Chapter 5
SHAW
“Ann, I should have asked this question months ago.” I paused, hating what I was about to ask.
Ann would no doubt see this as me doubting her screenplay.
Maybe I was. But mostly, I was doubting my own conviction.
“You said this was based on a true story. I know you did a lot of research and spent time in Clifton Forge, but how true are we talking?”
“It’s true, Shaw.”
Yeah, she was irritated. “I’m sorry to ask. I just . . . I had to know.”
The line was quiet for a few moments, then she blew out a breath. “I get it. You’re there and people are questioning what the movie is about.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s true. It’s as true as I could make it. Marcus answered my questions and so did his wife. Ex-wife, I guess. Unless they lied, which I don’t think they did, because it matches up with other sources. It’s true.”
Thank fuck. “Then we’re good. That’s all I needed to know.”
When I’d received the screenplay, I’d instantly gotten caught up in the story. When I’d called Ann to ask her about buying it, she’d told me it was based on a true story—the words were on the front page—but I hadn’t stopped long enough to ask exactly how true.
I’d found a unique script. I’d seen an opportunity to play a different role.
And I’d gone from zero to sixty in less than a week, and my foot had been on the gas ever since.
Sure, I’d spent time reading articles online about the murder and Marcus.
I’d spent hours on Google. But I’d skimmed articles and glazed over facts.
Then came Presley.
She’d challenged me and I hadn’t liked not knowing if I was standing on solid rock or quicksand.
“I took some liberties to fill in the gaps,” Ann said.
“I had to. But I cross-referenced everything with the newspapers. I bought the transcript to Draven’s trial.
And I only used a piece of hearsay if I’d heard it more than once.
Maybe they were rumors, maybe some of the gossip was wrong, but that’s all I had to go on. ”
“Okay.” Hearsay wasn’t great, but it was all we had. And if the rumors were common enough, I was confident we could sell this story to the vast majority of people in Clifton Forge.
But could I sell it to Presley?
She probably had a different opinion than most people in town. She had a different perspective.
The real truth, the one we’d never be able to replicate, was likely somewhere in the middle.
“Thanks, Ann.”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “I really did try.”
“You succeeded,” I assured her. “Put this phone call out of your head. We’re good.”
She hung up the phone and I tossed mine beside me on the bed, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. A headache was brewing behind my temples, probably from all the time I’d been hunched over my laptop.
Over the past four days—since Presley’s questions had stirred this slurry of self-doubt—I’d gone over the script with a fine-tooth comb. I’d scoured the news archives at the Clifton Forge Tribune, grateful they were all kept online. I’d matched scenes and dialogue as best I could to the news.
I’d dried up two highlighters marking lines as either fact or fiction. Yellow or blue. In the end, the pages blended into green.
Ann had done a fantastic job writing a tale based on the truth. But this was a movie and the line between entertainment and reality was often what kept viewers glued to the screen. That line, if we got it wrong, was where Presley would nail my balls to the floor.
Why the hell did Presley’s opinion matter so damn much? How had this woman, this stranger, managed to turn me inside out about my own movie?
Because she made it real.
She’d turned a movie into life. This project had taken on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t about satisfying investors or turning a profit. Now, I had an urge to do this story, the real story, justice.
Financial gains and academy accolades didn’t mean success anymore. For me to consider this a win, I wanted Presley’s approval.
I was going to have to break confidentiality to quiet her voice. I’d already considered asking her to sign an NDA, but I suspected she’d tell me to shove it up my ass, so I’d take a leap of faith and trust her with the truth.
There’d been vulnerability in her voice when she’d asked me to tell her about the movie. Her curiosity didn’t seem devious, and I’d been replaying our conversations on an endless loop.
When had life gotten so complicated? When had I started measuring every single conversation?
I missed the simple days, the early days, when I was a new cop.
Back then, I’d been so focused on following orders and enforcing laws, life had been easy.
The world was black and white for a kid barely twenty-one years old.
I’d gotten my associate’s degree. I’d gone to the academy.
I’d joined the force. Wrong was wrong, and right was right.
Then it had blurred to gray.
