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I didn't choose to be this way,

a loner, always seeking the story unfold around me,

fixating on the details,

creating a "What happened?,"

a "Who does what?" circumstance.

It is who I am.

Always been and always will be.

A writer.

Take a look.

They're not going to find him.

I'm sure of it.

Morning, honey.

Good morning.

Is this for me?

It should be good. It's certainly unconventional.

Look, I'm almost there.

I'm just working out the final details.

Just tell him I'll need a week.

Hey.

Is everything okay?

Yeah.

Everything's status quo.

Well, it sounded like you were having

a bit of an issue...

during that phone call.

You look beautiful.

You don't look bad yourself.

I love you.

Come on. Let's get outta here.

What a day.

I hope you don't mind, honey. I invited her.

Happy fucking anniversary, Isabelle.

Blake.

I don't think we've formally met.

You are exquisite.

But we have met before. At the café.

I served you and your husband.

Are you sure you want me here, or is this some kind of joke?

Cecile, why don't you join us for our anniversary?

Yes, Cecile. Please do.

The sun is going to keep getting hotter.

So, when you put your suit on, you should cover up.

You know, it's true what George says about you.

You are the most beautiful girl I've seen with him.

Thank you.

Ever since I saw you at the café,

I've been absolutely mesmerized by you.

It's an illusion, my dear.

He tends to like them in their prime.

Usually not as sweet as you, though.

- "They?" - Well, of course.

You don't think that you were his only, did you?

George seems like the kind of man

that can handle more than one woman.

If that's what suits him,

then who am I to judge what he does in his spare time?

He'd be perfect. if not for his needs.

Do you enjoy sleeping with him?

I do prefer older men.

After ten years of marriage,

you tend to get a sense of what your man likes.

If this trip goes according to my plan,

maybe I'll like you, too.

I think you already do.

George, is it too soon?

Too soon for what?

My wife likes to drink.

I know that phrase like the back of my hand.

Well, George, in honor of our young guest

let's grab the champagne.

Oh, don't worry about it, darling.

When you're out here, time doesn't exist.

You can do anything,

be anyone you want.

Because without time, then it never really happened.

Are you gonna let 'em go?

Nope.

Clear as day, I gotta get more information from each of 'em.

And certainly not 'til we run some tests.

Right. The shawl.

Not only that. Look at him.

Our young addict just got his blood drawn this morning.

Oh, but he already admitted to that.

Just being thorough.

I wonder which one did it?

Which one?

I'm old school.

This is Detective Kenny Park. K-E-N-N-Y P-A-R-K.

Badge number 817A334,

on November 17th, 2015.

I am interviewing Isabelle Boulangé.

Why don't you just tell me what happened?

I'm just his casual weekend friend.

The kind that usually has consequences

if you're not discreet.

Weren't you concerned about being out on the ocean

with a jealous wife?

I've been in worse situations.

Do you think George and Isabelle...

and maybe even Blake,

have done this sort of thing before?

Like it's a game to them?

I don't really think about it, Detective Park.

People come and go.

I'm not invested.

These two...

they seem awfully in synch.

And the mannerisms,

their tone, the creepishly similar looks.

Come on. Cecile and Isabelle?

Isabelle's honest.

Something trustworthy about her.

And this guy, he has this gorgeous wife

and what, this... this sex toy on the side?

Or whatever the fuck they've been saying?

C'mon, let's call this for what it is.

Some kinky...

Eyes Wide Shut sort of thing,

and... and a fight between some jealous bitch,

who may or may not be a closeted lesbian.

Now she, or someone, or all of them,

they knock this fucker out. Hmm?

He falls over the side of the boat

and the rest is history.

Now, you want my personal opinion?

They're all covering for this as a trio.

Where did you go, George?

What happened?

Talk to me.

They killed him, Park.

And what we have here is a story of betrayal,

adultery, mind fucking games, sex, and money.

Is it really, though?

