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I love your voice, your sound, your videos. Greetings from Italy. Movie stream the photographer of mauthausen. Act 3 is just so pulsating and driven. Brilliant. Movie stream the photographer. I loved Michael. Even if he was a serial killer. He went missing one day before the police finally caught on. I had no idea. I was stunned... Not to mention betrayed. Depressed. Absolutely horrified by my husband’s crimes. But what could I do? Michael and I were close but apparently, not close enough for him to draw me into his many murders. His torturous, systematic slaughter of over twenty women. Nor show me the way he photographed each and every one of them both before and after sending them to their gruesome deaths. Michael always the sadistic shutterbug. I felt for his victims and their families. I really did. I cried every night for eleven months straight. Long ago came to the conclusion I was oblivious to living with a monster. And I fucking dealt with it. I wasn’t defending shit and certainly not Michael. Maybe the same psychopath who was able to lure countless women to their deaths could dupe his devoted wife? Who knew… and why was that so hard to believe? Especially with a man as sweet and handsome as him. But like buzzards, the media tore into my fragile flesh. I was The Dumb Housewife to what they dubbed The Perfect Husband. Just the dumb blonde. Nevermind, I had a PhD and worked at St. Francis hospital here in Columbus, Georgia. Goddamn social media was even worse. The abusive comments swarmed me. Everything from I was a dumb bitch to apparently an ugly old hag at forty-four. Apparently, I was so jealous of other women and all my failed pregnancies, I let Michael do the dirty work. Let him exterminate those beautiful fertile women. Yeah... This was “the narrative. ” As suspicious as they were, the police and D. A. still cleared me. But not before a final press conference where the prosecutor played the “not enough evidence” card. Just teasing the press enough for his own fifteen minutes of fame. To be able to be featured in the surefire “documentaries” where Lifetime and E! would rip me apart. How could she not know when the murders happened under their roof! In their own basement! The tabloids tormented me. More than the memories to be honest but I had no idea... Michael wasn’t that way around me. I thought he was my soulmate. The love of my life. We’d met in college over twenty years ago. Both of us honor grads. At first, we bonded over photography. Nature. The arts. The very hobby that would become Michael’s terrifying trademark. Michael wasn’t tall but stayed in good shape. He ran everyday, and I certainly wasn’t complaining when he kept his morning run ritual over the years. Like I said, he was handsome. His chiseled face complete with irresistible dimples. His brown curly hair as soft as those green eyes. When we first moved to our big house on Whitesville Road, I thought this was it. Our life was set. Michael and Sam Downing now had the American Dream. Of course, being with someone so attractive and charming only intensified my own insecurities. Even moreso once I became a suspect. A media punching bag. Only unlike O. J. and Casey Anthony, I didn’t have a trial to lean on. Didn’t have anything to leak out to the public. I was never given a voice. Or chance. At least the hospital stood by me. Columbus, Georgia like a support group away compared to the skeptical outside world. I guess we took care of our own out here… Regardless of whether or not my friends and family thought I helped The Perfect Husband kill those girls. Most of the time, I kept to myself. No more traveling or exploring. Instead, I just stayed inside our big brick house. Two stories of soulless superficiality. Michael’s gorgeous grin still stared at me from our many photographs. His spirit stuck in every cat ornament or surreal portrait he ever bought for me. I felt him everywhere... Except the basement. I damn sure never went back there. I didn’t care how much the police had collected evidence and washed out the grisly scene. I couldn’t dare face the Downing slaughterhouse once more. Couldn’t face the horrifying reality. What was worse was there was no closure. The cops took what they could and that was that. But Michael was still gone. He’d taken his Nikon D5 camera with him, so now we’d never know how many women he killed. How many corpses he’d have on display for his personal art exhibit. And I thought we probably never would. Michael was too smart. Too clever. Beneath the harassment on-line and from the paparazzi, I wilted away for another agonizing year. My blonde hair now started to grey. Bags started popping up under my eyes. Like a virus, a deadly combination of stress and mid-life crisis crashed upon my once good looks. I was far from curvy but I only grew skinnier. To my horror, even my tits started to sag. At this point, I had no chance at dating. At least, I didn’t think so. No longer did I feel attractive or talented. Much less confident. When I felt at my