soil.
A shape emerges. An old trunk. Antique. Warped from time. A
strange, rusted lock sealed tight.
She stares. Then turns — snatches the skeleton key from the
nearby door.
Back to the trunk. She jams the key in. Wrestles it. The
mechanism groans.
CLICK. The lock falls away. A long breath. She opens the lid.
Inside:
Photos — dozens. Black-and-white. Faded. Emily Frazier.
Posed. Lifeless. Not from the crime scene — from the killer’s
perspective. Each photo colder than the last.
Tucked beside them — a handwritten note:
"She screamed beautifully."
CREAK. Above her. Claire’s head snaps up.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Moving across the floor above her.
Toward the basement door.
Claire grabs her flashlight and quickly scrambles out of the
crawlspace.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - BASEMENT - CONTINUOUS
Claire moves fast through the dark. Toward the stairs.
Above her: The footsteps stop.
The basement door handle twitches. Rattles.
Then —
The door opens.
No one there. Just an open void.
She stares — frozen. Then slowly begins to climb. Each step
creaks beneath her. She nears the top.
Stops. Breath shallow. Eyes wide.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
17 -
Echoes of Fear
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
Dark. Empty. Claire’s flashlight cuts through the stillness.
The beam glides across wallpaper, furniture - nothing out of
place.
Then —
CHARLES (O.S.)
You were always the curious one,
Claire Bear.
Claire spins — flashlight raised. Nothing. The hallway behind
her is empty. The flashlight flickers. Dies. Darkness
swallows everything.
Then —
A LAUGH.
Distant. Disembodied. Male. Familiar. Wrong.
Claire stumbles back, hand tightening around the useless
flashlight. Her breathing shallow, uneven.
SCRAAAAPE.
A faint dragging noise — from the far end of the hallway. She
freezes. Then moves. Carefully. Toward the sound. The
flashlight flickers — weak bursts of light strobe the walls.
Claire reaches for the wall switch and flips it. CLICK. The
overhead light sputters on, weak and uneven. The hallway is
empty, but the scraping sound continues.
SCRAAAAPE.
Pause.
SCRAAAAPE.
Claire’s eyes drift downward. A smear. Thin. Wet. Red.
Trailing toward the study. She follows.
Every step slower than the last.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Horror"]
Ratings
Scene
18 -
Whispers in the Dark
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY - CONTINUOUS
The door creaks open. Claire steps in, careful. Stillness
grips the room. Curtains shift at the open window. A faint
breeze.
Her eyes find the desk. "Shadow of the Shepherd" — open. She
didn’t leave it that way. Claire approaches — quietly.
BOOK PAGE
A passage is underlined in red ink: “When the shepherd strays
too far, the wolves feast in his absence.”
She stares — tension rising.
FLOORBOARD CREAKS.
Claire turns — no one there.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – HALLWAY – NIGHT
Claire moves briskly, eyes sharp, body tense.
The corridor yawns ahead, dim and hushed — like the house is
holding its breath.
CREAK.
Somewhere deep in the walls. Not close. Not far. Just...
present. She halts. The silence tightens.
A door moans open. A faint wedge of light spills across the
floor. Charles’ room.
Claire stares down the hallway, listening. Stillness.
Then — another sound. Too soft to name. Too loud to ignore.
Claire pushes the door open — pulse hammering. The hospital
bed: empty. Sheets twisted. A faint imprint where a body once
lay.
The IV drips — slow. The needle sways gently. The oxygen
machine hisses, louder than it should.
Claire stiffens. Goosebumps.
CHARLES (O.S.)
Looking for me?
Claire spins - flashlight snapping up. A figure — moving fast
— she swings instinctively. Stops just short of Deborah’s
face.
DEBORAH
Claire! It’s just me!
Claire gasps, breath sharp, the flashlight trembling in her
grip.
Deborah glances at the bed. Alarmed - but composed.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Claire... what’s going on?
Claire points at the bed, voice shredded.
CLAIRE
Where is he? He was here.
DEBORAH
Claire... he hasn’t left bed in
weeks.
Claire falters. Eyes back to the bed. The sheets. The needle
still swinging.
CLAIRE
He talked to me. I heard him. He
said --
DEBORAH
-- Are you sure? He’s been sedated
all night.
Claire steps past her, breathing hard.
CLAIRE
I know what I saw. He said...
Her words die in her throat — she freezes. Above the bed —
smeared fingerprints. Dark. Wet. Blood.
A slow trail leads toward the window.
Claire lunges to the drapes — yanks them aside. Outside:
manicured gardens bathed in pale moonlight. Still.
Claire scans the dark — her reflection stares back from the
glass.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
20 -
Blood in the Garden
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION – GARDENS
The doors burst open — Claire stumbles out, flashlight
jerking with her breath. The hinges groan.
Her beam slices across the hedges — once manicured, now
hulking silhouettes. The stone path slick with mist.
Then — a glint in the grass. Claire sweeps the light down. A
faint trail of blood, spattered across the dewy lawn.
Claire freezes. Breath shallow. Then moves — slow,
controlled. Each step deliberate.
The trail curves past the hedges, slipping into the oaks
behind the property — trees knotted like fists, reaching.
Ahead: a wrought-iron gate, warped with rust. Half-swallowed
by ivy. Beyond it: gravestones. The family cemetery.
The wind shifts — dry leaves skitter around her bare feet.
Then — a rustle. Low. To her left. She stops. Listens.
Something’s out here — and it’s close.
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION - FAMILY CEMETERY - NIGHT
Claire steps into the graveyard. The iron gate groans shut
behind her, swallowed by wind.
Her flashlight beam wavers across tilted headstones — names
eroded, swallowed by lichen. Weeds burst through cracked
stone like veins.
Then — the blood trail ends. At one grave.
ELIZABETH COVINGTON
Beloved Wife and Mother
Claire drops to her knees. Brushes the dirt. Loose. Recently
disturbed. A shift in the air. A sound. She freezes.
Breathing.
Right behind her.
She spins — the beam slices through the dark.
Charles.
Standing in his robe — flutters in the wind. His skin pale.
Eyes hollow. Hands outstretched — dripping blood.
CHARLES
(soft, almost loving)
You shouldn’t have come here.
Claire backs up, knees in the dirt.
CLAIRE
(quivering)
Daddy... what is this?
A gust of wind whips dead leaves around them like ash.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
What did you do?
Charles takes a slow step forward. That smile. Empty. Proud.
CHARLES
I did it for the story.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Horror"]
Ratings
Scene
21 -
Awakening in Uncertainty
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – MASTER BEDROOM
Claire jolts awake, breath ragged. “Shadow of the Shepherd”
slips from her grasp and falls to the floor. She’s slumped in
the armchair beside her father’s bed.
The TV flickers soundlessly.
Charles lies motionless, his breathing shallow but steady.
The oxygen machine hisses. The IV ticks. All real.
Claire blinks, disoriented. Her hands still clutch a file,
pages creased beneath her fingers.
She wipes sweat from her brow, chest heaving.
She looks at Charles — still asleep. Her fingers twitch —
like digging. Like searching.
She exhales — slow, shaky. But the dream doesn’t leave. Her
eyes flick toward the window.
Then the floor.
Then the door.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Horror"]
Ratings
Scene
22 -
Hidden Expectations
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - BASEMENT
Click.
The overhead light sputters to life, casting long, uneven
shadows. It hums faintly — like something alive.
Claire descends the stairs fast, her breath tight, her nerves
raw. She moves past stacks of covered furniture and dust-
choked boxes, straight for the far corner.
The paintings.
Just like the dream. She pulls them aside with a grunt — her
hands shaking slightly. Behind them:
Nothing.
Just concrete. No door. No crawlspace. Just a wall.
Claire stands there, frozen. The silence thick around her.
She exhales, shaky. A dry laugh, brittle in the still air.
CLAIRE
Right. Of course.
Her pulse slows, embarrassment creeping in. She shakes her
head, turns to leave.
As she ascends the stairs — the camera slowly PEDESTALS DOWN
to reveal — behind a stack of boxes, an antique trunk.
Unmoved — hidden.
The light flickers off.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Horror"]
Ratings
Scene
23 -
Echoes of the Past
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY
Soft morning light filters through the curtains. A wildlife
documentary plays on mute. The steady hiss of the oxygen
concentrator cuts through the quiet.
Claire stands at the window, coffee in hand. Composed. But
the night still clings — hair undone, eyes hollow.
Behind her, Charles stirs.
CLAIRE
Morning, Dad.
Charles blinks. Recognition flickers. A faint smile follows.
CHARLES
Claire Bear! You’re here? Thought
you were out playing with your
friends.
Claire turns. Her smile is tired, guarded.
CLAIRE
Not a kid anymore, Dad.
CHARLES
Right. All grown up now. The Caped
Crusader... solving crimes...
schooling the youth.
Claire sits. Places her coffee on the nightstand.
CLAIRE
I need to ask you something.
Charles picks at the blanket — slower today.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Do you remember the Hartwell
Construction site?
His fingers stop. Eyes sharpen.
CHARLES
Hartwell.
(beat)
That was a long time ago.
CLAIRE
It was. You wrote about it. In
Shadow of the Shepherd.
CHARLES
(visceral)
Did I?
CLAIRE
You did. Some of the details...
they line up. Exactly.
CHARLES
(quietly)
Poor Emily.
CLAIRE
(stunned focus)
Emily?
Charles shakes his head, lips moving silently. His expression
hardens — a flash of clarity.
CHARLES
It wasn’t me.
(pleading)
You know that, right? I just wrote
it down.
CLAIRE
Then how did you know so much?
About the way she was found. The
key under her body... a detail only
law enforcement knew.
CHARLES
Howard told me.
CLAIRE
Howard?
CHARLES
Agent Robert Howard.
(beat)
He... gave me the details. Said it
would make the story better.
(shrugs)
Writers need authenticity, Claire.
On the TV, a black-and-white crane spreads its wings in slow,
deliberate motion. Charles brightens.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
Would you look at that.
