Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
That’s what’s bothering me the most about all this. Why the script, why the nightmare? I knew he was difficult to work with, but there’s no way he’s going around torturing his producers without word getting out.
No, he reserved that for me specifically.
I spot him after ten minutes of mentally grilling myself. He’s walking toward me with a brown paper bag cradled in one palm, smiling a bit, a bandage over his nose. Both his eyes are black, ugly and swollen, and I resist the urge to smile. I hope he’s in a lot of pain. The bastard deserves so much worse.
“Baptist.” Cowan stands a few feet away and tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the ground. “Do you plan on hitting me again or am I safe to sit?”
“Sit,” I grunt at him.
Pigeons descend as Cowan takes the other end of the bench. He doesn’t look at me, only tosses more bread, and seems content to stare as the birds peck and push at each other, fighting for every little scrap.
I wonder what he sees in the damn birds. Maybe he looks at them the same way he looks at people like me—disposable entertainment put in this earth to do nothing more than sate his sick desires.
Being around him right now is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. It isn’t just painful—it’s infuriating. I want to throttle him, but I know I can’t, not without making my situation worse.
“You know, I really didn’t think you’d call,” he says finally, breaking the silence, but still doesn’t look at me. “After what happened, I assumed that was the last I’d see of you.”
“I still have questions.”
“And you think I have answers, but you’re wrong. At least, I don’t have the answers you really need.”
I take a deep breath and shove away my rage at his worthless mind games. If I’m going to get anything from him, I need to keep calm and stick to the script. I know what I want to ask, and I can’t walk away until I get some answers.
“Why, Tony? Why did you do all of this? The house, the guns, Rodrick and the homeless encampment, the script. What was your end game?”
He tosses more bread and seems to consider for a moment. “It was revenge.”
That startles me. I look at him and try to remember if I’ve ever met Cowan before any of this—maybe back in the early days when I first started with Ansell, back when we were a bit rough around the edges and stepping on a lot of toes as we broke into the industry. It’s possible I did something to him back then, but something so bad to deserve this level of vitriol would stand out in my memory. But no, I’ve never been anywhere near Cowan before, not until I ran into him in the park.
I let out a soft laugh. “That day we met. That wasn’t random, was it?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I made that happen.”
“Just like you made everything happen afterward.”
“Everything but your partner.” He glances over with an almost shy smile. “I had a lot of fun torturing you though.”
“Why? I don’t understand. I never did anything to you. Was it Ansell?”
“No, it wasn’t Ansell. But you’re right, it wasn’t you, either. It was your father.”
That hits me harder than my fist to his nose. I sit there, stunned, and try to think back to everything my father did over his life, but I can’t recall ever hearing Cowan’s name, not even once.
“Now I’m even more lost.”
“I’m sure you are.” He rattles the bag of crumbs. “I knew your father back in the day before you were born. I wasn’t then what I am now, just an up-and-coming scrappy young kid from the area looking to make a movie, and your father promised to help me get some cameras and equipment. I was excited and of course I said yes, but eventually it became clear that your old man wasn’t going to come through, and by then I’d already invested money in paying actors, hiring help, renting space, and building sets. I lost everything because your father went back on his word. That little bullshit move by your father fucked me over and held me back for another few years, all because I’d gambled everything on that damn movie, and it backfired.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. How the hell is this real? My father never mentioned knowing Tony Cowan, much less that he’d entered into some sort of shady deal involving lighting and camera equipment, only to fuck him over somehow. It doesn’t make any sense, but it almost has to be true—otherwise, Cowan’s torturing me for no reason. This would explain it, or at least it would explain some of it, but the story’s too impossible for me to believe.