Original subtitles

- Previously on You: - Jonathan.

- Jonathan Moore. - Jonathan!

The American.

I don't think Malcolm knew about the view.

Kate Galvin.

Gallerist, art lover, never married. Focused, ambitious.

- I should probably report it. - Don't mention me.

You saved Kate's life.

I am repaying you.

My dear friend Adam Pratt recently opened Sundry House.

- Come along with us. - Fuck, I'm in hell.

Time to get this one home.

Malcolm. Wait, did I...?

"Here I thought when I left him on your table, you'dgodownformysins."

- I didn't do it. One of them... - Fuck off and die, Malcolm.

...killed Malcolm.

- Planned to put it on me. - Pleasure to meet you, brother in arms.

Who are you?

One of you.

One of you fuckers sent me those texts.

One of you is watching me.

One of you killed Malcolm, left him on my table,

and are now trying to frame me for it.

You know I cleaned up his body.

Maybe not like someone who'snever, ever done that before.

Unfortunately, that made me very interesting to you.

So which one are you?

You all right, Jonathan? You look sick.

Oh, I'm fine.

What was that?

Jonathan was saying your story is riveting, but it's time for a toast.

If you don't, I will.

You steal my spotlight...

and I murder you.

To Simon, to the greatest art opening ever. This night's for you.

- To Simon. - To Simon!

- Hear, hear! - Cheers.

- Cheers. - Cheers.

I just want my little European holiday back.

What is this?

"Your presence is requested at a night to die for."

A circle of privileged suspects,

a frame job, and now a cryptic invite evoking a British murder mystery.

Shit.

I'm in a whodunit, the lowest form of literature.

Call me paranoid, but you managed to stash a corpse in my flat.

Maybe that's not all you planted.

Anything new to say?

Of course you're using Evanesce.

No reverse lookup, messagesdisappear after they've been read.

A favorite of the elite and the paranoid.

When did you put this on my phone? Sometime...

Drinks!

...in the black hole of the night in question, you were there.

Steady there, Johnboy.

This is why I don't drink.

Huh? What is this, Simon's art show?

Must I Google everything?

"The Clotho Gallery."

Yep. Simon Soo's art show opening night.

Elitist, upper-crust setting, check. Gallerist, Kate Galvin.

Ah. Did you murder your shitty boyfriend,

leave him on my table, and now you're taunting me?

I checked your office, you're not here.

I'm slammed with prep, Mal. Can you text me back?

I could use some actual help here.

Sounds earnestly pissed at the dead guy,

which would suggest she doesn't know he's dead.

She could be recording that for show because she's smart.

Oh, great. I get to reacquaint myself with my least favorite genre.

Mooney loved whodunits. I always thought they were word search puzzles for adults.

Circle the clues, win a game. Not exactly art.

The Body in the Library and Murder at the Vicarage.

- Oh, are we gonna study these? - No, no, no, this is a personal project.

Oh, too bad. I fucking love whodunits.

You don't think the style's just a bit formulaic?

Oh, my God, you're one of them. Sad.

Ouch. But I need her.

What am I missing?

Well, it is a formula, but the formula is fun.

It draws you in, it hides a social commentary.

Honestly, your problem is that mysteries are entertaining.

Why would that be a problem for me?

Who doesn't have to be entertaining?

White, male geniuses. Yeah?

Honestly, being a snooze has now morphed into some indicator of high art while...

If you wanna be published, you better be riveting

and that is why Agatha Christie is the best-selling novelist of all time.

And 99% of people never finish Infinite Jest.

- I did. - A month

- of my life that I'll not be getting back. - Brutally Gen Z.

So I'm being a snob?

Um...

A tad patriarchal.

- So what is the project? - Oh, I'm still zeroing in.

And I need to understand how these work.

What, like the tropes?

I can tell you.

This arrogant 19-year-old is an angel sent to help me.

- Please. - Okay, well,

I have to go and tutor someone really bad at conversational Russian in six minutes.

- Russian? - Yeah, you can also find me

walking a pack of spoiled dogs around Hyde Park weekdays.

Nadia, when do you sleep?

Sleep's for the rich. Okay, so here's the whole Dame Agatha.

Number one, there are no coincidences.

And two, all motives always boil down to sex, money or revenge.

And three, the first suspect is usually the second victim.

Oh, no, no, I'm envisioning a single violent murder and a frame job.

Oh, um...

Then it's all about why the victim was murdered.

Someone wanted them dead enough to plan it, then enact it with passion...

I think framing can be a bit of an arch conceit. But done well?

Chef's kiss.

So that's the brass.

If your book becomes a best seller, I get 10%.