Claire follows his gaze — a crane.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
The orientals believe they
symbolize eternal youth.
Then suddenly, a shift — his face contorts. A cough. Violent.
He grips the blanket. His eyes meet hers — something dark
behind them.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
She wasn’t supposed to fight back.
CLAIRE
(stunned)
What did you just say?
CHARLES
(angrily)
I didn’t say anything!
He slaps the bed weakly. Shaking. Breath quickens.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
Deborah!
Claire watches him scribble nothing into the blanket with
twitching fingers.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
I just wrote it down... that’s all.
(beat)
I did it for the story.
She freezes.
FLASH CUT – CLAIRE’S NIGHTMARE
Charles in his robe, hands bloodied. His voice echoes:
"I did it for the story."
BACK TO SCENE
Claire exhales, rattled. Her knuckles white.
Deborah enters fast, crossing to Charles, calming him, taking
his hand. He settles.
DEBORAH
I’m here, Charles.
Claire stands. Backs away. Hands clench into fists.
CHARLES
(soft, barely audible)
They always screamed.
(beat)
Beautifully.
Claire freezes. Deborah does too.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
(eyes closed)
Not her.
Silence.
Charles drifts back into sleep.
Claire stands, paralyzed. The light in the room no longer
feels warm. The steady hiss of the oxygen concentrator cuts
through the quiet — louder than ever.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
24 -
Unearthing Secrets
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY
The click-clack of keystrokes fills the room. Claire sits at
Charles’s desk, back straight, eyes locked on the screen. The
cold blue glow reflects off polished mahogany.
COMPUTER SCREEN
Grainy newspaper article dated July 4, 1989: "FBI AGENT
ROBERT HOWARD DIES SUDDENLY – AUTOPSY PENDING."
BACK TO SCENE
Claire leans back. A slow exhale. Rubs her eyes, then picks
up her phone.
PHONE SCREEN
Text thread with Andrew Chen.
CLAIRE: “Do you have any info on an Agent Robert Howard?”
Claire continues to scroll through articles, moments later,
her phone buzzes.
PHONE SCREEN
ANDREW: “Why do you ask?”
She types quickly.
CLAIRE: “My father says he gave him real case info. For his
books.”
Another buzz.
ANDREW: “I’ll look into it. Meet after lunch?”
CLAIRE: “OK”
Phone down. Focus hardens. She keeps scrolling. Fast.
Mechanical. Too many articles. Too many gaps. Something’s
there — buried.
Claire dials a number.
CLAIRE
(into phone)
Patty, hi. Claire Covington.
(beat)
Sorry, I won’t be able to make it
in today. Family matter.
(beat)
No, no. Everything is ok.
(beat)
John can cover? Perfect. Thanks.
She hangs up. Her eyes drift across the room — the bookshelf.
She stands. Crosses the room.
Her fingers glide over the spines. Each title suddenly feels
different. Each one holding something she didn’t see before.
She stops on one.
Charles’ voice echoes: "I did it for the story."
Claire pulls the book. Opens it. She flips pages. Searching.
The hunt has begun.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
25 -
Unraveling the Past
INT. FBI BUILDING - AGENT CHEN OFFICE - DAY
The door swings open. Claire enters, worn manila folder
clutched tight to her chest.
The room’s unchanged, mostly — same corkboard web of red
thread, photos, maps. A few new additions, but the question
mark at the center still looms.
Andrew Chen sits behind his desk, calm, efficient. He looks
up. Concern flickers behind his composed exterior.
ANDREW
You look like hell.
CLAIRE
(dry)
Observant. Comes with the badge, I
guess.
She tosses the folder onto his desk. It lands with a dull
slap.
Andrew opens it — yellowed clippings, scribbled notes, a
leather-bound notebook.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Everything I found in the basement.
It’s all connected to Emily
Frazier.
(beat)
That sketch? Dated before the body
was discovered.
Andrew studies it, brow creasing.
ANDREW
Hartwell site.
CLAIRE
My father said an FBI agent fed him
the case details.
ANDREW
Robert Howard.
Claire nods. Andrew leans back, thoughtful.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Claire, there is no record of a
Robert Howard ever working for the
FBI.
Andrew swivels his laptop, pulls up a file.
Claire sits.
LAPTOP SCREEN
Newspaper archive dated 1989.
Headline reads:
“VETERAN DETECTIVE KILLED IN LATE-NIGHT CRASH”
Followed by:
“Robert Howard Crane dies in tragic late night car accident.
Authorities believe he fell asleep at the wheel while driving
home. He is survived by his wife and two teenage daughters.”
CLAIRE (O.S.)
Crane.
ANDREW (O.S.)
Not Bureau. Crane was local PD.
Lead detective on the Frazier case.
(beat)
Died a few months into the
investigation.
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
So... he wasn’t feeding my father --
ANDREW
(flatly)
-- Not officially. If he was
talking, it was off-book. And
illegal.
Claire slumps back. Fingers tapping the arm of the chair.
Exhaustion catches up to her. Andrew watches her — his tone
softens.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Claire... you don’t have to carry
this alone.
CLAIRE
I’m not looking for a therapist,
Andrew.
ANDREW
No. You’re looking for a murderer.
(beat)
And trying not to remember what it
felt like when your father stopped
showing up.
Claire freezes. Her jaw locks, her face hardens. Then —
without warning — she SWIPES the file off Andrew’s desk. It
crashes to the floor. Papers scatter.
CLAIRE
Don’t do that.
ANDREW
You’ve spent your whole life
studying monsters, Claire. That
takes a toll. Especially when one
might be in your own house.
She stands, pacing. Long breath out.
CLAIRE
I’m fine.
ANDREW
You’re unraveling, Claire.
CLAIRE
I’m uncovering, Andrew. There’s a
difference.
Before he can respond — a knock. AGENT DANIELS (30s) peeks
in, holding a file.
DANIELS
Sorry to interrupt, sir. The
Director wants an update on Aqua Da
Vida.
ANDREW
Tell them I’m working on it.
DANIELS
I think they need something more
definitive, sir.
ANDREW
Tomorrow. By end of day.
Daniels nods, stepping out. The door clicks shut.
Claire eyes Andrew.
CLAIRE
You’re involved in Aqua Da Vida?
ANDREW
Security clearance review. Supposed
to be fast-tracked. Now it’s
political.
CLAIRE
So you don’t think it’s dangerous?
ANDREW
I think anything unregulated and
biochemical is always dangerous.
Claire files that away. Looks back at the laptop.
CLAIRE
This thing with Crane... if it’s
true, someone buried it. For a
reason.
ANDREW
And if your father was the one
holding the shovel?
A beat.
CLAIRE
Then I need to know what he buried.
Claire leaves without a word. The door clicks shut. Andrew
watches, puzzled, the silence louder than her exit.
He swivels his laptop back and pulls up a file.
COMPUTER SCREEN
A classified FBI document titled:
"AQUA DA VIDA – NATIONAL SECURITY BRIEFING"
“Flagged risks:
1) Unauthorized Human Trials
2) Public Health Threats
3) Informed Consent Process
4) Mortality Reversal Thresholds”
Suddenly, Claire pops her head back in. Andrew quickly closes
his laptop. Claire notices — ignores.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
What about DNA?
ANDREW
1989. Not unless someone kept a
miracle in a freezer.
CLAIRE
Was there ever a criminal profile
built for her case?
ANDREW
Not officially.
CLAIRE
Maybe it’s time someone did.
She exits.
Andrew watches her go. Slowly, he opens his laptop — but his
eyes linger on the door.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Crime"]
Ratings
Scene
26 -
A Difficult Decision
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY
Early afternoon light spills through the curtains.
Charles lies still, his breathing shallow but steady, pale
against the white bedding. The oxygen machine hums softly
beside him.
At the foot of the bed, Deborah stands with her arms folded
loosely.
DR. LEONARD FRANKLIN (60s) seasoned and kind, finishes
checking vitals, adjusting the IV line with gentle precision.
DR. FRANKLIN
Claire asked me to raise the
Donepezil. Ten milligrams.
DEBORAH
(softly surprised)
Oh? That’s a jump.
DR. FRANKLIN
She’s hoping for more clarity. Said
she wants to talk to him... while
he still can.
DEBORAH
(concern)
He’s always been so sharp. It’s
hard seeing him like this.
(beat)
She just wants her father back.
Even for a moment.
DR. FRANKLIN
Even a moment might help.
(beat)
But Deborah... it won’t change
where this is going.
DEBORAH
I know. I just want it to be
peaceful for him. He’s been through
enough.
Dr. Franklin gently lifts the stethoscope from Charles’s
chest.
DR. FRANKLIN
He’s further along than I expected.
Even with the dosage increase, the
windows of lucidity may be brief.
(beat)
I recommend hospice. Full
transition.
DEBORAH
I’ll speak with Claire.
Dr. Franklin nods, collecting his things.
DR. FRANKLIN
You’ve been a rock, Deborah. Not
everyone stays so dedicated as you
have.
DEBORAH
He gave me this life. I just want
to give something back... whatever
time there is left.
They move toward the door.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
27 -
A Concerned Heart
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
They walk side by side. Dr. Franklin towers over her petit
frame. Deborah’s tone softens further.
DEBORAH
He’s been saying strange things
lately. Sometimes very dark.
DR. FRANKLIN
How so?
DEBORAH
Like he’s reliving his stories.
Characters. Violence. Sometimes I
wonder if he knows what’s real
anymore.
DR. FRANKLIN
Deborah, the mind doesn’t unravel
neatly. Writers like Charles...
their fiction becomes part of their
memory. He may not know the
difference anymore.
DEBORAH
I just want him to feel safe. Not
scared.
They reach the front door.
DR. FRANKLIN
He’s lucky to have you.
He gives her shoulder a squeeze, then steps out into the
daylight. The door closes behind him.
Deborah stands still — one long, measured breath.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
28 -
Tender Farewell
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY
The room is still. Only the soft rasp of Charles’s breath. He
stirs. Fingers twitch. Lips part — a whisper:
CHARLES
Not her...
