And yet another shot at the title (part ix)

“I’m really happy that you came through on this, James,” Cat told me in her office. “I just don’t think this film could work without your vision.”

“Mmhmm, mmhmm,” I said as I sat contemplatively in my chair. “Tell me, what do you want?”

“I’ll go over all the pre-production notes from the studio once you and Greta sit down…”

“No no,” I interrupted. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, what do you want out of life?”

Cat chuckled. “James, this really isn’t the time. Where are you going with this?”

I leaned forward and spoke in low, serious tone. “Catherine, I’m gonna be real with you,” I said. “I don’t like the direction the studio is going in. Jimmy might’ve saved Trainwreck Productions after we nearly bankrupted it after Like a Fart in the Wind. But you and me together, we restored this place to a state of solvency. We’ve become what all the other kids on the block aspired to be. Now Jimmy did his job as being the steady hand in a time of trouble, but let’s be honest: he’s old school. You, on the other hand, you’re the future. Have you given any thought to taking his place?”

Cat was flummoxed. “Jimmy’s my friend,” she stated. “There’s no way I could betray our trust like that.”

“Come on, Cat. This is Hollywood. Yesterday’s friends are tomorrow’s enemies. Do you really want to be Jimmy’s errand girl for the rest of your career?”

Catherine threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know what Jimmy did to piss you off but we really shouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said. “Besides, the board would never approve of my appointment to President. Jimmy has too many friends.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I have friends too, ya know? Including many on the board.”

Cat stared intently at me for a few moments before looking at her watch. “We need to be in front of the press in an hour,” she explained. “There’s just one other thing I need to go over with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Now, because we’ve built up a good relationship over the years, I figured that you should hear this from me first,” she stuttered.

“Oh god, what now?” I groaned.

“Now, please remember that this is business so don’t get too offended…”

“Cat, just give it to me.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Okay,” she said, “Greta chose to rewrite your script.”

“So?”

“With another screenwriter.”

“Big fucking deal,” I replied sardonically.

“That screenwriter is Cassandra McHale.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part xiii)

“So how do you want to do this Pablo?” I asked while we drinking at the hottest bar in Burbank: Applebee’s. “Do I need to call up my mob connections? Or do you think we can do this ourselves? Jimmy’s made plenty of enemies, ya know? So what do we do? Car bombs? Poisoned Bloody Mary’s? What?”

“Woah woah woah!” Pablo retorted. “Dan didn’t say we had to kill Jimmy. We just have to remove him from his post as president of Trainwreck Productions!”

I stirred my fruity mai tai as I considered my response. “Guys like Jimmy are cockroaches,” I said. “You can’t placate them. You can’t simply remove them. They only know, understand, and respect one thing: power. Jimmy’s a mere suit. We’re the talent. Or, rather, I’m the talent. Whatever happened to us, Pablo? What happened to the days when we could swing our dicks around, literally, and this town would bow to our demands? I wish we could go back to those days.”

“We’re still living those days, James,” Pablo said. “You faked a heart attack last week at Wendy’s. Free Frosties for life!”

“It just doesn’t feel the same anymore,” I lamented. “We’re nothing but fossils to these people. I think it’s time we show these folks that we still run this town.”

Pablo’s cell rang. “It’s Cat,” he informed me. “It probably has something to do with the press conference for Chatty Cathy. Greta will surely be there. So what do you want me to tell her? Are we still on?”

An ingenious idea suddenly came to me. I sipped on my mai tai as I marveled at my genius. “Yes,” I told him. “Tell her we’re still on and we’re ready to play ball.”

Yes, I thought, we were definitely going to play ball. But this wasn’t a game of cooperation anymore. This was another shot at the title.

TO BE CONTINUED….

And yet another shot at the title (part vii)

There was only one man in Hollywood that could save me from this fuckery. And that man was Dan Gillespie.

In the years since Lavtiavia, or whatever that dump of country was called, Dan holed himself up in his office in West Hollywood. He had become an infamous recluse. No one saw him. Not even his clients. But Pablo and me were out of options. So on one sunny Thursday afternoon, we paid him a visit.