That's a deal.

- Great. See you. - Thank you, Nadia.

"There are no coincidences."

Joe Quinn-Goldberg.

Elliot, you son of a bitch.

Convenient that a Quinn family fixer happened to drop me

in the middle of a murder mystery.

You look like a Jonathan.

We agreed you'd never call this number.

- That was before you set me up. - Comeagain?

The texts.

Malcolm Harding.

- Well? - I can't tell you what a relief it is

tohave no idea whatyou'retalkingabout.

You should try meditation. It is working wonders for me.

Listen to me.

- Elliot, I am not an idiot. - Well, it kind of sounds like you are.

Sorry to hear you fucked up your new life, but I am now officially...

and literally above all that shit.

I wish you an end to suffering and the roots of suffering.

And fuck you for making medestroy this perfectly good phone.

Of course it can't be that easy.

"Hello again." Oh, shit, it's you.

"Nice jacket. Brown's your color."

Motherfucker, where are you?

You could be anywhere. Where are you?

You sneaky... "I'mlearningalotaboutyou.

Paranoid.

Loner by nature."

You'rea fucking stalker, whereveryouare.

"Absolutely not a real professor."

Oh, yeah? Well, who are you?

Think. Think.

"Why did you kill Malcolm?"

Even a sarcastic response could help me crack motive

and I can figure out who you are, stop this,

and get back to some shred of my...

"Your name isn't Jonathan Moore." Fuck.

"I'll figure you out soon enough." I can't let you do that.

So I have to figure you out first.

Lady Phoebe.

She was adamant I visit, no idea what I said to her in the black hole,

but she is a fan of Jonathan.

Am I supposed to wait here?

Hello?

Not eager to spend the day with a woman best known for fainting on Barack Obama.

But Lady Talks-a-Lotmightbe exactly who I need to find you.

Did I get here in time?

Fuck, that hurts!

- Don't! Don't, Vicky, he's harmless. - I heard a scream.

Laser hair removal is like a tongue bath from a volcano, darling.

- You can put Rupert down. - All I'm saying is, every club is

a bespoke destination created by people who know for people who know.

I'm sorry, it's a big investor call.

This guy's having a drink at 10 a.m. Perfect.

- I can come back. - No, no, no, ciggy break.

Anyway, like I was saying, I agree. Absolutely. Absolutely.

Could the Lady be a killer?

What you said to me the other night,

I don't know that I've ever been seen so completely.

What did I say?

It's clear something brought us together to be friends.

Something that impaledMalcolm on my table.

It was a pleasure to meet you.

Oh, here we go.

And Adam. Both of you.

Listen, listen. It's a nightclub, it's not Theranos, buddy. Relax, come on.

Tea? Bella, tea!

- Some tension there. - Did you get the invitation?

Ah. She sent me the invite.

It's the event. Too exclusive. All our friends will be there.

Then I have to.

It sounds amazing.

What does a detective say next? "Who wanted Malcolm dead?" feels blunt.

It's so kind of you to include me.

I still don't have many friends here yet.

I'm grateful to Malcolm for insisting I come.

- Well, Malcolm... - A bite.

- What do you mean? - Kate likes him. Good enough.

Not everyone agrees.

Would you pay a ₤10,000 membership

to a club ironically affiliated with the Church of Satan?

- Don't interrupt. - Sorry.

I was confiding to Jonathan that Malcolm's a bit controversial.

- Mm. - What was that?

Oh, crucial! Who are you wearing?

To Simon's opening?

- Um... - Oh, John, you fresh, little newborn.

- Malcolm's ice queen, sex-friend Kate... - Ah.

Loving, warm partner.

Kate is Phoebe's friend. It's her big night.

We can't have any random beard-o showing up in some diffusion line.

- Ouch. - Hey, Vic?

Vic? Would you take Phoebe's Dickensian orphan to the gallery?

- Tom sent the suits there, right? - He did.

I can't go. I'm nowhere on Malcolm.

Now, don't argue.

It's Phoebe's world. We're all just living in it.

All right.

So how much does a Tom suit tend to cost?

- Because I definitely don't have it. - It's a gifting suite. You don't...

You don't actually pay. They want you to be seen in their clubber.

Not you, obviously.

Freebies for those who need it least.

Capitalism's going swimmingly.

Not there, no, stop, stop. We're overhung.

So move it to the south wall, let it breathe.

Watching Kate seems like she's the only one in her circle that works.

Straight down there on the right. See you back at the car.

Here are several suspects who've never worked a day in their lives.

If it isn't the penniless professor.

Like Connie, the horse guy.

Diplomatic Connie.

Sophie and her ponytail.