A faint sound — footsteps. Measured. Steady.
Deborah enters. Composed. Serene. But her eyes snap to
Charles.
She crosses the room with practiced grace. Kneels beside him.
Studies his face — slack, still. She adjusts his pillow.
Smooths it gently beneath his head.
A touch — tender, almost maternal.
DEBORAH
(whispers)
You’re safe, Charles. Just rest.
She brushes a hand down his arm — lingers.
Then rises. Back straightening.
At the window, she draws back the curtain. A soft spill of
daylight floods in — warm, quiet, indifferent.
Her reflection appears — faint, distorted in the glass. She
watches it. Still.
Then, slowly, pulls out her phone.
Her thumb hovers... then dials.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
(into phone, composed)
Claire, Dr. Franklin was just here
to see your father.
CLAIRE (V.O.)
(over phone)
Yes, sorry I wasn’t able to be
there.
Deborah glances back at Charles — still unmoving.
DEBORAH
(into phone)
It’s quite alright, dear. But... he
is arranging for hospice.
A pause.
CLAIRE (V.O.)
(over phone)
Thank you, Deborah.
Click.
Deborah lowers the phone, her thumb brushing the screen once
before slipping it back into her pocket.
She walks back to the bed. Lays her hand softly on Charles’s
chest. Watches it rise and fall beneath her palm.
She leans down and kisses his forehead.
She straightens. A deep breath. Then exits the room.
DISSOLVE TO:
Genres:
["Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
29 -
Echoes of Tension
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION – LATER
Golden light spills across the facade — all stone and
symmetry, the mansion looks like it belongs on the cover of a
luxury estate catalog. Pristine. Timeless. Deceptive.
Claire walks toward the front door, eyes scanning the windows
like they might blink.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - FOYER - CONTINUOUS
The front door opens. Claire steps inside, her eyes still
wired from the conversation with Andrew. She sets her keys
down, the echo sharp in the still house.
As she moves past the hallway — Deborah calls out to her from
the study.
DEBORAH (O.S.)
Oh, good. You’re back.
CLAIRE
Everything okay?
DEBORAH
I was just headed out.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
30 -
A Moment of Resolve
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - STUDY - CONTINUOUS
Claire enters.
The room is softly lit. Immaculate. As always.
On the wall-mounted TV, a muted news segment rolls: sleek
graphics, clinical footage, scientists in lab coats. The
headline scrolls:
“Aqua Da Vida: Anti-Aging Therapy Enters Final Trials”
Deborah — purse over her shoulder — stands by the desk,
diligently arranging the tools of her trade.
CLAIRE
Headed out?
DEBORAH
Just a few errands. And... I
thought I’d take the rest of the
day for myself.
(softly)
With everything that’s been going
on... I could use a little air. And
I figured you might want some time
alone with your father.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
You look exhausted, dear. Maybe you
should take some time for yourself
too.
CLAIRE
That’s not an option.
Claire’s eyes flick to the TV screen — a doctor points to a
chart; a smiling anchor mouths a headline. Deborah follows
her gaze.
DEBORAH
They say that new drug could slow
cognitive decline. Maybe even
reverse it.
CLAIRE
Yeah, well, a little late for that
now.
DEBORAH
You know, I can handle things
around here for the next couple of
days. You could have yourself a
little getaway.
CLAIRE
(dismissive)
Enjoy your day.
Deborah passes by — composed, unhurried. Claire doesn’t move.
Eyes locked on the screen.
Muted images loop: Vials. Brain scans. AQUA DA VIDA scrolls
silently beneath.
She watches — unblinking. Absorbing every frame.
DISSOLVE TO:
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
31 -
Unveiling Shadows
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM
The room is dim, sealed from the outside world. The oxygen
concentrator hums. The IV ticks like a metronome.
Claire sits at her father’s bedside, posture rigid, eyes
hollow.
Charles stirs. His eyelids flutter. He looks at her, and for
a moment, the warmth of a father surfaces.
CHARLES
(soft, hoarse)
Claire Bear... always my faithful
shadow.
CLAIRE
Of course, dad.
(beat)
I need the truth. About Emily
Frazier.
(beat)
About all of it.
Charles studies her. Fingers twitching against the blanket.
CHARLES
You already know.
CLAIRE
No, dad, I don’t. I need to hear it
from you.
CHARLES
The truth is ugly. Messy.
(beat)
You won’t like it.
CLAIRE
I’m not a child anymore.
A pause.
CHARLES
They came to me.
(beat)
Men with dark secrets.
They wanted their sins
immortalized... but buried in
fiction.
CLAIRE
Who?
CHARLES
Robert Howard.
CLAIRE
You mean Detective Crane.
A flicker behind Charles’s eyes - a slip.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
He wasn’t just a source, was he?
CHARLES
He was a killer.
(beat)
And I was his shepherd.
Claire recoils slightly. Her hands tremble in her lap.
CLAIRE
And Emily?
CHARLES
His... masterpiece. He brought her
to me. Every detail. And I gave it
life.
CLAIRE
Gave it life?! You wrote about a
murder! You knew... and you wrote
it down?!
CHARLES
I did it for the story.
FLASH CUT – CLAIRE’S NIGHTMARE
Charles in his robe, hands bloodied. His voice echoes:
"I did it for the story."
BACK TO SCENE
Claire — fatigue now undeniable - shifts in her chair.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
You look so much like her, you
know.
(beat)
Your mother.
CLAIRE
I barely remember her.
CHARLES
She left before you could see her
true gift.
(beat)
But I saw it.
(beat)
Lizzy could light up a room. Make
every man wish she’d smile his
way... but she was mine.
CLAIRE
She left us.
(beat)
That’s all I remember.
CHARLES
She ran off. With him. Took her
light. Left us in the dark.
MONTAGE - YOUNG CLAIRE
- Spinning in the garden with her mother.
- Sunlight catching the locket on her mother’s neck.
- The locket opens — a photo of Claire and her mother.
- Peering through a cracked door - scared.
- Her mother curled up on kitchen floor - crying.
- Charles - rage. Slams his hand on table.
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
I remember yelling. Her crying...
and you --
CHARLES
(interrupting, sharply)
-- Enough. No use digging up
ghosts.
Claire pulls out a folded article - drops it in his lap.
CLAIRE
What about the ghost of Robert
Crane.
Charles doesn’t touch the paper.
CHARLES
Unfortunate.
CLAIRE
What happened to mom?
A dangerous stillness sets in. Charles looks at her, no
longer frail — something sharp returns.
CHARLES
She’s gone.
(beat)
And none of this matters now. What
matters is what I built for you.
CLAIRE
You built walls. You built lies.
CHARLES
You don’t understand. I was
protecting you.
CLAIRE
From what?
(beat)
From them... or from the truth?
A long silence. Charles gazes somewhere far away.
CHARLES
The darkness swallows everything.
You’ll see it too.
FLASH CUT – YOUNG CLAIRE - MEMORY
Her mother tucks the locket inside her shirt.
ELIZABETH
So you’ll always be close to my
heart.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire backs away from the bed, breath shallow. Her eyes
shimmer — not with tears, but rage and clarity.
CHARLES
(barely audible)
If you dig deep enough.
Claire turns and walks out.
Charles watches her disappear. His breathing flattens. The IV
drips, slow and steady. The weight of silence settles again.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
32 -
Unearthing the Past
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - BASEMENT
Claire stands before meticulously labeled banker’s boxes. Her
jaw clenches. Breath sharp.
She yanks a box from the shelf and slams it onto the table.
Papers spill — yellowed, fragile.
CLAIRE’S P.O.V.
- Typed manuscript pages with handwritten edits.
- Clippings of unsolved murders.
- A note, jagged and frantic:
“The scream is the soul’s confession.”
BACK TO SCENE
Claire pushes the box aside and grabs another, tears it open.
MONTAGE - CLAIRE
- Flipping through a notebook of crime scene sketches.
- Tossing folders, papers raining down.
- Panic. Thrashing about.
- Boxes collapse. She doesn’t flinch.
BACK TO SCENE
The floor is chaos. Then —
She sees it.
The TRUNK.
Ornate. Scarred. Hidden behind toppled boxes.
She steps closer. Kneels. Fingers trace the rusted latch.
Locked.
She fiddles, then frantically scans the floor - spots a
letter opener.
Wedges it into the lock. Leverages. Pries. She twists.
Pushes. Prays.
SNAP.
The letter opener breaks. But so does the lock.
She lifts the lid. Dust. Decay. Inside: relics laid out like
offerings.
– Jewelry tangled together.
– Scraps of torn fabric.
– Polaroids of women.
Claire recoils. Gagging. Shaking.
FLASH CUTS - CLAIRE’S MIND
- A bracelet ripped from a wrist.
- Rope pulled tight around a neck.
- A body posed.
- The flashbulb.
- Hands strangling.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire recoils slightly, breath unsteady. Something’s wrong.
Her instincts — the sharp, intuitive leaps she’s relied on —
won’t lock into place.
She steadies herself. Squints. Focuses harder. Then she sees
it just beneath the lining, almost missed — a seam. A false
bottom. Fingers dig in — she pries it open — not with
precision, but frustration. Desperation.
And there it is.
A LOCKET.
She snatches it, wiping it clean, trembling. The latch
sticks. Her fingernail splits trying to force it - doesn’t
feel it.
Inside: the FADED PHOTOGRAPH. Her. Her mother. Smiling.
A noise escapes her - raw, broken, animalistic. Her free hand
clutches her stomach, trying to hold in the horror, the
grief, the unbearable, sickening realization.
A scream builds — she swallows it. She shuts the trunk.
Stands. Slides the locket over her head. It lands against her
chest — heavy.
Claire wipes her face. Composes herself.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
33 -
Echoes of Betrayal
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT
The oxygen machine hisses. The clock ticks. Each second lands
like a hammer. Charles lies sunken in the bed — frail, barely
a man anymore.