“Dan I know you’re in there,” I shouted through the boarded up door. “You can stop hiding! I’m not here to kill you like I did to your client. You know the one.”

Moments later, Dan slid a shotgun through a small opening. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years,” Dan said. “I knew that you and Pablo would come here to finish the job.”

Pablo and me raised our hands. “Dan,” I pleaded, “I have no beef with you. Kev was trying to kill ME and I had to do what was necessary. Now please, put away your shotgun. We’re only here to talk business.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’re the most powerful attorney in Hollywood for Christsake! If you were to end up dead, everyone in town would know it was me! I wouldn’t show up here if I didn’t have a good reason!”

After a few moments of silence, Dan pulled back in his shotgun and closed the opening. We could hear him inside fumbling away at the locks. “And what reason would that be?” he asked when he finally opened the door.

Pablo and I were shocked. What was once a proud man had withered away into a puny hermit. “Dan,” I said with some concern, “I need you. This town needs you. Whatever happened in Eastern Europe is over as far as I’m concerned. You are the greatest lawyer this town has ever seen! I just want you take my case.”

Dan invited the two of us in. His office was covered with newspaper clippings of my face. “Sorry about the decor gentleman,” he said, “I don’t have many visitors.”

“It’s quite alright,” Pablo explained as he laid his briefcase on the dusty table. “I have some legal documents I want you to look over. Trainwreck Productions is threatening to sue James if he walks away from the latest production.”

Dan put on his readers and perused through the papers. “I see,” he said, “and you didn’t look through the contract before you had your client sign it, Mr. Dunbar?”

Pablo shrugged. “I had my law degree bought and paid for. I’ve never stepped foot in a classroom.”

Dan shook his head and removed his glasses. “Gentlemen, this contract is pretty ironclad,” he explained. “And Mr. Pietermeister, I advise you to fire your agent and hire one that actually understands legal terminology.”

“Nevermind that,” I replied. “Can you get me out of this contract?”

Dan rubbed his chin as he started getting his wheels turning. “Probably not,” he said, “BUT, there is a clause in these contracts that us lawyers call corporatum morten which states that if there is turnover from studio leadership then all contracts overseen by them suddenly become null and void.”

“For fuck’s sake Dan, English please!” I begged.

“In other words, get rid of Jimmy Greco and you get rid of this contract.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part vi or whatever)

“This is the worst script I’ve ever read and I’ve been in this business for 40 years,” Jimmy Greco, head of Trainwreck Productions, shouted at me. “What were you thinking making Pee-Wee write this shit? Do you have an answer?! The man is hardly literate!”

“Does this mean you’ll fire me?” I shrugged.

“Fire you?!” Jimmy retorted. “I can’t fire you. Your movies make billions in streaming!”

“So what does it matter? What exactly do you want out of me, Jimmy?”

“Cooperation. Effort. A little thought into the details…”

“Name one time I ever gave any of that!”

Jimmy sat up in his seat and looked me sternly in the eye. “Now listen here buster,” he said. “I have two polyps in my ass that need removing. So I need your shit. I expect this production to come in on time and on budget! Do we have an understanding?”

“Nope!” I said. “Because I quit.”

Jimmy started maniacally laughing. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You think we haven’t gone through all this before? Do you really think that I didn’t anticipate this move?!”

“Jimmy, if you have something to say, you better spit it out.”

Jimmy poured himself a scotch as he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Here, you want a drink? You better take it,” he said.

“I’m about to leap over this desk if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” I warned.

“Fair enough,” he replied as he swallowed the scotch whole. “You’ve been able to run roughshod over this studio for so long that you’ve become predictable,” he explained. “You know all those pages of legalese in your contract? I know you don’t read any of that shit. So I put in a stipulation: if you walk away from this production, you will owe back all the money you have earned with Trainwreck Productions. So you want to quit? That’s fine with me! But have fun being only the 27th richest man in the world!”

Jimmy’s own ingenuity caused him to laugh even harder. I saw only red.

“Laugh it up, Jimmy,” I said. “But just know this: you’re a dead man walking.”

And I left him with those ominous words.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part v)

“Why do they want me to do Chatty Cathy?” I wondered aloud. “What is Chatty Cathy? What is a movie? Who am I? Why am I here?”