And the artist who lets his work do the talking.

I must know where you got that sporting coat.

Great. I'm in a West End revival of Mean Girls.

Phoebe sent me.

Interesting. Phoebe carries a lot of weight with this crowd.

Well, tell him what you want.

Um...

Oh. Tom or Ralph, nothing Euro.

I guess that stare is as close toan opening as I'm getting.

- Nervous about your show? - No.

I was talking to Malcolm...

That brain-free fuck-boy wouldn't know art if it shit in his mouth.

How would Hercule Poirot phrase a follow-up on a fuck-boy?

Not a fan of Malcolm?

- We don't think about him. - Twatty big-dick owes me 60 quid.

- You into betting horses? - Enough about Malcolm.

- Did they all hate him? - Jacket, sir?

- Are you being dressed? - I'm reading Neruda.

Um, Phoebe invited Jonathan.

I see.

Well, Jonathan, if Phoebe has adopted you, all I can say is lucky you.

If you hurt her in any way, I'll cremate your dick. But congratulations.

That jacket makes you look like a waiter.

If I was writing, I could never make her the murderer.

People would see it coming.

Thanks. Good talk.

- Simon? Would you pick something, please? - Who cares what I wear?

She's stressed.

Press, patrons, the world.

It's hard to impart urgency to aristo-brats who can't fail.

The show will be a triumph.

It's the best work I've ever done. I'm not dancing for them.

You wouldn't want me to.

If I want more, I need better questions.

I need to know more about Malcolm.

Kate seems the type to have backups of everything.

Let's hope she's got a copy of Malcolm's office key.

Bingo.

Malcolm's office.

Books, all by men.

Syllabus he's too lazy to update. Booze, nothing new there.

You killed him for a reason.

Sex.

Money.

Or revenge.

Hmm.

My detective fee.

"Silver Wand."

"Surrey Hope."

Okay, I'm stumped.

Wait.

- You into betting horses? - Horses.

These are bets, making these IOUs.

Malcolm had family money, but if he gambled enough,

maybe not anymore.

"Louis the Sun King with Dagger.

Thursdays, 3 p.m., stocks?"

I did mention I'm not a fan of puzzles.

Oh, professor, what...?

What are you doing?

Shit.

I was leaving him a note, he missed office hours.

Malcolm's girlfriend asked me to check if she left her wallet. We're neighbors...

Oh, that's boring.

- I thought you were breaking in. - Nope, sorry to disappoint.

So how's mystery land?

It's not my thing, but I am... I am still trying not to lose hope.

Well, there's you making the most elementary possible mistake.

- And that is? - You're letting it not be your thing.

Tell me you're not having your detective generically muck about for a motive.

- Oops. - I thought that's how you...

Look, that's "what," not "how." So "how" is what makes the story cool.

Your detective's gotta be special in some way.

A superpower, deduction, or knowing science, or whatever.

Oh, my God, your face. I've really just helped you, haven't I?

Nadia's right.

I've been doing this wrong, tryingtoget them to spill their guts to a stranger.

I have strengths I have not been leaning on.

I'm observant.

Gemma takes Adderall, never pays for anything,

collects tiaras, barely seems to know Malcolm exists, so she's low on the list.

Princess Blessing, quote-unquote "works in tech."

Thinks we're in a simulation. If nothing's real, murder's nothing.

Constructed her life toavoidbreakinganail,

so hard to imagine her stabbing anyone. Not definitive but also low on the list.

When Adam opened Sundry House, it became his first project

not to die before it started.

He's not the black sheep of his family, more the embarrassment.

By American standards, the Pratts are old money.

The father's a real estate type and philanthropist.

His brother's a senator.

Familygoldenboy, possibly our first gay president.

Meanwhile, Adam was best known for getting a DUI in a tuxedo

with Timothée Chalamet in the passenger seat.

Since dating Phoebe, he's cleaned up his act.

Well, doesn't drive anyway.

Sundry House is a hit.

- Sorry. - It's fine. It's fine. It's fine!

A charming bully working hard to impress adad

that wrote him off years ago.

- I am sorry about him. - He wants to open six more.

I don't know if he's capable of murder,

but I bet he could frame someone competently.

But why kill Malcolm?

Adam Pratt as Louis Quatorze, the Sun King.

Wait a second.

"Louis the Sun King." Malcolm was talking about Adam.

- Thank you. - Yes. It's Thursday.

Thank you for coming out.

Thank you.

Thank you for coming.

- Claire, always a pleasure. - Thank you.

Well, let's crack Malcolm's code.

- Okay. - Uh, what?

Do it.

- Louis the Sun King and dagger? - Beg me.