The door CREAKS open.
His eyelids twitch. A whisper of breath —
CHARLES
Claire?
She steps in. Slow. Controlled. No warmth in her eyes.
She sits beside him. Brushes his knuckles — a gesture that
might’ve once meant something.
CLAIRE
Shh, Dad.
(softly)
I just... I want to be here with
you.
He exhales, eyes fluttering. She leans in — very close.
Then —
The LOCKET slips into view.
CHARLES
(confused)
Lizzy?
His eyes fix on the locket. His breath hitches. Hands twitch.
A gasp rattles from his throat. Then a violent, wet cough.
CLAIRE
(voice cracking)
I loved you. How could you?!
Her fists clench, shaking. Nails dig into skin.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
(screaming)
WHY!?
Tears fall hard. Unstoppable.
Charles thrashes. Oxygen tubes tug. Machine BEEPS.
Claire stares, not at her father, at what’s left of him. A
monster in his skin.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
(broken)
Daddy...
(beat)
You were my hero.
She turns — gone in a flash.
The door SLAMS. The house vibrates with the echo.
Charles convulses, wheezing, alone. His hands grasp the
sheets — searching for something that isn't there.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
34 -
Storm of Emotions
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION – FRONT DRIVE
Claire’s car peels away from the driveway, rain just
beginning to fall — sparse at first, then heavier, a steady
curtain blurring the world behind her.
INT. CLAIRE’S CAR – MOVING
The windshield swims with sheets of rain. Wipers slash
furiously. Headlights punch through the storm in rapid
bursts.
Claire’s face is soaked in tears and fury. Her hands white-
knuckle the wheel.
She screams — no words, just a howl of betrayal and grief,
swallowed by the thunder outside.
SPLASH — the car plows through a deep puddle. It fishtails -
violently.
She yanks the wheel, overcorrecting — tires screech, water
flings off in all directions. The car shudders back under
control. Barely.
She punches the steering wheel — a brutal, unrelenting
rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Lightning rips the sky — her face lit up like a shattered
portrait.
She slams the gas. The engine roars. Tears, rain, rage — it’s
all the same now. She doesn’t slow down — she doesn’t care if
she crashes.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
35 -
Storm of Emotions
INT. CLAIRE'S HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
The front door bursts open — CLAIRE storms in, rain clinging
to her coat, eyes wild. She SLAMS the door shut.
The room is chaos — papers, files, crime scene photos
scattered everywhere.
She rips the coat off, throws it. Stalks across the room,
unsteady. Then — she stops. Breath hitching. Hands shaking.
Her eyes scan the mess... and land on a single photo of her
mother. Smiling. Alive.
A guttural scream rips from her throat, shattering the
suffocating silence.
She grabs a stack of files and hurls them. Files fly. Chairs
topple. She grabs an box and slams it to the ground — paper
explodes like shrapnel.
Crime scene photos rain down — victims' faces, newspaper
clippings, old evidence reports.
She turns, tripping on the mess — SLIPS. CRASH. She hits the
ground hard. Stays down. Gasping. Furious. Humiliated.
Rainwater from her coat soaks into the carpet around her. She
rolls to her side, curls in — fetal. Silent. Then — her hand
moves. Into her pants pocket.
Her fingers close around something small. She pulls it out —
her AA coin. "UNITY, SERVICE, RECOVERY" circling a triangle
with the number “10”.
She stares at it, thumb rubbing the words, trying to erase
them. Then — clenches her fist. Hurls it. It clinks once —
then vanishes into the mess.
Claire stays on the floor, chest rising and falling — slow,
jagged. Then — She pushes herself up, legs trembling.
Storms to the door. Yanks it open. Rain howls in.
She vanishes into the night.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
36 -
Defiance in the Rain
EXT. CITY STREET – NIGHT
Rain has stopped, but the world still glistens. Pavement
slick. Streetlights shimmer in puddles.
Claire walks fast. Her soaked coat clings to her frame. Hair
damp, plastered to her face. Each step slaps wet against the
concrete.
A SCUMBAG (50s), slouched against a wall, cigarette burning
low, eyes her with a lazy grin.
CLAIRE
Spare one?
He nods, pulls a bent cigarette from a battered pack.
SCUMBAG
Anything for my beautiful lady.
She takes it, lips trembling from cold.
Gestures — light?
Flick. Flick.
The lighter sputters — useless.
CLAIRE
Oh, for fucks sake.
He leers.
SCUMBAG
Maybe we could go --
CLAIRE
-- In your dreams.
She walks off. He laughs, says something she doesn’t hear.
Middle finger raised, she keeps moving.
A flickering neon sign ahead: a bar.
She crushes the cigarette in her fist and drops it.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
37 -
Desperate Escape
INT. MAGGIES IRISH PUB – CONTINUOUS
It’s no Irish pub.
Flickering neon. Torn vinyl stools. A haze of smoke and stale
regret. The jukebox plays something no one’s really listening
to.
Claire enters soaked, hollow-eyed. She moves like a
sleepwalker and slides onto a barstool, hands trembling.
Behind the bar, the BARTENDER (50s), all shoulders and scowl,
wipes a glass without looking up.
BARTENDER
What’ll it be?
Claire studies him — brawny, surly, not Maggie. Not even
close.
CLAIRE
Are you Maggie?
He snorts.
BARTENDER
Do I look like a Maggie?
CLAIRE
(muttering)
This fucking town.
(beat)
Whiskey. Double.
He pours. Heavy.
She knocks it back in one motion —
SLAM.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Again.
He raises an eyebrow, but refills. She lifts it — hand
shaking — ready to disappear.
JACK (O.S.)
Pace yourself there, killer.
Claire barely turns.
Claire turns — just enough to catch JACK (40s). Best-looking
guy in the bar. But that’s not saying much.
CLAIRE
Serial killer, actually.
Leather jacket. Easy grin. Eyes that linger too long. He
moves like he owns the place. But he’s not in Claire’s
league. Not even close.
JACK
Lucky me.
CLAIRE
Not your kind of lucky.
Jack slides onto the next stool.
JACK
Everyone’s got their poison.
CLAIRE
Mine’s the truth.
He taps a cigarette loose, offers it. Claire grabs it, eager,
jaw tight.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Light?
Jack grins, flicks his lighter.
Flick. Flick. Flick.
Nothing. Flick. Flick. Dead.
Jack chuckles, half embarrassed, half amused.
JACK
Story of my life.
CLAIRE
Can’t get it up?
Jack scoffs. Claire rolls her eyes — the same fucking luck.
Then — a soft thump.
A pack of matches appears in front of Claire. The bartender
slides it over without a word. She stares at them — like
they’re sacred. Or cursed.
She strikes one. The flame catches. She inhales. Deep.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
(long, breathy)
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
Jack grins — thinks it’s about him.
Then — Claire grabs his collar. Kisses him. Hard. Raw. She
doesn’t care — needs not to care.
His hands find her hips. She doesn’t stop him. Falling apart
feels easier with an audience. She closes her eyes — and lets
go. Vanishing, if only for a moment.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
38 -
Fight or Flight
INT. BACK ROOM – NIGHT - LATER
Thick smoke clings to the low ceiling. Neon flickers overhead
— pink, blue, sickly green. The pool room is half-dead: empty
tables, warped cues, stale air soaked in old beer and cheaper
regrets.
Claire stumbles forward, glass in hand. Bourbon splashes onto
the felt as she leans too hard against the table. She doesn’t
notice. Or doesn’t care.
Jack follows. Closer now. Watching.
She tilts her head back. Smoke curls from her lips. His hands
trace up her legs. She doesn’t stop him. He leans in — lips
on her neck. Fingers grip her waist, then drift higher.
Her chest rises.
His hand slides around her throat — firm. Unyielding. Claire
freezes. Eyes flicker. Body locked.
Terror.
FLASH CUTS — CLAIRE’S MIND
- A man’s hands locked around a woman’s throat. Elizabeth.
- Gasping, choking. Charles’ voice — low, cold, final.
- Her mother’s nails digging, clawing.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire explodes. A scream — loud, guttural.
CLAIRE
GET OFF! GET OFF ME!
Her knee slams into his ribs. A fist to his jaw.
He stumbles back, blood splattering.
She keeps swinging. He hits the ground, gasping. She staggers
back.
He laughs.
JACK
(spitting blood, muttered)
I thought you crazy bitches liked
that shit!
The door swings shut behind her. Neon flickers. Smoke swirls.
She’s gone.
Genres:
["Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
39 -
Fragments of Truth
INT. CLAIRE’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
Sunlight knifes through blinds, landing across Claire’s face.
She lies crumpled on the couch — hair matted, makeup smeared,
one boot on, the other missing. A blanket tangled around her
legs.
Her fingers twitch at her throat. She winces — faint
bruising, a flash of memory. Eyes open. Red. Dry. Alive.
She sits up slowly. The room’s a wreck — papers, photos,
files strewn like shrapnel. She exhales. Scans. Moves.
On her knees now, gathering the mess. Sorting. Crime scene
photos. Newspaper clippings. A stack of lab reports.
One slips loose — “DNA ANALYSIS – INCOMPLETE.”
She stops.
Eyes lock on the page — something clicks.
FLASH CUT - CLAIRE’S MIND AT WORK
- IV dripping.
- Charles, pale, slouched — drool pouring from his lips.
- Claire wipes his chin with the handkerchief.
BACK TO SCENE
She bolts up — struggles to remove her other boot as rushes
down the hall.
BEDROOM
Claire throws the door open. Shoves coats aside — She sees
it. Her jacket — the one she wore that day. She rips it from
the hanger, pats the pockets — fingertips brush soft fabric.
The handkerchief.
She freezes — yanks her hand back. Think.
BATHROOM
Drawers open. Items scatter. Tweezers. Paper bag.
She grabs both.
CLOSET
The handkerchief still peeks out of the pocket, undisturbed.
A delicate pinch — she lifts the handkerchief free. Drops it
into the paper bag. Seals it.