lowest, loneliest, and yes, horniest, I sought attention on-line. All under an anonymous name. But the only compliments this desperate girl got were from the more desperate guys. Not to mention the hybristophilia-addled men and women wanting me just for my undeserved infamy. I didn’t talk to hardly anyone at all. Sure, the Columbus community didn’t harass or insult me. Not like the national media did. Or national zeitgeist for that matter... But no one was exactly eager to swing by my house. No one invited me over. Forget margarita nights with the co-workers, my own family didn’t even have me over for Christmas. Instead, there was only one person I interacted with on a daily basis: my neighbor Sean Winslow. Nearing eighty (or at least looking it), Sean was polite and respectful. The grandfather type who never married or had kids. Like me, he was all alone. And by sheer coincidence, all the other homes on Whitesville Road barricaded themselves from their neighbors with fancy iron-pike fences and gates. Quarantining themselves from Sean and I… Not that their isolation helped while Michael was on the prowl. Especially considering how Michael kidnapped and killed Tarra Falls, one of the wealthier people out here. A mutilation by machete. Sean welcomed me back with open arms. His skin was still so smooth. His stark white hair so straight. His body muscular, his movements spry. As if we’d swapped aging patterns, Sean seemed to grow younger and more spirited while I grew decrepit both inside and out. To my relief, Sean believed me because he too had been duped. Felt betrayed by the love of my life. Every weekend, Michael and I used to visit Sean. So he too had been close to this living monster. Days after the shitstorm ensued, Sean had let me stay the night at his place. Sure, maybe he was just being an old perv. This was before the stress tarnished whatever good looks I had, after all. But Sean didn’t make any moves. He never did. Instead, he comforted me. There at his kitchen table, the two of us shared one of his older Cabernets. The wine warmed me from the dread. And so did Sean’s pleasant company. I looked out a window. Out toward the blue lights. The news vans. The media assault on 6660 Whitesville Road. An investigation still ongoing to this day. Sympathetic, Sean grabbed my hand. The supportive hold of a parent rather than a lover’s lust. “It’s okay, Sam, ” he told me in his genteel Southern accent. “You couldn’t have known. ” I looked into his piercing hazel eyes. No longer did I cry. Not now. Not when I knew I wasn’t alone. “No one could, ” Sean reassured. But then came a miserable milestone. The first of what I was sure would be a never-ending cycle of pain. One that wouldn’t stop until my death. The one-year anniversary of our lives being buried. The January day Michael’s darkest secrets were discovered. By me, the community, and the world. And the day Michael slaughtered my personal life. His first kill without a blade. Of course, the networks were chomping at the bit. Just passing twelve months meant more coverage, more specials. Televised investigations handled by incompetent talking heads and clickbait reporters. There would be exploitative re-enactments of Michael’s methodical crimes, theories on where he is now, and theories on how I got away with murder. I had nothing new to say. I didn’t know why Michael did what he did. Why he killed, why he used all sorts of vicious weapons from knives to hammers to kill so many women. Or why he used his favorite weapon of all: the Nikon. The same exact camera he used to take pictures of his bloody trophies. At the recommendation of lawyers and loved ones, I declined the biased interviews. Even when I knew that wouldn’t be enough to turn down the army of press camping outside my door when the twenty-first arrived. But Sean came to the rescue. Yet again. The offer of staying at his place during this tasteless “holiday” was too much for me to pass up. An escape from both the limelight and lynch mobs. And one that was less than a hundred yards away. On that cold January dawn, I migrated inside his house. Well before the news crews and cameras began their stakeout. Before I could become prey to this malicious pop culture. Sean’s house was spacious. Clean. Besides the abundance of wine, he liked art as well. The many framed photographs and paintings perfect for his homemade museum. Throughout the day, we hid inside. Far from the madding media. No one bothered us. Sean’s security cameras scaring away even the creepy Michael Downing Fan Club. But like a ghost, Michael still haunted me. The T. V. talked about him constantly. So many stations stayed dedicated to anniversary coverage. To discuss Michael… or to accuse me. So Sean guided me back toward the kitchen table. Back to the site of our better memories. Together, we shared a few bottles of Pinot Grigio. “Well, I’m glad I stole you away from them, ” Sean joked. Grinning, I took another sip. “You and me both. ” Behind a warm smile, Sean poured more into my glass. A generous helping as always. “I just got this bottle yesterday. They