I mean, on the surface, yeah.

It is.

But there's always more.

Why have Blake and Cecile there? What's the point?

So, I guess you're used to being alone.

Are you lonely, Cecile?

I may be young, but...

I've already learnt that life is lonely, Detective.

Are you happy now, George?

When are you going to sleep with her, George?

Relax, Isabelle.

It's not always about you,

and what you think people ought to do.

I get it.

Stop telling me to relax, George.

God.

Show me a goddamn emotion, you know, something. Anything!

Sometimes you are just so fucking detached.

Honey, I have a book to write, and you know what that entails.

This wasn't supposed to be a weekend for your writing.

This is our ten year anniversary! This is about us!

And apparently Cecile.

Okay, look, I get it. I'm sorry.

Just remember these ideas pay for our lifestyle.

You just want control.

And for us to be grateful for the things that you give us.

But everything comes attached to an expectation.

Honey...

Do you like having everyone need you? Is that it?

Why don't you take a seat upstairs,

okay?

I get it. I'll stop.

What's that?

It's a fishermen's buoy.

Helps the fishermen mark where their nets are.

But, uh, it's also so that I don't hit them.

Are they always like this?

Not usually.

Think it might be, uh...

Me?

I get it.

So, he's writing a book, then?

He always has a book to write.

I didn't know he was a writer.

Have you read any of his books? Are they any good?

Well, I'm always in 'em.

In one form or another.

George likes to put people in situations,

and then see how things play out.

I guess four people on the sailboat fits the bill.

Speak of the devil.

It's Hemingway.

I'll read it as soon as I get to the beach.

Seagulls.

A Seagull in the Water.

Yes, it's going to be his best one yet,

isn't it, George?

Now, who needs a drink like I do?

Here, have a glass.

Scavengers.

They take things.

They wait, and when the moment strikes,

they fight for whatever's available to them.

If you would've told me I'd be sipping champagne

on a sailboat across the Pacific Riviera

with a beautiful woman,

I would've thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

We have a lot to talk about.

So, George is an author?

When I met him,

I was drawn to his strength, his...

unpredictability.

He's the kind of man that can own you with a look.

Control...

manipulation.

And this is attractive to you, yes?

The man that plays with each of you

like you're a pawn in his mental game of chess?

I like games.

I like playing them and I like being in them.

Do you like role-playing, Detective?

I'm married, ma'am.

I like to avoid games.

The spirit of choice.

What people do, and why they do it...

If, in fact, they had to make a decision in the moment,

if motivated, would they react...

would they hesitate?

Is this yours?

I was wearing it.

Isabelle asked me to.

To cover you up?

Or to dress me up. Like a doll.

Is this George's blood?

So you're the sober one on this boat trip?

Nineteen months.

Just curious.

How does one get heroin on a boat?

By bringing it.

To each his own.

I screwed up.

Have some coffee.

Do you honestly believe...

after coming down from heroin,

that I'd want a cup of coffee?

Blake, what happened out there?

Now, as you get older,

you come to realize that meaning

is what gets you outta bed in the morning.

To catch a fish.

Not just a fish, the biggest fish.

And that was the old man's purpose.

What happens when you catch that fish?

I don't know.

See, Blake, that's the point.

Life's not black and white. If it was, we'd have no purpose.

We need uncertainty.

We need something to... to need, to possess,

to give reason to all this...

this beauty,

this nothingness that surrounds you and I.

Context. Right.

And once the fisherman gets it, a shark comes along

and devours the old man's catch,

the universe correcting itself.

The old man's purpose,

spend your whole life learning to accept the lack of control.

Irony.

The basis by which all art exists.

Some bullshit that was.

Blake...

I need to understand the day.

Why George has disappeared.

Not his philosophy,

nor his little parenting anecdotes.

In order to give you a goddamn understanding,

you have to know the background of how it all happened.

Sorry.

Please, proceed.

Anything involving George cannot be easily explained.