Please.

Piss on me.

- Not the secret I was expecting. - Yeah!

Oh, thank you!

Oh, more! Give it to me!

- Give it to me! - I've seen enough.

So Malcolm knew about...

Hello, you nosy, little fucker.

I can explain.

Go on then.

Shit. What do I say?

I'm a writer. I'm doing research, I'm writing a book.

About the rich.

Well, that's nice.

What kind of book?

It's a mystery.

Really, it's about inequality.

About how they think they're better than us.

Yeah. Well, that's gonna take about ten fucking volumes, innit?

- If I'm lucky, yeah. - Yeah.

Let's have a look in here, shall we?

Come here you.

Like I said, writer. My thoughts.

Hmm.

Well, hello.

I put it all on Silver Wand.

Payment.

Needless to say you're about to suffer an extremely nasty bout of Alzheimer's.

Happily.

Good. I suppose I'll see you at that stupid, fucking, little art show.

- Yeah? - Yeah.

Go ahead, off you pop.

Simon Soo's big opening.

Kill me. But the suspects gather inoneplace, so here I am.

Adam's kink would barely make theMadre Linda mommy mafia blink.

If Malcolm knew and was blackmailingAdam to cover gambling debts,

well, I may have found you.

No photos, please.

Hold the door. Hold the door.

Smile, project wealth.

I'm trying to avoid the whole scene.

Do you mind? Be a doll?

- "Be a doll." I fucking hate myself. - Yeah, sure.

As suspects go, Adam needs a good hard look.

Unlike these NFTs, sorry. It's not art.

- A pleasure as always. - Thereheis.

Per Nadia, Adam killing Malcolm to stop blackmail about a secret tryst

fits all three motives in one.

Here we go.

Red dot the mirrored mural in the experiential room.

There you are. This is... This is really impressive.

Thank you for that insightful and specific compliment.

Still on the list and aggressively reaching higher.

- Roald. - Kate, darling.

- Back in time. - I wouldn't miss it.

- This is a triumph, Kate. - You flatterer.

What? That's insightful and specific?

Have we met?

Probably at Sundry House. Malcolm brought him the other night.

Ah.

- Any friend of Malcolm and Kate's. - Just Malcolm.

- Jonathan, nice to meet you. - Roald.

So American, eh?

Which coast?

Both, kind of.

Yes, you look like a California boy.

I hate this guy.

Let me give you both a private tour. Shall we?

And prime suspect, here we go.

Jonathan. Hey, man.

- Oh, okay. If this gets him talking. - Oh, God.

You smell good.

Oh, I'm on Molly. What do you think? Used to make a man of taste.

Should I invest in it?

- In this egg? - Yeah.

For £70,000, you get to crack the egg and see what's inside.

- That's intriguing. - Criminal.

I'm thinking of buying it for Phoebe.

- Do you think she'd like it? - Is this a test?

- I don't know her as well as you do. - True. But your guess is as good as mine.

You two seem very happy.

When you're not getting golden showers from busboys.

Hmm. I adore her.

I do.

It's like...

cookies for breakfast...

and every other meal...

every day.

Always.

Please confess, so I can get back to my life.

Sounds amazing.

Not like...

you know, cone of silence.

Malcolm and Kate.

Naughty John.

I never took you for a gossip.

You're right, Malcolm is trash. Let me tell something.

Don't let that nosy cum rag near your private business.

What do you mean?

He'll be British about it, but he will shake you down.

If you killed Malcolm over blackmail,

why are you warning me he might blackmail me?

You know what? You convinced me.

I'm gonna buy my girlfriend this fucking egg.

You, Jonathan!

Sir.

Maybe it's not Adam.

And I'm back to nowhere.

Simon's main event is called "meta-cat," a collection of cat paintings.

It's kind of lame.

Okay. I'm the asshole.

Simon is a genius.

Those eyes, right?

Rhys. Raised poor, a man of the people,

yet he's here looking perfectly at home.

Something about him doesn't add up.

- What do you think? - I think I fell in love with a cat.

Shame it will probably end up in some collector's warehouse.

You weren't thinking they buy art to look at?

Adam calls his collection a "portfolio."

Why are you friends with these people?

I'm sorry, I... I...

I know that none of this is exactly what you stand for.

No, I think that all the time.

- You have friends from college? - Didn't go.

- Yeah, a few. - They were kind to me when I needed it.

Are they still?

Kind?

And do any of them have a penchant for murder?

I think it'd be hypocritical of me

to disavow old friends for going on being who they are.

But, really, I think that the longer you know somebody,

the more cursed you are to see them as human.

Even people like Roald.