Kind of like this movie. The vision had been so clear before I’d set foot in Montana, but it was blurring now too.
Who was Draven Slater? Presley spoke about him with such reverence and love, but he was a criminal. In the movie, we were showing him as a criminal. He’d been arrested for murder and according to my research and Ann’s storyline, it hadn’t been the first time Draven had been in handcuffs.
The newspaper hadn’t mentioned too much about Draven’s motorcycle club, which made the entire thing suspicious.
But since the reporter and owner of the newspaper had the last name Slater, that hadn’t been a shock.
Bryce Slater was Dash’s wife, Draven’s daughter-in-law.
She’d written clean, informative news for the Tribune.
She’d covered Draven’s trial fairly. Marcus’s too.
There was just a big hole when it came to the Tin Kings.
Any references were vague and dismissive.
The key dynamic in the film, besides Marcus’s own internal conflict, was the battle between Marcus and Draven.
The plot centered around their old rivalry.
Draven’s past crimes had been embellished slightly from his rap sheet, and Marcus’s inability to keep him in a jail cell would be the catalyst for his breaking point.
There was no way to know, but I had a hunch we were closer to the truth than even we’d realized.
I was hungry for details, not because it would change the movie, but for myself. The former cop in me wanted answers. I wanted to know more about these people, and I wanted to know more about Presley.
I stood from the motel’s bed and grabbed my phone.
I’d been staying at the Evergreen since I’d returned to Montana and my time here was about over.
The room was clean, but the shower was too short for a guy my size and the queen-sized bed wasn’t big enough.
I needed room to sprawl. Come tomorrow, I’d have a space of my own and a decent bed.
The morning sun warmed my face as I stepped outside, sunglasses and keys in hand. I wasn’t shooting today. Cameron and the crew were doing setup for a night scene, so I had a while before my call time.
My plan was to talk to Presley and hopefully work the doubts out of my head, but before I went to the garage, I was heading to the police station.
I’d meant to swing by last week, but shooting had been busy. This morning I was making time to see the place where Marcus had worked. I wanted to introduce myself to the chief, the guy who’d arrested Marcus, and get a read on him.
The motel’s parking lot was nearly empty as I left, everyone else having left before six this morning. We were rotating out cast members to keep location time at a minimum.
Last week, we’d shot a few outdoor scenes so Cameron could get his rugged look.
One had been of Marcus as a young cop, patrolling town and helping an elderly woman change a tire at the end of his shift.
Another had been of Marcus taking his wife out to dinner.
They were scenes to lay a foundation, to show Marcus had been a good man.
Despite Presley’s hatred toward him, I needed to believe he’d been a moral man once. That one horrific act didn’t erase the good he’d done. The good I’d assumed he’d done.
Tonight, we were shooting a scene at Marcus’s home.
He—me—would be on his couch in his living room, sitting alone and drinking a glass of tequila.
His wife, played by a nice actress I hadn’t met before, would come in and kiss his forehead good night.
She’d exit the shot with the tails of her nightgown floating over the carpet.
And when she was gone, Marcus would cringe.
He’d wait, sipping his drink, until he was sure she was asleep. Then he’d call Amina.
He’d smile and relax, because he was on the phone with the love of his life.
Tomorrow night’s shoot would be one of ten depicting the night Marcus had been arrested for Amina’s murder. Then the actress playing his wife would fly out and a new set of characters would fly in.
The only constant through the movie was me. I was in every scene.
It would be grueling, and sleep would be scarce. What I should be doing during my free time was resting and running lines, but until I had some answers, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.
I didn’t need my GPS to navigate the streets of Clifton Forge any longer and the police station was easy enough to find along the river.
I parked beside a cruiser, hopped out and jogged up the steps to the front door.
The cement radiated heat, even this early, and I was glad I wouldn’t have to stand under the scorching sun in full makeup.
The lobby of the station was as expected, plain and beige. I walked up to the officer stationed behind a glass window. “Morning. I was wondering if the chief was in.”
“I’ll check.” He pointed to the row of chairs along the wall.
I took a seat, balancing my elbows on my knees as I waited. The officer hadn’t asked me for my name. I guess he hadn’t needed it.