He's unpredictable. Unreasonable.

Yet completely logical and without any emotion.

Like a genius.

Or a sociopath.

Let me paint you a Rembrandt.

Time spent with George is like time spent with a master.

On one side, you feel for the guy.

On the other hand,

is it some brilliantly woven manipulation of your emotions?

It's a compass?

It is.

It's quite nice.

Is it?

It's broken.

I can see that.

What about George are you protecting?

Why do you think I'm protecting George?

Because you just said he was your master.

You misinterpreted.

He isn't my master. Nobody is.

I needed a place to live, and George took me in.

He gives me what I need and I give him what he needs.

Simple as that.

He's my friend.

But I'm not protecting anybody but myself, Detective.

If he's gone...

do you get his boat?

You think that I would help Isabelle

off her husband and then get to keep his boat?

What's my endgame?

If I was stupid enough to do something like that?

Only someone who truly hated being controlled

could find that kind of motivation.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was Isabelle.

Maybe it was you and Isabelle.

I'm my own master.

I had nothing to gain.

Each day, I wake up and I try to survive.

George gave me more than enough,

and I would never take from him.

At least not without his giving.

I know you're an addict. I know you relapsed.

And I'm sorry.

But I have got two women in the other room

and a man who's disappeared.

So you have got

to give me something to work with here.

You want something to work with.

I didn't do the heroin that's in my system.

I don't know how it got there.

I went to bed sober and I woke up like this.

It was definitely mine...

but it was around my neck when I went to bed.

How's that for something?

You know what I love about this compass?

It's perfect to its design.

There was a problem

and a man came up with an idea to solve that problem

and this is it.

Now, it can be a, uh, paperweight or a doorstop,

but that's not what it's meant to be.

It's not what it's designed to be.

But what it does best is

show us the way.

That's simple,

but it has value.

What were you boys doing downstairs for so long?

Organizing the cabin and packing for the beach.

I showed Blake what you got me for our second anniversary.

Mm.

I bought this for George when we went to Morocco.

I sat in a flea market for three hours

while he tried to talk the price down.

He practically stole it from that poor little man.

He was a third-generation fisherman.

Got it off his grandfather's boat.

He hated boats, so I was practically doing him a favor.

Right.

Don't worry.

She likes to do this to me.

She likes to see me beg.

This time I'm really gonna do it, George.

It's not worth it, Isabelle.

Oh, but it's so much fun, though.

Hey, guys, Three Arch Bay's coming right past that cove.

We should anchor soon.

This wasn't the first time

we'd gone to Three Arch Bay.

We've become very familiar with the area...

and we knew which times to enjoy the beach privately

with no other boats.

We took the smaller boat to shore...

and had a perfect day.

The thing about Three Arch Bay is it's secluded.

You can climb the rocks,

scale the hill,

traverse the underwater coral.

It's the type of place you'd expect

a couple like George and Isabelle to go to.

It's heaven on Earth.

George and I walked along the beach,

talked about life, art,

and the idea of finding peace,

which was something that we talked about often.

Cecile and Isabelle were laying on the beach,

continuing to drink champagne while bathing under the sun.

Everybody was getting along.

This place, how can you stand it?

It's just so beautiful.

I'm used to living out of a suitcase.

Ever since I was a kid,

all alone.

Along the way I got comfortable...

wandering,

knowing that...

it was just me.

Just me,

alone.

When I was your age, I left home.

Abusive father,

an emotionally unavailable mother...

And a wild nature I just had to explore.

That's how I met George.

At first, he scared me.

He was the first man I couldn't resist.

I knew I was going to marry him.

I needed something to ground me.

Someone who made me feel safe.

Someone who made me feel less alone.

But now I've come to learn...

sometimes it's better not to feel safe.

Leave him.

Look.

Something I took from my mother before I left home.

This isn't right. You...

you don't know me.