got that vineyard out in Albany, you know. ” “Oh really? That’s cool. ” Sean leaned back. His muscles well on display through the jeans and flannel shirt. The killer biceps. “I just wanted to mark this special occasion, I suppose, ” he joked. Even I cracked a smile. “Great idea…” “Well, I knew you’d be here, ” Sean said. He leaned in closer. “I always appreciate your company, Sam. ” My eyes scanned the room. Doing everything they could to avoid the sickening soap opera outside my front yard. But the huge Keurig, the catalog of Sean’s nature photography did nothing to ease the anxiety. Nothing to stifle Michael’s deep voice. His piercing gaze. The elegy of our good memories. “Honestly, it gets lonely out here, ” Sean went on. Feeling drunker by the second, I leaned against the table. Trying to keep myself upright. Sean shook his glass. White wine splashed out. I now realized it was a glass he hadn’t touched in quite some time. Unusual considering both of us were alcoholics... “I miss the old days, Sam, ” he said, his voice sinking to a low tone. A Southern accent shifting from high exuberance to deep reflection. The drinks caught up to me. They hit so quick. So sudden. I looked over at Sean’s refrigerator. At the many magnets and photos. Several pics looked familiar. There was St. Simons Island’s beautiful beaches, Pasoquan’s psychedelia in Buena Vista. The same places Michael and I loved to visit… “I miss when we could all be together, ” Sean said, his voice drifting away. “Before those amazing murders. The kills. ” My eyes drifted out of conscious. The room got blurry. Everything faded to black. The glass slipped through my hand and smashed against the marble tile. A deafening sound now reduced to a hollow echo. Through the haze, I confronted the bottle. What I was sure was drugged Albany Pinot Grigio. Sean reached toward me. “I want all of us together, Sam. ” That was the last thing I heard. I fell backward in my seat. Entered an unconscious realm. What felt like centuries was mere hours. I awoke later that night. Confused, disoriented. I knew I’d been drugged. Lying on the ground, I looked all around me. Bright bulbs lit the claustrophobic room with clinical lab precision. Immediately, terror sunk in. Surrounding me were hundreds of photos. Enclosed in the gaudy frames were bodies and bodies. All of them women. Some nude, some in torn clothes. But all the girls were bound-and-gagged in duct tape. All of them dead. There were dissections, bludgeonings, decapitations. Visceral, grisly murder at the hands of many different tools. And at the hands of one horrifying serial killer: my husband. Like Michael, the Nikon D5 showed no mercy. Every corpse was captured in a captivating light. In all their disturbing glory. From the walls, the collection of corpses watched me. The few faces that weren’t mangled still had their eyes open in fear. The faces of death. Right by the red door was a long metal table. Its surface covered by an arsenal of vicious weapons. There were knives, machetes, axes… and gallons of dark dry blood. The blades ready to tear through flesh... And all they needed was a killer’s hungry touch. I now knew where I was. The houses in this neighborhood all had similar layouts. But there was no way this was my basement. Even if looked just like the scary scene police had shown me one year ago. Somehow, Sean had made a shrine to Michael’s work. A terrifying tribute to his prolific serial killer career. Then a muffled cry hit me. As did a nauseating smell. Turning, I saw a red-headed woman lying a few feet away. She was bound-and-gagged in duct tape. Her ripped clothes covered in blood. Her pale body covered in bruises. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen… but she still fit Michael’s M. O. Or whatever the Hell Sean’s “type” was... The woman’s eyes begged me for help. She squirmed beneath the tape. Too weak to even crawl. “Oh God! ” I yelled. I jumped up and ran toward her. Desperate to help the young woman escape. Tears streamed down her eyes. Shivering, the woman struggled to move closer toward me. This up close I saw she was missing patches of skin. Her pants stained with days of piss and shit… I reached out toward her. Then the red door burst open. In came Sean. A sly smile on his handsome face. A silver hammer in his hand. A Nikon D5 in the other. Startled, I jumped back. My eyes watched Sean charging forward like a wolf ready to pounce on a vulnerable lamb. I stood petrified in fear… even as I heard the young woman shriek through that tape. Heard her body flounder on the floor. Without hesitation, Sean sunk the hammer claw straight into her face. Right between the woman’s screaming eyes. Blood blasted all over us. Each of us coated in a quick crimson shower. The girl fell straight back. Her body silent and still. The hammer an arrow into her forehead’s bullseye. A fast flash caught the postmortem photo. The young woman now a most morbid model. Perfect for Sean’s morbid museum. Sean lowered the Nikon, revealing an even bigger smile. Pleased at his latest trophy. Horrified, I glared at him. “What the Hell are you doing! ” all I could scream. Sean’s cackle became a soundtrack to this slaughterhouse. In his death basement. Angry, I took a step toward him. “What the fuck’s wrong with you! ” I waved toward his latest victim. “Did y’all do this together! Both of y’all sick fucks! ” “Not at all! ” Sean yelled in a deep, proud voice. Crying out, I lunged toward him. Toward the old sack of shit. In one quick push, Sean pushed me straight down. His strength so sneaky. I fell hard. Groaning, I looked up at him. His muscular physique. The shoulders and chiseled chest so unnatural for someone near eighty. With a theatrical flourish, Sean withdrew a switchblade and flicked out the shiny blade. He set his hungry sights on me. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Sam. ” Disturbed, I watched him lean in toward me. But inside, I built up courage. Or at least tried to... “You have no idea, ” Sean went on. He put the blade to my face. Faint blood stains were all over the fucking thing. Bits of female flesh included. I suppressed the tears. But stayed sickened by everything around me. “I want you…” Sean teased. Embracing anger, I threw a first punch. Right at Sean’s nose. My aim perfect. Covering his face, Sean staggered back. “Aw, fuck! ” Then I looked on. Simultaneously stunned and scared. Unable to move. To make a sound. There stood Sean, clutching his bloodied nose and dangling, filleted flesh. The long strands of skin like shredded paper. He glared at me behind one green eye and one brown one. Through the blood, pale powder smeared across his hands. Red rain had washed away the disguise. And now it was all clear. Especially when I saw that hazel contact lying by Michael’s latest victim. Raising the switchblade, my husband confronted me. Standing tall in the death room he’d recreated in Sean’s basement. A sadistic smirk now plastered on his face. “Looks like we’re together again, Sam! ” his deep voice bellowed. “Right where I always wanted you. ” I staggered to my feet. Too nervous to stop the chills but too upset to shed tears. “Why, Michael! ” I yelled. With cool indifference, Michael ripped off the remaining latex. The make-up now wiped clean to reveal the face of a cold-blooded killer. Fake skin still dripped off Michael’s fingertips. But his grip on that blade stayed steady. On the camera as well. “Why are you doing this! ” I hurled at him. Michael took a calm step toward me. “I had to escape, babe. ” Both his hands now grabbed on to the Nikon as he got closer and closer. “So I did the only thing I could. I came here. ” This Michael was similar sure. Still handsome and charismatic. Still the man I married. But deep down, I felt dread. Disgust at the Michael Downing who fooled me. The Perfect Husband I didn’t know. Betrayal battered my senses, but I wasn’t gonna cry. Not over him. Not ever again. Just inches away, Michael pointed the camera at me. A crude spotlight for my fear. “I killed Sean, ” Michael went on. “It was tough but I had no choice. You know I’m not crazy about killing dudes, Sam. ” I just glared at him. Watched Michael as he got ready to take a photo. “Happy anniversary, babe, ” Michael teased. There right in front of me, he took the picture. With no regard for Sam. For all the years I loved him. Instead, I was just another temporary thrill. Yet another victim. Grinning, Michael lowered the camera. “Oh, I’ll take my time with you, Sam. ” I stood there, silent and still. I felt violated, sickened. Hurt. Cringing, I let Michael caress my face for one final time. “Just like I always wanted to, ” Michael said. Relishing the torture, he leaned in close. His movements soft and slow. “Now how about a kiss for The Perfect Husband, babe. ” I then made my move. A quick punch into Michael’s firm chest. My long year of agony now released in that one act of violence. Groaning, Michael fell to his knee. He dropped the knife. My onslaught continued. I just laid into him. One hit after the other. Now I was glad to have kept the wedding ring on… more force for that left-handed hook. Michael’s muscular frame hit the ground. Lying parallel to his last victim. Two bodies for this basement funeral. A funeral for my ruined past. For my shattered dreams. Crying out, Michael struggled on the ground. His face battered and bruised. Blood pouring from his broken nose. Power surged through me. Strength. Confidence. All the violence sent me into a pure state of euphoria. The most pleasure I felt since the honeymoon stage.. Excited, I snatched up the Nikon from Michael’s weakened grasp. Aimed it at him as if the camera were a pistol. The smile long gone, Michael glowered at me. “You bitch! ” he cried. “You fucking bitch! Gimme that! ’ Defiant for the first time in this horror movie marriage, I held the camera steady. The lens more unflinching than my harsh gaze. “Gimme the fucking camera! ” Michael yelled. Rage won out. As did desire. I snapped my first death portrait. But did you really think I’d turn Michael in? Expose his existence for all the world to see. Clear my name for these