She exhales — now she has proof.
Genres:
["Mystery","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
40 -
Confrontation and Resolve
INT. FBI BUILDING – AGENT CHEN’S OFFICE – DAY
A clean space, sterile — but the corkboard tells another
story: red thread, faded photos, half-forgotten victims with
names scrawled below.
The door bursts open.
Claire.
Disheveled. Eyes red. Clothes wrinkled. Makeup smeared. Hair
tangled from sleep and sweat — she looks like hell.
She slams a paper bag onto Andrew's desk. Stands there —
chest rising, eyes wild.
Andrew looks up from his notes, startled. His face stiffens.
He slowly leans forward, staring at her like he’s trying to
figure out whether to call security or offer her water.
Claire doesn't blink.
Andrew stiffens, his expression shifting from concern to pure
shock.
She reaches beneath her shirt, pulls out the locket — the
chain slick with sweat, the locket tarnished. She drops it on
top of the bag.
Andrew stares at it. Then at her.
She doesn’t explain. Not yet. He opens the bag, carefully —
as if it might explode.
Inside: a sealed evidence pouch. The handkerchief.
Andrew goes still.
CLAIRE
(quiet)
It’s his.
Andrew stares at her. The corkboard behind him flickers under
the fluorescent lights. He grabs a photo from a folder.
Charles Covington.
He rises. Walks to the corkboard. He pins it dead center —
right where the question mark used to be.
Claire watches. Her face doesn’t flinch — but her hands do.
They curl into fists at her sides.
Andrew steps back.
ANDREW
We’ve suspected him for years.
Never had a match. Never had proof.
He gestures toward the network of case files and red string.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
All of it... modeled in his novels.
Claire’s breath catches. Her gaze moves across the wall —
photos of women, their lives erased, their deaths stylized.
She closes her eyes. Her voice is soft — measured.
CLAIRE
He killed my mother.
A long beat.
Andrew pulls a thin manila folder and lays it open:
- Car crash photo.
- Newspaper headline:
“DETECTIVE ROBERT CRANE DIES IN TRAGIC CAR CRASH”
ANDREW
He was onto Charles. Told your
mother. Tried to protect her.
CLAIRE
(realizing)
So he silenced him too.
Andrew nods.
Claire stares at the board — her father’s face looming over
it all. Voice trembles, but not with rage — with realization.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
You used me.
ANDREW
I had no choice, Claire.
She sits. Hard. Shoulders slump. The weight hits... but only
for a second.
Then — her spine straightens. Chin lifts. Cool now. She
doesn’t look at Andrew. Just taps the edge of the desk, eyes
fixed on the victims’ photos.
CLAIRE
Fuck you, Andrew. Fuck you very
much.
A beat.
ANDREW
We can still get him.
CLAIRE
He’s dying.
ANDREW
So is justice.
A long silence. Then Claire looks up — not broken now, but
burning again.
CLAIRE
I’ll do it.
Andrew nods.
He slides a small recording device across the desk. She picks
it up. Stares at it. Then pockets it.
As she rises to leave, her eyes flick to a folder labeled:
“AQUA DA VIDA – NATIONAL SECURITY CONCERNS”
She pauses. But doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want to know.
She walks out.
No goodbye.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
41 -
Desperate Measures
INT. CLAIRE’S CAR - DAY
SLAM.
The driver’s side door shuts. Claire drops into the seat,
phone already to her ear.
CLAIRE
(into phone, urgent but
contained)
Dr. Franklin, please... I need to
ask you about Aqua Da Vida.
DR. FRANKLIN (V.O.)
(over phone)
What exactly are you asking,
Claire?
Claire stares out the windshield. Sunlight streaks through a
mess of fingerprints and dust.
CLAIRE
Would it help with late-stage
cognitive decline? My father’s
slipping. Fast. I need him lucid...
just long enough.
A pause.
DR. FRANKLIN (V.O.)
It’s not FDA approved. Still in
trial phases. Maybe a few months
out.
CLAIRE
He doesn’t have months.
DR. FRANKLIN (V.O.)
(over phone)
I’m sorry, Claire.
CLAIRE
He drifts off mid-sentence. Every
time I try to talk to him, he
fades. Like he’s disappearing.
A shift in Dr. Franklin’s tone — alert now.
DR. FRANKLIN (V.O.)
That’s not typical. Donepezil isn’t
sedative. If anything, it should be
helping him focus.
CLAIRE
Then what’s doing it?
DR. FRANKLIN (V.O.)
Could be a metabolic issue. Drug
interaction. Maybe something we’re
not seeing.
(beat)
Next time I’m there, I’ll run a
panel. Liver, kidneys, see if
anything flags. I’ll get it to the
lab.
Claire grips the wheel tighter, eyes narrowing. Her mind is
already moving to the next step.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
42 -
Confrontation in the Shadows
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - LATER
Muted golden light filters through heavy drapes, casting long
slashes across the floor. Dust floats in the air, caught in
the fading glow.
A single lamp hums dimly beside the bed, barely needed.
The oxygen machine clicks and wheezes in rhythm with Charles’
labored breaths.
ANGEL (30s), the hospice nurse, adjusts Charles’ pillows with
practiced care.
The door creaks open.
Claire steps in — clothes fresh but wrinkled, makeup smudged,
hair hastily pulled back. She’s cleaned up, but the wreckage
of the night still lingers in her eyes.
Angel clocks it — offers a warm, measured smile.
ANGEL
Hi, you must be Claire. I’m Angel.
Claire nods, eyes locked on Charles.
ANGEL (CONT’D)
He’s been drifting in and out. If
he comes to, you may need to speak
up.
CLAIRE
Thanks. I’ve got it from here.
Angel hesitates, sensing the weight in the room. Then nods
and exits quietly.
Claire approaches the bed. Charles stirs.
Claire watches as Angel exits, the door clicking softly
behind her. She turns back to Charles, who stirs weakly, his
sunken eyes flickering open.
CHARLES
(weak rasp)
Claire Bear... that you?
CLAIRE
It’s me.
She sits beside him, folder clenched in her lap. Her eyes are
calm, but her knuckles are white.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
I need to know why.
Charles lets out a wheezy chuckle — then coughs, hard. Claire
waits, unmoving.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Why did you kill her?
(leans in)
You said she was running from the
darkness...
(beat)
But it wasn’t darkness. It was you.
A long breath — a lifetime of weight.
CHARLES
She was going to take my little
girl. I couldn’t let that happen.
CLAIRE
So you killed your wife. My mother.
CHARLES
She wouldn’t listen... she
fought...
(beat)
It got... out of hand.
His fingers twitch against the blanket.
Claire opens the folder. One by one, she lays out the photos
— murdered women, each in a familiar pose. She places them on
him – evidence.
CLAIRE
And what about them? You wrote
about their deaths before the cops
even found their bodies.
Charles stares. His breath shallow.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Did you kill them?
A long silence. Finally, Charles lets out a slow, rattling
breath.
CHARLES
I did it for the story.
FLASH CUT – CLAIRE’S NIGHTMARE
Charles in his robe, hands bloodied. His voice echoes:
"I did it for the story."
BACK TO SCENE
CLAIRE
What the hell does that mean?
CHARLES
The stories gave us everything.
Your school. Your future.
(weak smile)
I gave you all of it.
CLAIRE
No.
(icy)
You stole it. From them.
Claire slams her fingers down on the photos in front of
Charles.
CHARLES
(wickedly)
They wanted to be remembered... I
made sure they were.
Suddenly, Charles’ body jerks — shallow breathing, labored.
The oxygen machine BEEPS faster.
CLAIRE
Dad?
His eyes go wide — seeing ghosts. Fingers curl. Lips tremble.
CHARLES
They screamed...
(grins)
beautifully.
He slumps. Lifeless.
BEEPING rises.
Angel BURSTS IN, checks vitals.
ANGEL
He’s going.
(urgent)
If there’s anything left to say,
now’s the time.
Claire leans in close, face inches from his ear.
CLAIRE
(whispers)
I hope the screams haunt you
forever.
BUZZ.
Claire’s phone vibrates. She pulls it, distracted.
PHONE SCREEN
“DNA CONFIRMED. We got him.”
Claire stares — stunned.
Then bolts.
Footsteps fade — she’s gone.
Angel remains frozen, staring at the man in the bed — a
monster in a hospital gown.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
43 -
The Warrant Arrives
INT. FBI BUILDING - BULLPEN
The space pulses with urgency. Keyboards clack. Phones ring.
Screens flicker with open files and live data streams.
At the center — Andrew, sharp-eyed, sleeves rolled, planted
over a conference table buried in evidence.
In the middle — a single folder marked: “CHARLES COVINGTON”
CLAIRE bursts in — breathless, flushed.
ANDREW
We have it all.
He throws open the folder — photos and documents spill across
the table:
- Confession transcript.
- DNA match reports.
- Artifacts in bags.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
The confession. The physical
evidence. Items linked to every
victim. It’s airtight.
CLAIRE
Is it enough?
Andrew pauses. Flips another page. His hands are steady, but
his jaw tightens. He closes the folder with a heavy snap.
ANDREW
More than enough.
(glances at his watch)
But until we have that warrant,
it’s all just paper.
A tense silence. A wall clock ticks.
Claire scans the bullpen beyond the glass — agents moving
like machinery, efficient but not fast enough.
Andrew drums his fingers — a rare crack in his composure.
Then — FOOTSTEPS pound the hallway.
Agent Daniels bursts in, chest heaving. In his hand — a
signed warrant.
DANIELS
Got it! The judge just signed the
warrant!
Claire snatches the warrant from Daniels and strides out,
agents falling in behind her.
Genres:
["Crime","Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
44 -
Whispers of Despair
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – MASTER BEDROOM
Muted lamplight spills across the room, stretching long
shadows along the walls. The BEEP... BEEP... BEEP of the
heart monitor breaks the suffocating stillness.
An oxygen machine hisses, keeping time with Charles’ shallow,
labored breathing.