A day before I left home,

I was on a train...

and I looked out the window...

there were sunflower fields as far as the eye could see.

Come on.

Let's go play in the water.

Aw, I swear I can do it five times.

Like this.

It doesn't work for me like that!

- Can you hear that? - What?

No, seriously.

- You can hear that? - What is it?

It's a whole orchestra of violins

playing just for you. There you go.

- That's real funny, George. - No, I'm serious! Hey, guys,

guys, come back! He wants you to play for him.

- Seriously. He does. - George!

- Come back! - What?

The joke is already getting old.

I don't need anybody's sympathy.

The girls look like they're having a good time.

You ever, uh, build a sand castle, Blake?

Of course.

I mean a sand castle,

with a moat, a labyrinth of tunnels, and...

and a maze to protect your queen.

I'd have to find a queen first.

Those two. They're dangerous.

Why would you say that?

You know, when I was seven years old,

I saw the most beautiful girl I'd ever come across.

And so, uh, naturally, I ran to the store

and I got her a 12-dollar diamond necklace,

and wrote the most professing poem,

and even pulled down two flowers from my mother's garden.

So, when I saw her next,

I gave her all those things, the gift,

the poem, and the flower.

What happened?

They tore the poem to pieces.

They ripped the necklace apart,

and the flow... and the flowers, well, they, uh,

they were already dead by the time I got them to her.

Things don't get better, Blake.

They just get bigger.

I bet I could do it six times. Hold on!

- Enjoying the day? - I am.

I love it here.

I can relate.

Do you wanna talk about it?

Do you still love him?

I ask myself that every day.

And?

And I'll let you know if I come up with an answer.

He really believes in me.

Maybe he has to believe in something.

One day...

I wanna have a girl like you...

and a boat like that.

My own queen...

to build a sand castle for.

What do you think of Isabelle?

I think she's exquisite.

Do you feel self-conscious?

I just want you to be happy.

I don't know why you'd choose me instead.

Why do I have to choose? Why can't I have both of you?

And there's Blake, too.

Well,

everyone likes having a pet.

Come on, George. You don't always have to be so...

I'm... I'm just messing with you. Okay?

I'm just playing. I like Blake. He's a good kid. He's...

You know, I'm teaching him how to be a man.

What makes a man, a man?

A woman.

Or two.

Hey!

Where's my journal?

I didn't bring it.

Why not?

You asked me to pack up stuff for a picnic.

I didn't think it included your journal.

George, let it go.

It's none of your business.

I'll go get it.

Forget it.

I'm done with the beach. I'm going for a swim.

He's in a rare form today.

George got upset about his journal,

leaves, swims back to the boat.

What time would you say that was?

Four o'clock.

You sure?

I'm sure.

Anyone who spends days at sea

can look at the sun and know the time.

So George would often leave mid-afternoon?

This wasn't our first trip.

One gets quite familiar with patterns.

What happened next?

Cecile and I went for a hike to sober up.

Mm-hmm. And Blake?

He stayed at the beach

to read the book George gave him.

With George leaving so often,

were you ever concerned about him

just one day disappearing?

If we do find him...

would you be disappointed if he were dead?

Do you still love your husband?

Isabelle?

Let me tell you a story, Detective.

Every morning a man wakes up

and he makes a bowl of oatmeal for his wife.

He cuts up a banana and puts it on top

and he puts it on her bedside table.

She wakes up.

She finds the gesture kind and loving.

But after a month,

she starts to hate it.

She feels obligated.

The thing is, she hates bananas.

So, one evening, she tells her husband,

"When you make my breakfast in the morning,

could you add strawberries?"

And he smiles and goes to bed.

She wakes up, looks at her bedside table

and there's a bowl of freshly made oatmeal.

And what do you think is on top?

Bananas.

So, you asked me if I love my husband,

and the answer is yes and no,

because he thinks he gives me what I need,

but I asked for fucking strawberries!

Now, women are complicated.

We like being loved.