fucking assholes? Of course not. Sure, I ended up dumping Carla Dowse’s body off on Whittlesey Boulevard. A chance for her family to get the closure I finally got… But I did nothing with Sean’s place. Nothing other than take a few souvenirs with me. Months later, and the kills still keep me aroused. Keep me excited. I think about those tied-up bodies. The naked young men helpless to my touch. Their blood, the slow slaughters. The way the boys flinch when I take that fun first photo. And then how I position their beautiful corpses for the even more fun final shoot. Photography hasn’t been this exhilarating since college, I’ll tell you that. I renovated my basement. Now it’s my death room rather than Michael’s. Sure, I got a similar layout. A pink wooden table full of vicious sharp blades at my disposal. But at least I keep the slaughterhouse stylized. I love the pink wallpaper. The psychedelic (now blood-stained) rugs. But most of all it’s my personal museum. The framed photos of dead hot guys running up and down those walls are my victims. Not to mention my newfound pride and joy. The fetish I never knew I had. Late at night, I’ll fall asleep thinking about the kills. Fantasize over them. Salivate over taking those pictures. Dream about murdering those fineass men. By now, the photos of Michael and I are gone. Everything that reminded me of him are gone with them. The cat figurines, the surreal portraits. This is my house now. Especially that Goddamn basement: Sam’s Slaughterhouse. The only thing Michael has left me is himself. The crumpled prisoner in my death room. Like an entrapped lab rat, he just lies there in duct tape. Too beaten and bloodied to do anything. Both his Achilles are sliced, his tongue ripped out, fingers lopped off. I don’t mind toying with him from time to time. But I do have other studs to tend to… more alluring hotties to play with. Their photos now form my basement trophy case. That Nikon my deadliest weapon of all. I understand Michael’s desire now. I get why he was a serial killer. The same motive fuels my bloodlust in the basement and in bed. What I do behind that big red door gives me exhilaration, an escape from the boredom. So much pleasure I carry it with me to the bedroom every single night… Now I never feel lonely. After so many murders, I feel better. The carnage a catharsis for my confidence. I’ve matched Michael’s strength. Now muscular and fit, I look amazing. The blonde hair is back. The wrinkles held at bay. I look ten years younger, and I use my attractive looks to my advantage. Just like Michael did. In the basement, I scan the many framed photos. The many victims I’ll be thinking of later tonight. And the same murders I’ll be dreaming over for eternity. I steal a look at my unconscious husband. Divorce closer than ever considering Michael’s dying state. His cuts and scars have only been growing deeper these past few days. Then my eyes drift toward Adam. The college kid I picked up last week. A jock with a nice smile and long black hair. The slit throat now made him even prettier. So did the blood all over that amazing body. A perfect picture for my gallery. A sharp vibration cut through my admiration. A phone call from my latest date: Johnny Cullen. He was acute, skinny black guy in his thirties. One with a sympathetic heart I couldn’t wait to carve out. Dressed to kill, I turned toward the table. Toward the butcher knife I planned on using later. Not to mention the other tools forming my hardware horror fantasies... The media always wanted me to be a killer. And so did the rest of the world. Even Columbus, Georgia. Even my friends and family. And now… well. I was gonna give them that bitch. Meet Sam Downing. Photographer and serial killer. The Perfect Wife. 14. Back to Chapter 3 Chapter 4 – Premiere Three months have passed. Not knowing about integration, Hap has been unable to recall Jason's memories or allow Jason's personality to surface, as he lacks the ability to relinquish control. The stress of having to constantly pass as a well-known public figure is starting to get to him, but try as he might, he can't remember; Jason remains caged within him. At Emory and Bria's apartment, Bria is about to head to the airport to work on a modelling project abroad for a few days. Homer asks her for a pause in their relationship due to his memory loss. Bria is sad, but understanding. The true reason Homer feels the need to do this is because hasn't been able to integrate with Emory, and as such, he knows that being in a sexual relationship with Bria would be wrong – she's Emory's wife, not his, and if they were to make love (which she has been wanting to, but he has kept refusing and deferring, causing strain in their relationship), he'd technically be assaulting her, as she still thinks that he's Emory. He says to her that in the future, when he's better, he does want a serious relationship – he'd like them to marry and try for a child together once again. Bria kisses him on the cheek, and leaves. Brit has recovered from her physical injury and is well enough to work again, but