“I can’t tell if you’re going through an existential crisis or if you’re genuinely asking questions,” Pablo said.

“Can I get you two another bourbon?” the bartender asked.

“Make it a double,” I said. “Scratch that, make it a triple. NO! Quadruple it. Fuck it, just bring the bottle.”

“Is something on your mind?” Pablo asked me.

“No,” I replied. “I mean yes. I mean I hate I hate myself and all my life’s decisions.”

Pablo patted me on the back. “There there,” he said, “you’re still a young man. What are you? Almost 80? It’s only going to get worse from here.”

“I keep telling myself that yet nothing seems to get better. Pablo, tell me, am I an abject failure?”

“Hmm,” he pondered. “Well you’re a billionaire with multiple accolades to your name. You’ve inspired a generation of artists to enter the film industry and they renamed the Nobel Peace Prize after you. I personally wouldn’t call that successful but I’m sure somebody would.”

“I just don’t know what to do anymore. After Greta rejected me I feel like my whole career has been a waste. Why do you think I went into movies to begin with? To get laid of course! But I guess all those Academy Awards were for nothing.”

Pablo took a sip of his bourbon and nodded. “James, I’m not telling you this because I’m your agent and you pay me millions of dollars to talk to you,” he said, “but I think what you’re going through is called a ‘rough patch’. It’s personally never happened to me, but I guess it happens to other people. I care about you not because I’ve made a fortune off your work, but because I think we’re friends. I suppose. So I can’t in good conscience let you suffer like this. You’re seeing a guy for this stupid shit, right?”

“Yeah I’m seeing a guy. But all he has made me do so far is lend out my car to him and kick me out of my own house when he wants to host sex parties. I just don’t know about him Pablo.”

“Well I don’t know how all that psychological bullshit works but I think you should stick with it for the time being. It might do you some good.”

“Alright alright,” I nodded.

“In the meantime, we need to fix this Chatty Cathy situation.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part iv)

Back in Burbank, Kat (Kennedy) was prattling on about the usual bullshit, how I went over budget on Schindler’s List III, how everyone hates me for bailing on Chatty Cathy, blah blah blah. I just couldn’t shake the words that Dick told me in Palm Springs.

“James are you listening to me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Greta is also bailing from Chatty Cathy. She only signed on because she wanted to work with you.”

“So?”

“So…this is bad press! The studio has already spent untold amounts of money and we haven’t even started pre-production!”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“For starters, all of our jobs are on the line. Once when the papers get word that the production is already in trouble, bad word will spread and can cause this movie to bomb! Come on, we need to fix this!”

“Kat, we do this every time: The studio gives us carte blanche, I do something stupid that cost the studio millions, the movie bombs, and we’re right back here next week. Everything we make is a failure yet we still have jobs.”

“Now you take that back! Our films make billions in streaming!”

“So what are you worried about?”

“Goddamnit James! Why won’t you do Chatty Cathy?!”

“Cuz,” I said. “Greta hates me.”

Kat closed her eyes to calm herself. “Greta doesn’t hate you,” she calmly explained. “She just doesn’t like you in that way.”

I looked out the window to stare down a lone shrub in the parking lot. “Kat, why do we keep working together?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Because Jimmy wants us to.”

“You can always say no.”

Kat thought for a moment. “Sometimes we have to put aside ego to create something,” she said. “You’re one of the few directors of note still working in this town. People want to see what you make. Besides, you’re one of the few men in Hollywood that doesn’t try to fuck me everytime we meet.”

“But I did fuck you.”

“No you didn’t. You were briefly in a coma because you were shot in the head. As much as it disturbs me, Michael Cimino did not tempt you to forgo your talent and live a normal life. Your brain was simply losing oxygen. It was a death dream.”

“Damn it Kat! It was real! I was there!”

“I don’t care. Now will you please come to your senses and talk to Greta!”

“Absolutely not! Is this all you suits want?! You just want to give me millions of dollars to do something I love?! Not this time! You can’t fire me from this production! I quit!”

I stood up and grabbed my coat.

“Whatever dude. I’ll see you next week,” Kat said.

I stormed out and slammed the door.

TO BE CONTINUED….