We need to be touched.

But sometimes, we need something more.

We need to be heard,

and we need to laugh.

George is a beautiful man,

and he has great intentions, for the most part.

He's very broken.

Of course I would be devastated.

You okay?

She wants full custody.

Well, that seems pretty harsh.

Nah, I work too much.

And the alcohol?

Nah, I haven't had a drop in four weeks.

That's a good start.

What do you think about that kid?

- What, the addict? - Mm-hmm.

I think he's broken.

He's broken, agree,

but does that make a young man guilty of murder?

Maybe he snapped.

Question is, why?

What about the English girl?

You know, something about her,

in her eyes, something mysterious.

You know, like she almost seemed like she was too innocent.

She's a young girl trying to find her way.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong company.

On the flip side, what about George?

I mean what if he's the one in charge, in control?

It was his boat, and he separated himself.

Four people alone.

The jealous wife,

a young man who presumably wants what his mentor has,

a young English courtesan and George.

I love it.

I love these people.

Sir?

There' a man here. He's a fisherman.

He needs to speak with you.

They found something in the ocean

they think you should see.

Anyone hungry?

Yeah. I'll get everything ready.

I'll help.

You guys run along. I'll help George set the table.

You need some water. You're drunk.

Fuck you, George.

Mm.

This quinoa salad is amazing, Blake.

Yeah. You've come a long way

from burning those steaks, that's for sure.

That was one time.

So, how often do you go sailing?

Oh, well...

what is it honey?

Whenever you have to get some writing done

we spend the weekend at sea? Hmm?

Don't let her fool you.

We got the boat so we could get away.

I promised Isabelle I'd buy her a home in the middle of nowhere,

but, for now, this will have to do.

So this just happens to be one of the weekends when you're working?

Honey, it's not the time, nor the place, okay?

Oh, when is it ever the time or the place

to call you out on your megalomania bullshit, George!

Enough, Isabelle.

Fuck you!

I hate this boat!

And I'm sick of all your unfulfilled promises!

I said that's enough!

Yes, master.

May I remind you,

I didn't force that fucking ring on your finger, okay?

You gladly accepted it

because you had no other choices.

You know, in fact, none of you would have shit

without me!

So if ever any of you express anything other than gratitude,

I'll fucking throw you overboard!

Do you understand me?

All of you want freedom,

yet here you are, resenting me,

as if I'm taking it from you!

Is this not freedom enough, huh?

Huh?

Sorry. Excuse me.

You're the fisherman?

I'm a captain.

Captain.

I'm Detective Park. Uh, what do you have for me?

Lost and Found wanted this,

but I insisted a detective look at it.

Have a seat, Captain.

So, what brings you here?

On the boat?

No, silly.

America.

California. Laguna Beach.

George and Isabelle, and...

yes, the boat.

What brings you here, Blake?

I'm just trying to find my way...

pick up a thing or two from the Boulangés.

They have the type of life that I...

that I see in magazines.

Do they?

At least on the surface.

That's why I like you.

Underneath all the layers of crap...

you're pure.

That's gotta be the nicest insult I've ever gotten.

You never answered my question.

I love the black sky.

The white little dots.

It's massive.

We're so insignificant.

We have no idea what's really out there.

It's heroin.

You wear heroin?

Is...?

You know, it's like the guy

who keeps a gun in his safety deposit box.

That's his way out.

This is my way out.

I don't expect to relapse...

and I don't expect to stay sober.

I saw you watching Isabelle and I on the beach.

It's okay.

I don't mind.

I... I got a routine. I check my pots in order.

The day before yesterday was Tuesday.

I was checking my first pot

and I saw on my third buoy that there was a boat anchored.

And so I figure

I'll just go check that pot on the way back.

And when I came back, the boat was still there.

So, I figured I'll just check that pot next time I'm out.

Sometimes it's best to just let a pot soak.

So, you found this, then, today?

Yeah.

