"Jodie, Jodie—something's happened."
Jodie barely stirred. She'd returned late from a location scout near Vinales Valley and collapsed into bed just before sunrise.
The door slammed open.
Her assistant barged into the room, her breath fast, hair a mess.
"What is it, Anna?" Jodie mumbled, half-asleep.
"Did Hinckley try to escape again, or did Dr. Hannibal crawl back from the dead?"
(T/N: John Warnock Hinckley Jr. is an American man who attempted to assassinate U.S. President Ronald Reagan. Hinckley was reportedly seeking fame to impress actress Jodie Foster, with whom he had a fixation.)
Anna didn't answer. She dropped a newspaper in front of Jodie's face with the urgency of someone delivering a death sentence.
Jodie blinked at the headline, still trying to get her eyes to cooperate.
"Body of screenwriter Alan McElroy found by LAPD," Anna read aloud.
"Discovered just outside Vinales Valley. Cause of death: strangulation by a chain of iron thorns, and—get this—an iron arrow lodged in his chest."
That woke Jodie faster than any double espresso.
"What the hell?"
The mental image was too close to what she'd seen in yesterday's rough cut of Wrong Turn.
The makeup effects.
The props. A chain of iron thorns was practically a signature kill in the film.
But Jodie Foster, producer first, human second, switched gears.
"Call Westwood. Now. We need to push for more investment into Wrong Turn—immediately."
She had liked the sample they'd shot—Low-budget, but gritty and effective.
Still, she'd kept her cards close to her chest, playing the cautious investor to maintain leverage. But this changed things.
The story had just begun to bleed into reality.
And in Hollywood, tragedy was just another opportunity for money.
She reached for her phone, dialing with sharp, practiced fingers. Her mind ran ahead of her voice.
This wasn't about the film anymore; this was about headlines, narrative, control.
A dead director. A body was found eerily close to the shooting location.
The manner of death straight out of the script.
You couldn't buy this kind of marketing.
She imagined the tabloids already foaming at the mouth. A murder that mirrored fiction.
The ghost of a director haunting the project. It was grotesque, yes—but perfect.
Hollywood ran on blood and scandal, and Wrong Turn had just become a goldmine.
Westwood would salivate. He always did when real death knocked on a studio's door.
"Spin it right," she muttered.
Scandal, suspense, and the perfect storm of truth mixed with creative license were every PR firm's fever dream.
But Anna was back, holding the cordless phone like it had betrayed her.
"He's not answering. Westwood's line is jammed."
Jodie's expression hardened.
"That old fox."
She stood, throwing the quilt aside. No time for rest.
The game had shifted, and she knew Westwood well enough to suspect he was already spinning the story for his gain.
But not this time.
This time, she would write the script.
---------
Meanwhile, across town, Anthony Westwood was pacing his office, flushed with excitement as he spoke on the phone.
"It's like the universe is handing this to us on a silver platter," he said.
"You saw the story? Alan's body turning up like that? It's unreal."
On the other end of the line, Christian kept his tone even.
"Tony, breathe. Let's not start ordering champagne just yet. This is still delicate."
Westwood let out a ragged laugh.
"Delicate? It's a damn miracle. I've been dragging myself around half-dead for days, and now? I feel like I could run a marathon. Alan—God rest his soul—might've finally done something useful."
Christian didn't bother correcting the tone. He knew better.
Hollywood sentiment only ran skin-deep.
"Don't lose focus," Christian said.
"We've still got work to do. If we play this wrong, the story spirals out of our hands."
"You're right," Westwood admitted, catching himself.
He dropped into his leather chair with a sigh.
"We need to move fast while the buzz is fresh. Build the hype. Position Wrong Turn as the cursed masterpiece."
Christian's voice dropped an octave.
"You want to release the Eliza Kunis angle now too?"
There was a pause.
"Not yet," Westwood said.
"We'll need that for phase two. Timing is everything. Alan's story is front page. Eliza... she's our follow-up."
Christian nodded to himself. The plan had been his idea—to use the chaos around Alan and Eliza's disappearances to stir controversy.
Morbid? Sure. But this was Hollywood. Controversy paid better than integrity.
"Let the media do half the work for us," Westwood added.
"They'll connect the dots on their own. We just make sure the trail stays hot."
"Speaking of trails," Christian said, "what about Foster's investment? You still want her on board?"
Westwood hesitated. "If it were just about quality, no. The film's locked, and we're not a VFX-heavy epic. But promotion…"
Christian finished the thought.
"That's where it counts."
Westwood sighed. He hated giving up points in post.
Bringing in late-stage investment always came at the cost of future profits. He didn't like slicing the pie after it was baked.
Christian understood the pause.
"Look, Tony. I'm not going to make much off this film. I've already handed off a chunk to keep the crew in line. And you—well, let's be honest, before Alan vanished, you were barely credited. This is the moment. If we're going to let someone else pay for our spotlight, now's the time."
Westwood chuckled. "You make a compelling argument."
After they hung up, Westwood lingered by the phone. His hand hovered over Jodie Foster's number, but something tugged at the back of his mind.
It was Christian's plan to lean into the disappearances.
Christian, calm as ever, had mapped out the narrative like a director blocking a shot.
And now, reality had followed the script, down to the props.
A body. A death that mirrored the film. It was either fate or something darker.
Westwood shivered.
But in this town, that didn't matter. All that mattered was buzz—and not getting caught.
Whether it was divine intervention or something more hellish, well… that was for the FBI to figure out.
He picked up the phone.
This was Hollywood.