still has some memory loss. The show’s extensive technical team have finished post-production, and The OA Part II is about to be released. During this time, she has noticed that Jason has consistently been acting strangely – he can’t remember certain details of their life together, his accent seems slightly different, and altogether his manner and behavior is starting to remind her more of his TV character Hap than her husband. She jokes “Are you sure you haven’t been taking method acting too seriously? ” During the final edit of the show together with post-production staff before its release, Jason visibly struggles and seems not to know what he is doing, despite being an executive producer. He reluctantly has to ask Brit to help him. Joining Jason and colleagues in the editing suite, Brit notices that Jason is uncomfortable with certain scenes featuring Hap, almost as if they remind him of past sins or he feels they present his character in too a negative light. They complete the final edit and the series is locked, but Jason seems restless and unhappy. Homer is at home alone in Emory and Bria’s apartment, pondering over what to do next and how to get to Brit. There is a knock at the door; Homer opens it, and it’s Will Brill. Will says “Homer? ”… and Homer realizes that it’s Scott. They hug. ~~~ When he passed out in the house on Nob Hill, Scott found himself transported to a different reality, one in which he was actor Will Brill. He’s been lying low at Will’s apartment in the U. S. ever since - confused, frightened and relatively short on cash (as he doesn't know the PIN for Will's bank card or phone), but thankful to be in a healthy body and free for the first time in years. Researching his counterpart online, he realized that he was in the dimension of his NDE, where Brit and Jason are married. He also recognized Phyllis Smith as the heavy-set woman from his NDE. When Will's agent booked him a flight to London to attend the upcoming red-carpet premiere of The OA Part II, he realized that this is where his past self will appear and learn the third movement – and that he has to make sure this happens, otherwise he and his fellow captives in D1 will never learn the full set of movements and thus never escape Hap’s custody. He figured the news story about Emory's unexpected heart attack might mean that Homer had jumped into the same dimension he had, and managed to find Emory's address in Will's old emails. He's also keen to get to OA at the premiere and try to break her free from Hap's control, but knows that he can't do this alone. Homer warns Scott that it’s imperative that Will actually stay away from the premiere, as past Scott will physically manifest there in a separate body, and two versions of him can’t be seen together at the same time in front of a crowd. To help Scott understand how NDEs work, Homer recounts his own experience – first of when he jumped to D2 in the NDE, crawled through the duct, was chased down the corridor and ate the sea creature, and then Dr. Roberts’s memory of witnessing the same event as Prairie tried to convince him what was happening. Homer brings Scott to Theo’s house so he can meet BBA and tell her what she has to do. At first BBA doesn’t understand, and thinks she has to teach Scott the movement there and then, but Homer explains that Scott’s past self will materialize at the premiere and she has to find him and show him the movement. They develop a plan for BBA to convey the third movement to Scott on the red carpet without arousing suspicion. They also discuss ways to establish contact with Brit to see if she’s alright and if she remembers anything yet. ~~~ In the week leading up to the premiere, to be held at a cinema in Leicester Square in central London, Jason is even more possessive and controlling toward Brit than usual. Hap is afraid of what might happen when Brit encounters Emory and Patrick (who Hap knows are actually Homer and Steve) and the others on the red carpet. His behavior baffles and intimidates her, but she continues to be affectionate with him, wanting to please him and stay on his good side – he’s her husband, they have a public image to maintain, and her career as an actress depends on having him as her manager and being part of a power couple. She knows how precarious her situation is, and how easily he can destroy her career and everything she’s worked to achieve. Yet there’s a certain frisson of disquiet that she feels when, at the end of each day, she follows him up the spiral staircase to their bedroom. Buck finds that he is able to integrate with Ian by mentally revisiting the trauma of the body dysmorphia he experienced in his early adolescence and his growing realization that he identified as transgender, a process both he and Ian went through. Upon integrating, Buck is able to access Ian’s memories of having acted in the show for the past two seasons. Steve, Angie and French are unable to integrate, and Angie seems more and more to believe that she is Chloe Levine and that her Crestwood life wasn’t real. This makes it dangerous for