Its protocol

to regard the buoys that we have at sea.

That boat either didn't know what it was doing,

or it had no regard for my business dealings.

I found that book

this morning in my lobster pot.

In my lobster pot.

Well, I appreciate you bringing it in.

Oh, I brought it in, Detective,

because it's so perfectly preserved

in a watertight bag.

It... it wanted to be found.

I've seen this before.

This is one of the story plots from his last book.

I'm sure you could find

three more of those if you ask around the docks, Detective.

If one is found,

you can bet it was George and his big plan.

It has his signature all over it.

Did you help your husband with his writing, Mrs. Boulangé?

Every once in a while, George would get stuck.

Get writer's block,

gets too close to it.

He told me once it was like walking through fog.

Whichever direction you go,

however fast you try, it's just white.

He would get to his last page

and just start from scratch.

Throw his book out.

And I hated that about him.

Do you have any idea what that can do to a man?

Actually, I'm more curious

about what that might do to his wife.

Do you think I killed my husband?

I think something's happened to your husband

and I'm trying to figure out what that something is.

So, how can you sit here all day long

and just stare daggers at me?

I'm trying to help you,

and you're telling me, after he disappeared

that this is all some part of a master plan

by George Boulangé.

What I am saying is that if there was a fisherman,

and I mean "if,"

then George would know that it was on this man's route.

He would study the patterns, the protocols,

and he wouldn't ever allow our boat to be anchored there.

George doesn't do anything,

and I mean anything, without forethought.

George came back from his swim.

He seemed very determined, almost manic.

For the first time in having spent time with him,

I was actually concerned.

He was always so calm.

But there was a change in him.

George came back

like he had a plan.

A mission.

There was something very, very off about him.

I thought he might hurt Isabelle.

Perhaps he'd had enough of her drinking.

Or maybe he was gonna hurt Cecile and me.

He'd had a rough childhood.

From what I gathered,

he had it in him.

"Feed on the dead or injured,

they have a job to do.

They purge the Earth of garbage.

If you look at the abyss long enough,

the abyss looks back at you.

Nietzsche.

If you look at the abyss long enough,

the abyss looks back at you."

Every once in a while, George would get stuck,

and he would get to his last page

and start from scratch.

I hated that about him.

Anything involving George cannot be easily explained.

He's unpredictable, yet completely logical.

Control,

manipulation.

To be honest,

I like games.

Without any emotion.

Everyone likes having a pet.

Seagulls scavenge.

Like a genius or a sociopath.

Seagulls scavenge.

There was a big bang

downstairs in the cabin, like someone fell.

It got really uncomfortable really quickly.

There we were, on a boat in the middle of the water.

What was he gonna do?

"Most people live a lie, I strive for truth."

People live a lie.

I am truth.

What did they do to you?

Lab results for the blood on the shawl.

Matches Blake's.

Not George's.

Nothing on the boat matches George.

It's clean as a whistle.

Okay. What about the, uh, spot on the boat?

Blake.

What the hell happened to you, George?

How did your blood get on the shawl?

I guess Isabelle was really drunk.

After George got back from his swim,

he went down into the cabin.

Cecile and I stayed on the deck.

We heard some commotion.

George raised his voice,

and there was a loud bang.

I got up to go check it out.

But by the time that I got to the front end of the cabin,

I got hit square in the head.

And I must've passed out,

because the next thing I know

I'm waking up bloody

with that shawl around my head

and Cecile over me.

That's the last thing I remember.

I tried to intervene,

but George told me to mind my own business.

Blake was lying on the floor, bleeding,

and Isabelle was drunk and she was visibly scared.

George came back from his swim,

found a bottle and accused me of being drunk./

And he told me I should go to bed.

I hate it when he babies me.

I stumbled, I hit my head,

and he started to scream.

At that point I, uh, I reached for something,

the, um, compass, maybe.

And that's the last thing that I remember.

