The air at Miramax headquarters always carried a familiar scent.
Expensive cigars mixed with Blue Mountain coffee—the smell of money.
Harvey Weinstein wasn't watching TV. He was just listening.
CNN. Fox. NBC. Every channel was going crazy over that videotape.
On screen, a so-called criminal psychology expert was seriously analyzing the mental breakdown of the three "missing students."
He spoke with absolute certainty, as if he'd been there himself.
"Enough."
Harvey waved his hand.
The assistant immediately turned off the TV.
The room fell silent, broken only by the howl of wind outside the windows.
"A bunch of idiots," Harvey muttered. "They're still arguing about whether those three poor kids are dead or alive, but no one sees the real problem—this isn't a movie."
He turned to his star lawyer, Marcus. Anger burned in Harvey's small eyes.
"This is an insult, Marcus. That kid from the East hijacked all the headlines meant for 007 with one lousy tape. He's slapping all of Hollywood in the face."
Marcus adjusted his glasses, calm as ever. "He's smart. The more people question whether the footage is real, the more the audience believes it is."
"I KNOW THAT!"
Harvey slammed the table, spilling coffee everywhere.
Like an enraged bear, he paced back and forth.
Then he suddenly stopped, as if a thought had clicked.
He looked up, a predator's smile spreading across his face.
"Then we don't attack his movie…"
He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said only one sentence:
"Gloria, I need your sense of justice. Same price as always."
Marcus instantly understood.
Harvey's voice turned icy. "Get psychologists, sociologists, youth advocacy groups. Put them on Gloria's talk show. Let them tell the nation that Pangu Pictures is exploiting sympathy and spreading fear. Make them the poster child for 'antisocial cinema.'"
Marcus let out a cold laugh. "Beautiful. That woman can turn anything into a nationwide moral panic."
Harvey continued, his tone even colder. "Most important—find the families of those three actors."
"They must be losing their minds right now. Tell them Miramax will cover the legal fees and help them sue Pangu Pictures. Make them feel like we're here to 'stand up for justice.'"
The corner of Marcus's mouth twitched.
"Use morality—not facts—to put him on trial."
"Exactly."
Harvey sat back down and lit a cigar.
Through the smoke, his voice was ice-cold.
"I want him to understand something. In Hollywood, knowing how to make movies isn't enough."
He paused, a vicious glint flashing in his eyes.
"I want him to be burned alive by the public outrage he stirred up himself."
His laughter echoed through the smoke-filled office.
---
Two days later, in a quiet suburb of Pennsylvania, a modest single-story house.
Heather Donahue's mother, Angela, was watering the roses in the yard. They were in full bloom—nothing about the scene suggested her daughter's life was supposedly "hanging in the balance."
A black Lincoln pulled up outside.
Marcus stepped out with two assistants, wearing a professionally mournful smile.
"Mrs. Donahue," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Marcus, legal counsel for Miramax. We are deeply sorry for what your daughter has gone through."
Angela pulled her hand back and replied flatly, "Thank you, but I don't need anything."
Marcus froze. He had expected tears, anger, a breakdown—anything but this calm indifference. Something felt off.
"Ma'am, you may not realize this, but Pangu Pictures is exploiting your daughter's 'disappearance' for publicity. This is emotional abuse.
If you'd like, we can help you sue them."
"Sue?" Angela clipped a rose. "That sounds expensive. We can't afford that."
"You wouldn't pay a cent," Marcus said quickly. "We'll cover all legal fees. We just want to help you get justice."
Angela went quiet, as if genuinely thinking it over.
Marcus felt a surge of confidence. She's taking the bait.
"Mrs. Donahue, this is the best opportunity to seek justice for your daughter—and make those unethical filmmakers pay—"
"I need some time," Angela interrupted. For the first time, a trace of hesitation appeared in her eyes—the kind she was supposed to have. "This is a big deal. I need to… I need to talk to the other two families."
"Of course, of course." Marcus immediately handed her his business card, lowering his posture. "We'll wait for your call. Please believe me—justice may be late, but it never fails to arrive."
The Lincoln disappeared down the street.
Inside the car, one assistant said excitedly, "Boss, did you see her? She'll definitely agree. We've got this in the bag."
Marcus said nothing.
He watched the small house shrink in the rearview mirror, his brow tightening almost imperceptibly.
---
Inside the house, Angela closed the door—and her expression changed instantly.
She walked inside, picked up the phone, and dialed a number she already knew by heart.
"Hello? This is Angela Donahue."
Her voice was calm, but a barely contained smile crept in.
"You were right—they really did come."
From the other end of the line came an equally calm voice.
"Thank you for your trouble, ma'am. Just follow the plan we discussed."