Angel adjusts his IV. Kind eyes. Calm presence. She hums
under her breath, gently tucking the sheets around him.
Charles watches her — hollow-eyed, skeletal — his gaze
disturbingly alert.
CHARLES
(weak rasp)
Angel...
ANGEL
I’m here, Mr. Covington.
CHARLES
(chuckles dryly)
I suppose that’s ironic.
ANGEL
Why’s that?
CHARLES
No angels for me.
He stares through her — beyond her — lost in the dark
corridors of his own mind.
BEGIN FLASHBACK:
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
45 -
Descent into Darkness
INT. COVINGTON MANSION – STUDY – NIGHT
Firelight flickers against walls lined with books. Outside —
rain lashes, thunder growls.
ELIZABETH (30s) stands near the door, trembling, clutching a
suitcase like a shield. Her eyes are red, but her voice
doesn’t shake.
ELIZABETH
Charles, please. I don’t care about
the money, the house... any of it.
I just want Claire.
Across the room, CHARLES (40s) sits behind the massive desk.
Motionless. His hands are clasped. His expression —
unreadable.
The clock ticks. The fire crackles.
ELIZABETH (CONT’D)
You can keep everything. Just let
me take her. I won’t say a word.
Stillness.
CHARLES
(low)
You’re not taking Claire.
Elizabeth’s knuckles whiten around the handle of the
suitcase.
ELIZABETH
She’s my baby, Charles. She doesn’t
deserve this.
His jaw flexes. Something shifts behind his eyes.
CHARLES
(quiet, venomous)
No one takes what’s mine.
The storm outside crescendos.
Elizabeth backs toward the door, voice tightening.
ELIZABETH
I won’t let you hurt her.
CHARLES
(roaring)
HOW DARE YOU.
He lunges. A blur of rage.
Elizabeth turns — too late.
His hand yanks her by the hair. She screams, fights — nails
raking across his face.
He slams her into the bookcase. Books crash to the floor. Her
suitcase bursts open — Claire’s tiny clothes scatter.
ELIZABETH
(pleading)
Charles, please... don’t!
CRACK!
His hand strikes her face. She reels — blood from her lip.
She stumbles, disoriented — turns —
THUD.
Her skull hits the desk edge.
A horrible sound. Her body drops, limp. The firelight
flickers on her blood pooling across the floorboards.
Charles looms over her. Breathing hard. But his face?
Still.
Dead still.
INT. CADILLAC – TRUNK
Elizabeth lies bound, bloodied, her torn dress clinging.
The car hums beneath her.
She stirs. Eyes snap open. A sharp, panicked inhale —
Her scream dies under duct tape.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller","Crime"]
Ratings
Scene
46 -
Dawn of Despair
EXT. DESERT HIGHWAY – NIGHT
The Cadillac slices through darkness, headlights piercing the
empty road.
In the distance, the eastern sky bruises with the first trace
of dawn.
INT. CADILLAC – NIGHT
Charles grips the wheel — tight, white-knuckled.
Up ahead, headlights reveal the silhouette of an abandoned
church.
EXT. DESERT - ABANDONED CHURCH
The Cadillac grinds to a stop. Faint light bleeds across the
horizon — the sun not yet risen, but coming.
Charles steps out. Pops the trunk.
Inside — Elizabeth, weak, barely conscious.
He yanks her out. She stumbles, resists — feeble, desperate.
He drags her toward the crumbling church.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
END FLASHBACK.
Genres:
["Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
47 -
The Collapse of a Monster
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT
The heart monitor keeps steady time in the dimly lit room.
Charles lies still. Eyes open. Vacant.
Then — A twitch. His fingers. Once. Twice. Then suddenly —
they lunge.
His brittle hands SNAP around Angel’s throat. She gasps,
recoiling — caught completely off guard.
ANGEL
(gasping)
M-Mr. Covington!
His grip tightens. Veins bulge. Skin stretches thin over
trembling bones. For a moment — he’s young again. Strong.
Predator.
His body remembers.
His rage remembers.
His violence floods back.
FLASHBACK MONTAGE - CHARLES’ MIND
JENNY (24)
– Pinned to a mattress in a dingy motel.
- Dyed blue hair clings to sweat-slicked cheeks.
- Thrashing, eyes wide, nails gouging at his forearms.
- Charles' hand clamps over her mouth.
- Body twitching — until it isn’t.
MARIA (26)
– Bathtub, crimson water lapping against porcelain.
- Knife plunges into her side.
- Mouth opens in a silent gasp, eyes pleading.
- Blood flows over his hands as he watches her sink.
LUCY (32)
– Suburban garage, kneeling.
- Mascara-streaked face looks up in horror.
- A rusted sledgehammer rises — then falls.
- A sickening CRACK echoes as bone gives way.
TARA (17)
– Backseat of a car, plastic bag cinched tight.
- Painted nails claw frantically at the plastic.
- Mouth sucking in plastic to the last breath.
ELIZABETH (38)
- Bound to the soiled bed.
- Face — bruised, hair matted with blood and dirt.
- Pleading — muffled cries under duct tape.
- Charles straddles her.
- Duct tape ripped from her mouth.
ELIZABETH
You think this makes you God?
BACK TO SCENE
DEBORAH
Charles?!
But his body fails.
His breath hitches.
Arms go slack.
Fingers loosen.
BEEEEEEP.
The heart monitor flatlines. Charles convulses once — then
collapses.
Angel drops away, coughing, hands at her neck.
Deborah stares — paralyzed.
Then —
FOOTSTEPS — fast, urgent.
A DOOR BURSTS OPEN.
Genres:
["Thriller","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
48 -
Resurrection at Covington Mansion
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - FOYER - NIGHT
Claire storms in, arrest warrant clenched in her fist, eyes
blazing with purpose.
Behind her, Andrew Chen and a team of FBI agents fan out with
precision. Guns holstered, jackets marked. Serious.
Boots thud against hardwood. The walls close in as they head
toward the master bedroom.
Claire enters first — focused, controlled. Andrew and the FBI
agents sweep in behind her, scanning the room like it’s still
an active crime scene.
Claire’s eyes fix on her father — her stomach knots. Charles
lies motionless on the bed. Waxen. Still. Too still.
DEBORAH
(calm, matter-of-fact)
He’s gone, dear.
A long silence.
Claire doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. She stares at the corpse
with a look heavier than grief — disappointment. Injustice.
CLAIRE
(quiet, cold)
I wanted him to rot in a fucking
cell. Knowing he lost.
Andrew exchanges a glance with a AGENT MORSE (50s). A silent
cue. Morse exits quickly. Claire clocks it. Her eyes narrow.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
What was that?
No answer.
Deborah moves to Angel.
DEBORAH
Are you ok, dear?
Confusion ripples through the room as eyes shift to Angel’s
bruised throat. Without a word, Deborah gently takes her arm
and guides her out.
DANIELS
We’ll need to question her.
Andrew nods. Motions Daniels to follow.
Agent Morse returns — silver briefcase in hand. He sets it on
the table. Pops the latches. Opens it.
Inside: AQUA DA VIDA.
A shimmering vial. Pristine. Medical. Unnatural.
Claire’s breath catches.
CLAIRE
(low, warning)
Andrew...
He doesn’t look at her. Calmly withdraws a syringe. Draws the
liquid. Andrew moves to Charles. Inserts the syringe into the
IV. Presses the plunger.
A beat.
Then —
BEEP.
A single pulse from the heart monitor.
Then another.
BEEP.
Then —
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Rhythmic. Alive.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The steady rhythm returns.
Charles convulses. A violent twitch. Then — a ragged inhale.
Gasping. Drowning. His eyes snap open. Wide. Vacant. He
doesn’t blink. His chest rises — uneven, mechanical.
The room holds its breath.
Andrew turns slowly to Claire. Calm. Analytical.
ANDREW
(quiet)
I planned to use it only as a last
resort.
Andrew then glances at Charles.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Glad I trusted my instincts.
DEBORAH steps back into the room — and freezes. She expected
a corpse. Instead, she sees Charles breathing. Moving.
Her eyes flick to the heart monitor. Beeping. Then to the
syringe on the table. The vial. Andrew. Panic flickers behind
her eyes — fleeting, but real.
Charles blinks — slow, dazed. His eyes drift. Then — a
twitch. His head snaps toward Claire. Their eyes lock.
He smiles. Hollow.
Claire stiffens.
CHARLES
(hoarse)
Claire Bear...
She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t understand. Not yet.
DING-DONG.
A doorbell rings.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
49 -
A Dinner Divided
INT. ANDREW CHEN’S HOUSE - NIGHT - DAYS LATER
The front door creaks open.
Andrew appears — composed, unreadable. A flicker of surprise
flashes in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
Claire stands on the porch.
She looks better. Rested. But the damage lingers — in her
eyes, in her posture. Beneath it: something sharper.
Andrew steps aside, calm and easy.
ANDREW
Didn’t think you’d come.
(beat, smirk)
Glad I was wrong.
Claire hesitates — then steps in. The door clicks shut behind
her. Warm light inside — cold weight in her chest.
INT. ANDREW CHEN’S HOUSE – DINING ROOM
The table’s still warm with life. Half-eaten plates. Kids
giggling. Water glasses half full.
JUDY (40s) laughs at something the SON (12) says. The
DAUGHTER (8) leans close, whispering a secret. Safe. Normal.
Claire sits across. Barely touching her food. Watching them —
not judging, not envious. Just observing. A fleeting moment
of something lost.
Andrew watches her. Claire lifts her glass — just water.
Sips. Fingertips trace the rim.
CLAIRE
Any updates on the Roanoke case?
A misstep.
Andrew flicks his eyes to Judy. His fork rises — casual
deflection.
JUDY
(playful, firm)
Eh. Eh. No shop talk at the table.
Claire nods — regret already setting in.
Andrew smirks. Judy smiles. Claire fades.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
50 -
Unraveling Secrets
INT. ANDREW CHEN’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - LATER
Dinner is a memory — now the quiet hum of a settled house.