And yet another shot at the title (part iii)

“Hi, I’m Dick,” said the big, burly naked man. “Welcome to my humble abode in Palm Springs.”

“Pleased to meet you Dick. I’m James,” I replied as I extended my hand.

“Yes, the world famous filmmaker. Care for a hug?”

“Thanks Dick. But I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Come on James. The first step in learning about yourself is embracing a nude man with an erection. So what do you say? Are you ready to take that first step?”

So I begrudgingly wrapped my arms around him and placed my head on his bare chest. “That’s much better, James. You are on your first steps towards healing,” he said.

“Can I let go now?”

“Of course, please take a seat.”

Dick directed me to a large pillow sitting on the hardwood floor. I plopped down while he sat in a large reclining chair, legs spread wide open; penis staring at me in the face. “So what brings you here?” he asks.

“Sometimes I feel like god is punishing me by keeping me alone in the world. Did I do something wrong? Am I cursed to live this way forever?”

Dick placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and raised his hands up to his lips in a prayer formation. “Hmm…,” he pondered, “the question that plagues all men. But I have an answer for you, James: yes you are cursed. How could anyone love a sad sack of shit like you? Look at you, sitting there on the floor like a child. Pathetic.”

“Is there any hope for me?”

“Hope…hope…,” Dick thought then shook his head. “There is no hope in the universe. Justice is a concept for the weak. For the strong don’t rely on hope. We take action.”

“What must I do?” I pleaded.

“It’s not what you must do. It’s what you must become,” he stated. Then he stood up to look out the window. Only his bare ass cheeks were facing me. Then he continued. “If you are to learn one thing from me, it’s this: you are a force of nature. Look out into this barren, deserted landscape. The lack of water and extreme heat invites nothing but death. Yet despite this, life persists. Look at that shrub.”

Dick pointed his finger at the lone piece of vegetation sitting in his view against the scorching Palm Springs backdrop. “This shrub receives less than one inch of water per year,” he stated. “It sits there alone its whole life. It provides no sustenance; it bears no fruit, it’s naked. No animal will touch as it’s not worth pissing on. But despite all the odds, it persists. And for what purpose? No one knows.”

Then Dick swung his penis around and looked me square in the eye. “Come,” he invited, “come be the lone, naked shrub in Palm Springs.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And yet another shot at the title (part II)

So the fat, scraggly therapist lumbered into the office and plopped his large ass down in his chair. He picked his nose and wiped it on his shirt then took out a paper and pen. “So you’re not here for insurance purposes because the studio wants to make sure you’re mentally competent to direct movies? You’ve missed the last 47 appointment,” he asks.

“Correct,” I say.

“So why are you here?”

“Cuz I need drugs.”

“Well I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m only a therapist. Did you want to talk about anything?”

“Talk? Why would I want to talk to you? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“That’s what we usually do in therapy.”

“No shit? I guess I never considered that,” I said. Then I pondered for a moment. “Well I guess I’d talk about being rejected by a woman I loved.”

“That’s good,” the therapist said as he scribbled notes. “So what happened?”

“Greta. She just didn’t love me back.”

“You mean Great Gerw-“

“Yes, her. Please don’t say her name.”

The therapist nodded and let out a loud fart. Then he readjusted in his seat to look all therapist-like. “Rejection is a very traumatic thing,” he said. “Would you care to tell me more about yourself?”

“Like what?”

“Like what was your family life like?”

“Hmm. Well my mother was a street hooker in Belgrade and my father was a Cambodian arms dealer. I caught meningitis when I was 3 and don’t remember anything until I was 42.”

“Mmhmm. And what is your love life like?”

“Well as you know, I’m pretty famous. I’ve been nominated for 53 Academy Awards, I am the world’s 6th richest man, stood trial for war crimes, and am a high priest in the Church of Satan. So I can pretty much sleep with anyone I want, assuming I can get my dick hard.”

“Sure. But have you ever loved anyone James? Has anyone ever loved you back?”

I was stumped. “I never pondered this question doc,” I said. “You’re really good at your job.”