George got back to the boat,

noticed Cecile and Blake together

at the front of the boat, realized he was losing control.

Found a drunk Isabelle,

tried to put Isabelle to bed, she resisted,

someone threw a compass, or not,

and Blake got his one way or another.

So, the shawl and the journal are useless.

The compass is just ridiculous.

And all we've got are three alibis that all add up.

Yeah, this is Bailey.

Accounts have all been drained.

When?

Midnight, all of the money

was transferred into Mrs. Boulangé's accounts.

Offshore, untraceable.

Okay, we need to get creative,

start thinking like a writer would.

What grounds us? What is our foundation?

George is obviously the foundation.

Okay, let's start once again.

Uh, they wake up, uh, George says good morning.

He gives her some flowers, yada-yada-yada.

What else? What did George do?

He makes a call.

- I'm almost there. - Get his call logs,

check his credit card statements.

Was she a cosigner on his accounts?

Yeah, tell him I need a week.

I just need to work out the final details.

Should be good, certainly unconventional.

George doesn't do anything,

and I mean anything, without forethought.

We would find the money wired.

Isabelle wouldn't be that obvious.

It's so perfectly preserved

in a watertight bag.

The fisherman.

When was the wire made exactly?

Was it timed? Who sent it?

Why go on a trip with your wife

if you're planning on taking off?

Maybe he hadn't made his decision yet.

Really?

Can't rule it out, Bailey.

Then, what are you thinking?

Maybe this is much broader.

Okay, get to the boat, Cecile, cast off and then?

Then it's a beautiful day to sail,

except there's a fight below deck

between George and Isabelle.

It's not always about you,

and what you think people ought to do.

Relax, Isabelle.

What were they really fighting about?

Was she mad at him because he wanted to leave?

Was this whole thing a staged performance?

I mean, but was their marriage really on the rocks anyway?

I mean, what if she kills him?

Throws him over because she's sick of it.

The pressure, the writer's block,

the bullshit, the unfulfilled promises.

Not sure I buy it. Next?

The, uh, the compass toss.

It's Blake.

Blake would do anything for George. Or Isabelle.

And Cecile.

She was brought into this whole thing to be the one final piece.

Is she their alibi?

Then, there's the beach.

All was fine, then George decides to write?

He found inspiration, or was all part of his plan?

So, he contacts the fisherman

to hand off the journal.

He knows that, that way, if he disappears,

he's got the journal as a good clue.

If Isabelle's telling the truth,

then he did do this on his own.

Blake said he never does anything without a plan, right?

He staged everything.

He is, or was, a writer after all.

But I don't buy it.

They killed him, they throw him overboard.

Then everything we've heard, all of these stories,

they're just that, just a string of stories.

Well conceived, mind you,

but conceived nevertheless by our three witnesses.

Fuck!

Our case file should be called, "The Disappearance of George

at the hands of Cecile, Blake and Isabelle."

So if, and I mean if, they did do it,

then we have to consider that they're all lying to us.

Okay?

Let's have one more chat with them.

That's a beautiful necklace.

Thanks.

It's been in my family a long time.

My mother gave it to me before she left.

She said it reminded her of being wild and free.

Take me through the last part of the night

one more time...

and the last thing you saw.

Blake had a pretty nasty cut.

I went back to check on Isabelle

and she asked me to lay in bed with her.

I crawled into bed and held her.

The last thing I remember

George standing at the cabin,

watching us.

- He was watching you? - Mm-hmm.

What about the morning?

Isabelle woke me up.

She told me that George was gone.

We were hoping that he was out in the dinghy

or that he had gone to the beach for a swim.

- That's it? - Yeah.

That's the last thing I remember.

If George were to disappear,

would he do it like this?

He's refined.

There's too many mistakes.

I don't know what happened out there,

but would he just leave us?

No, not his style.

You seem to know George pretty well, Blake.

More so than his wife and his girlfriend.

Have you ever heard

of the trials and death of Socrates?