the others to discuss things in front of her. ~~~ Brit, Jason and the cast attend the red-carpet premiere at Leicester Square. Homer arrives with Paz, who has flown in from Spain to be there, and looks beautiful; Sharon’s manager has passed on the message that she is unable to attend. Jason is lauded by the press as the series’s mastermind, while Brit is the beautiful starlet by his side. She tells the entertainment reporters that “it’s all thanks to my amazing husband for writing this wonderful series”. The younger cast members arrive as a group with BBA/Phyllis and, after briefly posing for photographs and waving to fans, go straight inside without answering any questions from the press pack, as BBA/Phyllis stays on the red carpet to chat with reporters, meet fans and sign autographs. A disoriented, frightened Scott from P1E5 materializes in a cubicle of the gents’ toilets in the cinema lobby, and – following the sound of people – stumbles out into the red carpet area, where Brit, Jason, Phyllis and the others are being photographed by the assembled press. The crowd is stunned – some people think an addict or vagrant has crashed the red carpet, but many fans and entertainment journalists recognize him as Scott in his costume from Part 1 and think it’s some kind of promotional stunt. Two security guards are about to grab him and pull him off the red carpet when BBA/Phyllis tells them to step back, in that instant becoming Scott’s guardian. Gently but authoritatively, she says “I’m here to give you the third movement“, and performs the movement to him, looking him straight in the eye to calm and reassure him, and getting him to repeat it back to her; the glamorous Phyllis and the groggy, bedraggled Scott perform the movement in unison as the crowd of press photographers enthusiastically snaps away, thinking it’s a stunt to generate media coverage. Jason looks startled but watches on; Hap knows that this is the moment when he accidentally killed Scott, and feels residual guilt, but he is content to watch Scott be given the movement as he knows that this is how past Hap will also discover it. BBA/Phyllis takes Scott’s hand and they walk into the cinema together; inside, she leads him into the toilets ‘to change’, embraces him and tells him to take good care, and he vanishes again. At the cinema's bar after the screening (which comprises the first two episodes of Part II), French and Steve deliberately start a fight to distract Jason, with Patrick pretending to have another psychotic episode and French pretending to try and subdue him. Other attendees and security staff get involved. Amid the melee, Homer finds Brit and manages to speak to her on her own, and asks her to follow him to a quieter part of the bar. He tells her that he’s really Homer and tries to get her to realize that everything she experienced was true, not just a TV show she acted in, but she doesn’t remember – to her, it’s all just fictional. Brit is fond of Emory, but isn’t sure whether this is his idea of a joke or he actually means it; she laughs off the idea, telling him things like “How could it have been real? There’s no way we could have used the same stream as a toilet, for drinking water and for bathing without all getting sick and dying. You’re asking me to believe that Khatun and NDEs and robots that send you to another dimension are real? ” Homer pleads with Brit to try to imagine herself into that world – to watch the show again, read over the scripts, immerse herself in the story – maybe something will ring a bell. She thinks he’s being ridiculous, but he asks her to promise, and she does. He also slips her a phone, asking her to keep it secret from Jason and to contact him if she needs help or changes her mind. Puzzled, she accepts. BBA takes charge of French and Steve and apologizes to the venue staff for their behavior. Homer tells BBA “I couldn’t get through to her. But she took the phone. ” BBA replies “We have to keep trying. ” Brit leaves with Jason. Back at the house after the premiere, Brit keeps her promise to Emory by looking around the house for things that might trigger her memory. In a stash of documents in the spare room, she finds the old scripts for Part I and II. Holding them in her hands, reading them through, she’s haunted by a slight sense of deja vu and begins to wonder whether she actually wrote parts of the series herself, not Jason. When she returns downstairs and innocently questions Jason on this as he drinks a glass of water in the kitchen, he is supercilious and evasive, saying that she couldn’t write something like The OA if she tried, because she’s just a pretty face, a “dime-a-dozen dumb blonde actress” who, without him, wouldn’t have a career and would be relegated to “getting her tits out in B-movies and performing to audiences of a hundred people in community theater”; when she angrily responds by telling him he acts more like Hap every day, he calls her pathetic and delusional, and throws his glass of water over her. She bursts into tears. 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