Andrew and Claire sit across from one another in wide chairs.
Her shoulders looser now. Less guarded. Not at peace — but
less haunted.
Andrew pours a splash of brandy, but doesn’t drink.
ANDREW
How you holding up?
CLAIRE
I’m fine.
(thinks, then adds)
Might take a little time off.
ANDREW
Probably not a bad idea.
She deflects.
CLAIRE
So... the Roanoke case?
Andrew smirks — there she is. Same old Claire.
ANDREW
Oh, right. That case is now closed.
Andrew raises his glass — salute. Claire lifts a brow.
CLAIRE
Wha.. how? That was quick.
ANDREW
Turns out, it was a copycat, as we
suspected. The guy had a true crime
podcast...
Claire stills. A jolt. Eyes go glassy. Andrew notices her
shift.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
You okay?
CLAIRE
What was his name?
Andrew frowns, grabs his phone, scrolling. Claire’s heart
pounds.
ANDREW
(reading)
Brian Lucas. Greensboro, North
Carolina.
Claire exhales. Releases tension.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
The guy was completely obsessed
with your dad. Thought he was a
prophet. As far as we can tell,
when he saw the news about
Charles...
(Throat-slit gesture)
Un-alived himself.
Claire takes it in — dazed. He’s still shaping lives. Still
shaping her.
Andrew keeps talking, but his voice fades — muffled, distant
— like she’s hearing it underwater. Her thoughts drift
somewhere else.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
We recovered a manifesto. The
writing was obsessive,
delusional... clear indicators of
escalating instability. Thankfully,
he’s no longer a threat to society.
Andrew throws back the rest of his brandy — hard — then pours
another without looking up.
Claire stares past him, distant. Andrew’s voice echoes in her
head — "New information has come to light..."
FLASH CUTS - CLAIRE’S MIND AT WORK
- Emily Frazier crime scene photos
- Body lifted to reveal the skeleton key
- Cover of Shadow of the Shepherd
- Andrew’s office corkboard — evidence displayed.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
New information has come to light
about the timeframe your father
wrote the novel... something
doesn’t add up.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire’s eyes snap back to Andrew.
CLAIRE
You said, 'New information has come
to light.'
ANDREW
Pardon me?
CLAIRE
What was it?
ANDREW
What was what?
CLAIRE
(pressing)
That day you called me in... you
said 'new information has come to
light.'
(beat)
But you never said how.
A beat.
Andrew wipes his mouth. Exhales.
Meets her gaze.
ANDREW
Deborah Mitchell.
THE ROOM CLOSES IN.
Claire freezes — The name slams into her like a tennis ball
to the face.
FLASH CUT - CLAIRE’S MIND AT WORK
- A syringe piercing Charles’ IV
- Charles drifting off to sleep
- A vial: “Propofol”
- In the foyer with Deborah
DEBORAH
I gave him his meds...
(glances at watch)
fifteen minutes ago.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire’s body tightens. Her breath catches. Then — movement.
She shoots up from the chair. Grabs her coat.
ANDREW
Claire?
She’s already at the door.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Claire, what’s going on?
No response. She bolts.
Andrew watches her vanish into the night. His jaw tightens.
He looks down at his drink. Tosses it back. Exhales deeply.
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
51 -
Into the Night
INT. CLAIRE’S CAR – NIGHT
The engine ROARS — high gear, relentless. Tires slice across
the asphalt like blades. Claire’s breath is quick, sharp —
adrenaline in every exhale.
She reaches under the seat — fingers scrambling — finds the
cold grip of her Glock 19. Slides it out.
Knee on the wheel, she checks the mag — full. Snap. Locked.
Ready.
Her chest rises. Falls. Controlled now.
BUZZ.
The phone vibrates violently in the console.
She fumbles with it — almost drops it — catches it last
second. Glances at the screen — “Andrew”
No response. No reaction.
A beat.
She slips it into her jacket pocket like it never happened.
Eyes forward. Grip tight.
The engine climbs — howling into the dark.
Genres:
["Thriller","Action"]
Ratings
Scene
52 -
The Search at Covington Mansion
EXT. COVINGTON MANSION – DRIVEWAY
Claire’s car SKIDS to a stop on the circular drive, tires
SHRIEKING against stone. She throws the door open. The engine
idles. Headlights blaze like a threat.
Claire steps out. Gun in hand. Determined. Her boots pound
the stone path. No pause. No knock. She barrels through the
front doors — straight into the dark.
INT. COVINGTON MANSION
The front door creaks shut behind Claire. Glock raised.
Controlled. Silent.
She moves through the mansion like a ghost with a badge.
Every footstep deliberate. Every corner cleared with
precision.
STUDY — empty.
LIVING ROOM — clear.
KITCHEN — nothing.
Her breath is steady, but the weight of it all rides her
shoulders. She reaches the master bedroom - pushes the doors
open.
Empty. The hospital bed is gone. She pauses. Then moves again
— toward the room she hasn’t checked.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
53 -
Confrontation in the Suite
INT. COVINGTON MANSION - DEBORAH’S SUITE - CONTINUOUS
The room is eerily pristine. Not just a bedroom — a monument
to control. Every object, every detail curated.
Claire enters quietly, gun low but ready. She moves
methodically through the room sifting through shelves.
Cabinets. A jewelry box — she stops cold. Vision true.
Propofol.
Her fingers curl around the small glass vial, knuckles white.
Then slides it into her pocket.
Her eyes shift — a nightstand drawer slightly ajar.
She yanks it open — Photographs. Newspaper clippings. A diary
— all crash to the floor. Claire dives down to the wreckage.
PHOTOGRAPHS
- Charles. Young, cocky, magnetic - lecturing.
- Lecture hall — front row — Deborah. Eyes locked on Charles.
- Young Charles’ publicity photo.
Claire flips it over - inscriptions read:
“Live like them, Charles. Don’t just study them.”
“A true artist suffers the truth.”
“To be remembered, you must bleed into the work.”
NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS
- Headline: “Charles Covington Scores First Bestseller”
- Head lines: “Best Selling Author Has Baby Girl”
FLASH CUTS - CLAIRE’S MIND AT WORK
- Young Charles, Elizabeth, and Baby Claire.
- Elizabeth twirling Young Claire.
- Charles teaching Young Claire her wicked backswing.
- Charles striking Elizabeth in the study.
- Young Clair hiding in the hallway — a witness.
BACK TO SCENE
Claire jolts out of her vision — suppressed memories flooding
back.
Frantically, she grabs the diary — rips it open — scans
recent entries.
DIARY
“May 12 - Charles is slipping. Soon, the house will be mine.
Properly, not just in service.”
“June 2 - He changed the will last week. It was easy — he
just needed someone to make sense of the chaos. I simply
reminded him who’s always kept this family together.”
“September 7 - Claire is fragile right now. Grieving. Adrift.
This is when she’ll need me most.”
Claire stands frozen, the diary open in her hands. Her eyes
scan the pages — once, twice — not to reread, but to believe.
A BREATH. Behind her.
She turns — slow. Gun raised.
Deborah.
Standing in the open doorway. Still. Calm.
Eyes scanning:
- Open drawers.
- Photos.
- The diary.
No panic — just quiet disappointment. But her voice slips.
Unpolished. The Southern drawl she buried years ago cuts
through the silence.
DEBORAH
You’ve been digging, haven’t you?
CLAIRE
(furious)
Why?!
DEBORAH
(sternly)
Because mediocrity thrives when
brilliance is ignored.
(prideful)
I gave him direction. Focus.
He was noise. I made him into
beautiful music.
CLAIRE
You forged a monster --
DEBORAH
-- I forged the greatest writer who
ever lived!
She moves forward, slow. Measured.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
And when he couldn’t be that
anymore... I took care of it. Like
I always have.
Claire reaches into her pocket and pulls out the vial.
CLAIRE
You were drugging him --
DEBORAH
-- I was freeing him. From the
confusion. The noise.
Claire storms past Deborah — not sparing her a glance. Then
exits the suite, fast and final.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Claire...
She’s already gone — down the hall.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
54 -
Betrayal and Bloodshed
INT. COVINGTON STUDY – MOMENTS LATER
Claire storms through the doorway, sending a chair crashing
behind her.
Eyes locked on the desk.
Claire yanks the cabinet doors open — and there it is.
The safe.
She drops to her knees, hands already spinning the dial.
CLICK.
She pulls the safe open — Papers. Files. Cluttered history.
Rage ignites in Claire’s chest. Her eyes snap upward — and
there she is.
Deborah — framed in the doorway. Calm, composed. A quiet
satisfaction in her eyes.
CLAIRE
(flat)
Every move, every lie... it was
you. You orchestrated everything.
Deborah’s smile sharpens. Almost maternal. Then — her voice
turns venomous.
DEBORAH
Of course I did, dear. You think
any of this came easy? I came from
nothing. A house full of fists and
silence. Nobody saw me. Not once.
Not pretty enough. Not smart
enough. Not worth a god damn thing.
Claire’s eyes burn — this isn’t control anymore. It’s a
confession.
DEBORAH (CONT’D)
Your father was the first man who
looked at me like I mattered.
And I made him great. I built this
world, brick by brick, while you
played the little princess in
tennis whites.
CLAIRE
(snaps)
You want to talk about a fucked-up
childhood?!
Deborah trembles. Her voice sharpens — loud, cracking open
with years of swallowed rage.
DEBORAH
You spoiled bitch. Born with a
silver spoon in your mouth... I
made that happen!
BOOM — THE FRONT DOOR SLAMS OPEN.
Heavy footsteps rush in.
ANDREW (O.S.)
Claire!
Deborah spins — raises the revolver that was hidden behind
her back — and FIRES.
The shot goes off like a cannon blast — hits Andrew squarely,
sending him crashing back against the open front door.
Claire flinches hard, eyes wide. What the fuck?! In one
smooth motion, she draws her Glock 19 and feverishly squeezes
the trigger.