“First off, I’m not a doctor. And secondly, I want you to think hard on this. You seem very mentally stunted with numerous untreated disorders. I’m honestly surprised and a bit depressed with humanity that you’re as successful as you are. So I want you to visit what I call a ‘love coach’,” he explained as he handed me a business card. “I’m just a piddly, poorly-paid therapist. There’s not much I can do. But this guy is the best in the business.”

I looked at the card. “Dick Warburton: Love Specialist,” it read.

“Will this make Greta love me?” I ask.

“To be honest, I don’t think anyone can love you James. But this guy can certainly help.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And Yet Another Shot at the Title

So I was busy yelling at my sound designer for being a fucking idiot. “Goddamnit!” I screamed and shouted, “put more AIR ON THE FART. MORE. AIR. ON. THE. FART. I don’t want a regular sounding one for this scene. I want a fart that starts off a little wheezy and ends with a bang! How hard is this for you to understand? What are you? A MORON?!”

Then my agent Pablo Dunbar rang up my cell. “Pablo, I’m in the middle sound mixing Schindler’s List III. You know I don’t like to be disturbed in post production. So this better be good,” I warned.

“Greta’s been trying to reach you. Why aren’t you answering her calls?!” he asked.

The mere mention of her name gave me the bubble guts. “Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded coyly. “Why would she be trying to call me?”

“Maybe you need to start laying off the benzos James. How did you forget that Trainwreck Productions has signed you two to a $800 billion contract to make the next Chatty Cathy movie?”

“What? But I haven’t received any of her calls!”

Then I looked at my burner phone and noticed I had 600 missed calls. “Oh shit,” I said.

“Yeah, you better call her,” Pablo instructed.

So I immediately set up a meeting with her in my office. I fixed my combover, threw on my best Death Cab For Cutie shirt, and began pounding the bourbon to calm my nerves. Hours later, Greta was standing in my office with a look of indignation.

“Greta, first off, let me tell you that the Academy completely screwed you over by failing to nominate you,” I pleaded. “You’re one of the best directors working today and it’s unfair. I didn’t even make a movie last year and yet I still got nominated. Go figure. And secondly, I haven’t been avoiding you, I’ve just been deliberately not placing myself in your presence.”

“James, we’re supposed to begin pre production in three days on Chatty Cathy. Trainwreck Productions gave us carte blanche to run this production in any way we see fit and we haven’t even discussed how we will divide the responsibilities. Do you have anything for a spec script?”

I began stalling. “Pee-Wee’s working on it,” I said.

“Your production assistant?”

“That’s him. He’s a filmmaker too, ya know? Remember, he stole my director’s job on Like A Fart in the Wind and I’ve never quite forgave. But I’m letting him earn my trust back.”

“Okay, and what about directorial duties?”

“It’s all yours. I’ll serve as a creative consultant, or maybe as an executive producer. I’ll handle all the finances and that bullshit.”

Greta threw her hands in the air. “James, I fought for you to be in this production. You’re one of the few filmmakers I actually admire!”

“Thank you Greta. I admire you and your work as well.”

“Then why don’t you want to work with me on this?!”

I began to shake uncontrollably as I poured one bourbon shot after another. “Well there’s a lot logistical logical reasoning stuff at play here, whatnot and what-have-you and so on,” I began to sputter. Then I broke.

“Greta, could you ever love a man like me?” I ask.

“James, not this shit again,” she forcefully responded. “I like you professionally and I respect you. But not in that way.”

I exhaled as I slammed the bourbon bottle down. I choked back tears as I began to ponder my words. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry Greta, I just can’t move forward with this project.”

Rage began to fill her eyes. “So you won’t work with me because I won’t fuck you?! Is that what this is?! How many times do I have to face this in my career?!”

In a fit of blind passion, I crushed the glass in my hand. The alcohol burning my open wounds barely registered. “Goddamnit Greta, do you think I want to feel this way? Do you think my urge to fuck you is an idle, frivolous sensation? Give me a knife and I’ll cut my dick off right now! Anything to relieve this burden! I’ve tried everything to fill in this void. I fucked my way from West Hollywood to North Hollywood and I kept facing the same problem: none of those women, and a few men, were you! Most days I go through life feeling nothing. NOTHING. I pass my time with booze, prostitutes, internet pornography, and the soundtrack to Xanadu, but when I’m around you, I catch a glimpse of hope, OF PASSION, of curiosity in the world that I haven’t felt since I was child. In you, everything old becomes new! But look at you, and look at me. The whole world is ahead of you and I’ll be dead in five years from diabetes! I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t shit! I haven’t changed my underwear in five days because I can’t stop thinking of you! Damn it Greta, you may never love me but at least see where I’m coming from!”