Socrates believed

that he was the smartest man in the world.

The prosecutor asked, "Why do you believe this?"

Socrates said,

"I know I am the smartest man in the world,

because I know that I know nothing."

What's the last thing you saw, Blake?

George standing over me.

And?

That's it.

Tell me what you remember from this morning?

I woke up with a terrible headache, of course.

And I went outside to get some fresh air on my face.

I notice Blake passed out.

He had his heroin necklace crushed open.

There was a bandage on his head.

I looked around for George. He was nowhere.

I waited up on the deck for him

for about an hour or so.

I thought maybe he would pop up out of the water

like he always did before.

But he never did.

So, I woke up Cecile

to help me look for him on the beach, or in the water.

But he was gone.

So, we called the harbor patrol.

He's just disappeared.

We woke up and he was gone.

George has disappeared before.

This time's different?

He's done this before, yes.

But never quite like this.

Thank you, Isabelle.

You're free to leave.

One more thing, Detective.

If I know George the way I do,

then he'll show up...

in one form or another.

George likes to put people in situations

and then see how things play out.

I guess four people on the sailboat fits the bill.

If you would've told me I'd be sipping champagne

on a sailboat

with a beautiful woman,

I would've thought I'd died and gone to Heaven.

You just want control.

We have a lot to talk about.

One day I wanna have a girl like you

and a boat like that.

Irony, the basis by which all art exists.

George doesn't do anything,

and I mean anything, without forethought.

It's just not his nature.

If this trip goes according to my plan,

maybe I'll like you too.

I've already learned that life is lonely, Detective.

You misinterpreted.

I'm just his casual weekend friend.

...just his casual weekend friend.

Isn't my master. Nobody is.

Nobody is.

We need uncertainty.

We need something to... to need, to possess.

To give reason to all this nothingness that surrounds you and I.

Yeah?

Still working? Check your email.

- Why? - Just check.

Okay, I'm looking at 'em right now.

There's two things worth noting.

What are they?

First, the attachment in the email,

I want you to listen to it.

It's a voice memo recording from his phone,

and it's dated at 10:56 p.m.

You're kidding.

What's the second thing?

The phone call he made that morning

was to J and E publishing.

We're getting it transcribed now.

But I can tell you this.

It was about the delivery of his next novel.

The publisher demanded it.

Thank you, Bailey.

- Good work. - Night, Kenny.

Testing. Testing. One, two, three.

Isabelle, are you okay?

He thinks he's gonna throw me overboard?

He can hear us right now.

I will throw his ass overboard.

Blake, what are you thinking? You can't...

You know what? I have an idea.

We should get rid of him.

- No! - We could...

What if all three of us...? What if we three...?

No!

I'd leave him if I could.

I feel trapped.

I could kill him.

It's a possibility.

I don't know.

We're not gonna kill him.

We shouldn't be talking about this.

I know you think about it, too.

Yeah, I know, but he's... He is... I just...

Cecile, you can't...

You don't agree with this, do you?

Do you?

Look, he's...

He's like a father to me. He's...

Blake, can you help?

No!

No!

You could have the boat.

I'm not doing this.

Blake, Blake!

Fine.

I'll do it.

Look, I mean,

if he's getting the boat, and you're getting the money,

what's left for me?

Cecile, I'll give you the world.

I just don't even know what I want.

How are we gonna do that?

We don't know where he is.

Do you hear him?

Oh, here he comes!

Hey, when you get in tomorrow morning,

I'm gonna need you to double check

if there's a Captain Cody on file

at the Dana Point Harbor, okay?

I think I figured it out.

When I begin a new story,

I start with choosing a location.

It must have a compelling and suggestive component to it.

Time and space need to be defined

by its own unique characteristics.

I didn't choose to be this way.

It is who I am.

Always been. And always will be.

I am...

a writer.

Moving from place to place.

Shifting from idea to new idea.

Looking for my next book.

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