Framed paintings explode. Wood splinters. Chunks of drywall
tear loose. Then — finally — the rounds find flesh.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Deborah jerks with each hit — breath stolen mid-step — before
she crumples to the floor.
She jerks, spasms — then stillness. Blood pools fast across
the polished wood.
Silence.
Claire lowers the gun — breath ragged, heart pounding — then
sees him.
Andrew.
Collapsed near the doorway. Claire’s face drains.
She scrambles to him, dropping to her knees. Cradles him.
Blood seeps through his shirt — hot, spreading — soaking into
her hands.
Andrew stirs — barely. His eyes flutter open, glassy. A
faint, crooked smile curls at the edge of his mouth.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
(soft, slurred)
Got your text.
CLAIRE
(choked)
Of course you did.
He blinks slowly. Eyes find hers — lock. One last tether
holding him to the world.
ANDREW
You okay?
She pulls him close, arms wrapped tight around him, holding
his head to her chest. Her body trembles as the tears come —
silent, endless.
DISSOLVE TO:
Genres:
["Crime","Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
55 -
Confronting Reality
EXT. FEDERAL MEDICAL CENTER – DAY
A sterile block of concrete — windowless, gray, and sun-
bleached. High fences looped with razor wire shimmer in the
heat.
A guard tower looms, unmoving. Cameras pivot, scanning with
quiet menace. The building doesn’t welcome — it contains.
INT. FEDERAL MEDICAL CENTER - CORRIDOR - DAY
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The walls are pale. The air
smells like antiseptic. A small TV plays in the corner,
volume low but clear.
TV ANCHOR
Scientists say that after a recent
breakthrough, Aqua Da Vida is now
officially ready for human trials.
Claire is standing by a door labeled — “Prisoner No. 375897”.
The TV volume starts to fade as a DOCTOR (50s), composed but
gentle, approaches her, chart in hand.
DOCTOR
The Aqua Da Vida compound isn’t a
cure, Ms. Covington. It triggers
cellular regeneration, but it’s
unstable — unpredictable. For now,
yes... he’s lucid. Clearer. But
that won’t last.
Claire says nothing. Just listens.
DOCTOR (CONT’D)
It flushed the Propofol from his
system, gave him clarity... but his
mind, his body, are still breaking
down. Slowly. It’s anyone’s guess
as to how long he has.
The doctor walks away.
Her hand hovers near the door. A beat. Then another. This
isn’t the man who raised her. This is what’s left of him.
She opens the door.
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
56 -
Confrontation in the Shadows
INT. PRISON HOSPITAL - CHARLES’ ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Dim. Quiet. Cold. The room buzzes faintly with machinery.
Charles lies under thin sheets. Tubes snake from his body.
His skin hangs loose, pale — but his eyes are alert. Both
wrists are strapped to the bed frame with soft medical
restraints — tight, secure.
He studies the restraints — not metal. Not cruel. But
unmistakable. Just like he did to Elizabeth.
His eyes drift upward — sees Claire.
CHARLES
(hoarse)
Claire Bear...
Claire winces — the name cuts deep — but she moves forward
anyway — calm, deliberate.
She stops at his bedside, towering above him now. This is not
a reunion. It’s an interrogation.
CLAIRE
Where is she, Dad?
(beat)
Where’s Mom?
Charles exhales. Long. Shaky. His fingers twitch against the
restraints. For a moment, his expression darkens — not from
illness, but from memory. Not rage. Not madness. Regret.
CHARLES
I couldn’t lose you, Claire.
His voice catches in his throat.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
I couldn’t let you go.
Claire’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Her
gaze locks on him — steady, sharp. A silent warning: No more
lies.
Charles notices. He shifts slightly — subtle, but calculated.
The manipulation returns.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
You have to understand... it wasn’t
all me. Your mother... she was
unstable. Dramatic. You know how
she could be.
CLAIRE
(stern)
Stop.
Charles falters.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
Don’t rewrite her. Not to me. Not
now.
A long pause.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
When you died...
(beat)
What did you see?
His eyes go wide. Terror creeps in. He trembles. He exhales,
this time deeper. Like something inside him finally breaks.
Claire watches. The man she once believed was her superhero
is gone. Just a haunted shell.
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead he repents.
CHARLES
(quiet, broken)
It felt good to control. To be
feared. I wasn’t strong, Claire. I
never was. But when I held that
power... that life in my hands... I
didn’t feel like a man. I felt like
a god.
Claire’s stomach churns, but she holds her ground.
CLAIRE
And Deborah?
Charles hesitates. His brow furrows, caught off guard.
Claire doesn’t blink.
CLAIRE (CONT’D)
I know.
A slow breath escapes him. His shoulders sag — the
performance is over. His mask slips.
CHARLES
She made me believe I was
untouchable.
He stares past Claire, lost in memory. His fingers twitch
slightly against the sheets.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
Then came the book deals. The
praise. The myth of Charles
Covington.
His lips curl into a faint, bitter smile.
CHARLES (CONT’D)
I did it for the --
CLAIRE
(fed up)
-- If I have to hear that one more
time...
Silence.
CHARLES
How is Deborah?
Claire’s stare hardens.
CLAIRE
What did you do with Mom?
Charles hesitates — just for a breath.
Pause.
CHARLES
(a broken exhale)
Take notes.
A breath catches in Claire’s throat. This is it. Her hand
moves slowly into her coat. She pulls out a small notebook.
The click of her pen echoes through the room.
And she waits.
DISSOLVE TO:
Genres:
["Drama","Thriller","Mystery"]
Ratings
Scene
57 -
Shadows of Resilience
INT. PODCAST STUDIO - DAY
Tyler hangs a framed photo of Charles Covington alongside the
gallery of serial killers.
His expression flickers — admiration curdling into something
hollow.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. DESERT - ABANDONED CHURCH - DAY
A coroner van is parked near the entry. Crime Scene
Investigators weave in and out, faces tight, hands gloved.
From the shadows of the doorway —
Andrew steps into view.
Alive. Bruised. Steady.
ANDREW
We found her.
Claire passes him, but slows just enough to place a steady
hand on his shoulder — a quiet gesture of gratitude,
affection, and respect. No words — just the weight of
everything between them.
Then she moves on. Focused. Controlled. But not alone.
Genres:
["Crime","Drama","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
58 -
Unearthed Memories
INT. ABANDONED CHURCH - CELLAR
A single floodlight hums, casting warped shadows across stone
and bone. Claire descends the stairs. Slow. Steady. Her
breath shallow.
A massive bookshelf shoved aside reveals a shallow grave —
bones curled beneath tattered cloth, untouched by time but
screaming through it.
Claire drops to her knees. Silent.
She reaches out. Her fingers skim the dirt. A tremble. A
tear.
She pulls the locket from her neck. Opens it.
Inside: Elizabeth’s face — young, bright, full of life.
Claire stares. Thumb brushing the photo. The ache breaking
through.
Not abandonment.
A shield.
A mother’s final act.
Claire clutches the locket.
Closes her eyes.
One breath in.
One tear down.
She stays —
Just a moment longer.
Then rises.
DISSOLVE TO:
MONTAGE – PASSAGE OF TIME
Genres:
["Drama","Mystery","Thriller"]
Ratings
Scene
59 -
From Grief to Glory
EXT. CEMETERY – DAY
Claire stands before a new gravestone, its surface clean and
simple:
ELIZABETH COVINGTON
Beloved Mother. Never Forgotten.
She lays a single lily. No tears. Just silence. A moment of
peace.
She brushes the stone with her hand, then turns and walks
away.
INT. FBI EVIDENCE ROOM – DAY
Claire flips through an evidence box. Inside:
– Deborah’s letters
– Photos of Charles' victims
– The original manuscript of “Ashes at the Altar”
She gathers it all. Heavy, but with purpose.
INT. CLAIRE’S HOME – DAY
The box sits next to Claire. She opens a clean notebook. She
writes two words on the first page:
“CHAPTER ONE”
QUICK CUTS – THE BOOK IS BORN
– Claire types, surrounded by case files.
– Coffee mugs pile up. Earbuds in.
– Printer spits out the manuscript.
- She flips through pages.
EXT. BOOKSTORE – DAY
A fresh poster in the window:
MY FATHER
MY HERO
MY NIGHTMARE
by Claire Covington
NOW A BESTSELLER!
A line of fans stretches down the block.
Genres:
["Thriller","Mystery","Drama"]
Ratings
Scene
60 -
A Call for Help
INT. BOOKSTORE – DAY
The crowd has thinned. Stacks of her book “My Father, My
Hero, My Nightmare” dominate the display table. A banner
above reads:
“#1 Bestseller - In Conversation with Claire Covington”
Claire signs a final copy. A YOUNG FAN beams at her.
FAN
It’s so cool to see you following
in your father’s footsteps as a
writer.
Claire freezes — just a beat. She hadn’t seen it that way.
A flicker of dread in her eyes. She forces a smile as she
steps away from the table, exhaling.
Then —
She sees her.
SAMANTHA LANCASTER (28), hovering near a rack of self-help
books, wringing her hands, knuckles white.
She steps forward. Voice barely above a whisper.
SAMANTHA
Ms. Covington?
Claire straightens. Composed.
CLAIRE
(measured, polite)
Yes?
SAMANTHA
I’m... my name is Samantha
Lancaster. Sam. I need your help.
Claire’s shoulders tense — Another lost soul. Another plea.
CLAIRE
I don’t investigate anymore.
Claire starts to turn —
SAMANTHA
My mother didn’t just disappear.
Claire stops — that line cuts deeper than it should.
Samantha steps closer, voice trembling.
SAMANTHA (CONT’D)
She vanished when I was thirteen.
No answers. Just a hole in my life
where she used to be.
Claire’s expression flickers — a shift.
SAMANTHA (CONT’D)
Until I read your book... For the
first time, I saw someone who
understood.
Claire stays silent. Guarded.
SAMANTHA (CONT’D)
I thought maybe... if anyone could
see what I’ve seen... feel what
I’ve felt...
(beat)
It would be you.