Awkward silence filled the room. “You know James,” Greta finally spoke, “this town is littered with the most talented people in the world. And most will never catch a break. But you. You keep getting them time and time again. And you keep fucking it up, time and time again.”

Greta stomped out and slammed the door. I stood there, blood gushing out of my hand.

THE END

Flowers in the attic (part II)

On a dark, snowy night at the shit factory, where production halted due to hazardous road conditions, I was alone. Just me, my thoughts, and a 14-hour recording of VC Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic, as read by Mena Suvari.

I never read the 1979 novel but like everyone else on this planet, I knew its reputation. I saw the 1987 film adaptation when I was five or so and remember being haunted by a dead, dangling bride followed by a kids walking off into a green and spacious horizon at the end. That was all I knew. Given its popularity with young women and teenagers, I was honestly expecting a cheap, trashy listen that might spark my imagination in a perverse yet innocuous way.

What I got instead was a late night religious-like experience rivaled only by that time I watched The Deer Hunter when I was 11. I was so impacted by this story that I began to question if I was listening to the same book that everyone else read. Of course it was a story about four, later three, children hidden away in a mansion for nearly three and a half years before escaping, but what got everyone talking about this book is, well, to put it bluntly…the older brother and sister, Cathy and Chris, fucking. Sexual tension between the two is blatant throughout the story, but when this tension is finally consummated, the incident is brief and regretted. What grabbed me instead was the story about the two younger twins, Carrie and Cory.

From their perspective, this is a horror story. At the novel’s conclusion, they would have spent just under half their lives in that attic and bedroom. Their father dies, mother neglects them, they become malnourished, caged up, and are cared for by two ill equipped teenagers. There’s no happy ending for them; Cory dies, buried in an unknown grave, and Carrie is heartbroken, seemingly missing her other half.

I don’t think I ever felt more shattered while hearing a story. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t shed a tear when news about Cory’s death is given to his surviving siblings. Another gut punching moment is when Cathy compares the physical changes of her and Chris to the young twins: despite being imprisoned against their will for over three years, Carrie and Cory only grew two inches. In short, half of innocent Cory’s life was a miserable, dreary existence.

That’s the kind of stuff that keeps me awake at night.

While the book was massively popular, from my understanding, critical reception was mixed. Many felt that the story commanded the reader’s attention, but the running theme of incest seemed a bit too scandalous. But that would be a shame if that was the only takeaway. There’s A LOT of other things going on here: themes of naivety, of god, of death, of greed, of losing one’s innocence.

Is Flowers in the Attic perfect? Not exactly. Some complain about Cathy’s sometimes romantic notions that color the book. I wasn’t particularly taken with her brief interaction with Bart Winslow. Now I wouldn’t say that Cathy is an unreliable narrator in this story but I do think her trauma should be taken in consideration. Her formative years were stolen from her, after all. With that in mind, I think her perspective hammers home the theme of innocence lost. As a notorious Cormac McCarthy fan, I was kinda taken by her point of view: despite the absolute tragedy of the situation, an ounce of humanity and kindness can still be found.

I also learned that Wes Craven wrote a screenplay and wanted to direct a film adaptation to the novel. I find this interesting because it makes me wonder if this would have colored our perception of Flowers in the Attic. I’m not a Craven-head, nor have I read the screenplay, but I can’t help but wonder. I also can’t help but make my own changes to the book. It was clear (at least in my version of the novel) that Andrews was writing a sequel, so the audience was deprived of a satisfactory showdown between the kids and their captors. Truth be told, I was fine with this. Had I wrote the book, the house would have taken on an almost haunted nature and the mother and grandmother would have been left there, abandoned, much as they had abandoned their children.

But this is VC Andrews’ book. Not Beau Montana’s.