Roald? Do say more.

Oi! Simon.

Fuck you. Fuck you.

What just happened?

You gaslighting piece of shit.

- Whoa. - Tell them. Go on.

Tell them you're a fake. Tell them.

Tell them! Get the fuck off me. You piece of shit!

- Get your hand... - What did she mean?

An honor.

After birth, meta-cat had been destroyed.

Or perfected.

Born in a moment of passion we witnessed together.

You decide.

Oh, it was part of the show!

Oh, how wonderfully brilliant.

No way in hell that was part of the show.

That girl had a vendetta.

Simon did something to her. What?

- What a bloody shit-show. - They loved it. They bought it.

Find her. Arrest her. Shut her mouth.

Only if you ever again want an artist to set foot in this gallery

who wants to work with you.

And it's a fucking party.

What has he done? What is he capable of?

- I need find out. - Fuck's sake.

Oh, God.

- Kate. - Go away.

That woman...

- ...I saw her. - Really?

Just now when she was ruining my life?

I know where you can find her.

Clearly not a part of town that sees a lot of patrons of the arts.

We just go door-to-door?

She's out of her element. Not that she'll let it show.

No.

There.

Hi.

- Can we talk? - No point running.

- We'll ask the manager for your ID. - We don't wanna bust you.

I wanna know why you threw the paint.

What's it worth to you?

I was...

Simon's assistant...

and I did more than wash brushes.

I painted those canvases.

Bullshit.

Prove it.

If I could, I wouldn't be here, would I? Simon made sure of that.

You did the work, Simon got the credit.

Mm-hm.

And the money. And the...

He said that every artist apprentices...

they pay their dues.

I'm not the only one. There are other assistants.

Only they're too doped up or scared to say anything.

He used to just leave it lying around

for when we got stressed.

Really casual.

Like it wasn't some calculated move

to turn me into a junkie that no one would believe.

It's my aunt's cat, Isis.

Isis. Malcolm was writing about her.

And we used Sennelier oils.

- If you don't believe me, fuck you. - I believe you.

What's your name?

Blue, like the color.

Cahill.

Three thousand enough?

How much was Malcolm gonna give you?

He did come to you, right, about Simon?

Yeah.

But it wasn't about that.

He said he was going to expose Simon.

That's all I ever wanted.

And then he didn't, fucked off, vanished.

Because he blackmailed Simon instead.

And, Simon, yes, you, Simon, you killed him for it.

I have too many friends. Come back when one is dead.

I just can't take it anymore.

It is stupid, I know.

I think it was brave.

Take care of yourself.

Kate. Kate, we need to talk about Simon.

No, we don't.

- Listen. - Can't fathom why you care.

Because he's dangerous.

You listen once, you sanctimonious fu... I cannot understand why you are here.

- I'm just trying... - This isn't your world.

This isn't your city.

Saving me from a mugging doesn't mean you get in my life.

- I am not trying to do that. - I know a grift when I see it.

You are a hollow nobody with no life of his own.

So know what? Good night.

That went great.

You'll leave at some point, Simon, and I'll be right behind you.

Maybe you were brilliant once and the pressure to keep producing

is why you exploited Blue or the artists before her,

or you were always a shell who bought everything,

including the illusion of genius.

Sad, Blue's too damaged to expose you. It's even sad Malcolm never can.

He was awful, but you, you are a monster and a killer.

I can't wait to be done with you

and back to life with people who don't know or care what an NFT is.

Nope. No, I got you.

Come on out.

Come on out, Simon.

What do you want?

"I'm getting closer to finding out who you are.

On a related note, you missed the best part of the night."

Do hurry.

Oh, shit.

I've got 45 seconds before the cops come inside.

Nadia was right.

The first suspect is usually the second victim.

So much for my one-off murder theory. Fuck.

You killed Simon, texted me to gloat,

and now you won't text me back.

Oh, Jonathan. Oh, thank goodness.

She can't possibly be you, right? Can't be.

I was terrified you'd hear the awful news before you saw my text.

- I wanted you to hear it from a friend. - Yes, thank goodness,

our friend Jonathan is here.

Roald, however. And they don't seem to be grieving that hard.

Ignore them. They're all bitches.

Here.

Glad you're here.

Being around British people trying to feel feelings is creepy.

- I'm sorry for your loss. - Oh, it's more Phoebe's friend.

School, you know?

Who cares what you turn into if they knew you at school.

- Hmm. That's what Rhys said. - Death is bullshit.

Hey.

Has Jonathan said just the thing to you yet? It's his power.

Where is Kate?

The police station.

Sophie's home, of course, sedated.

Can you imagine?

Maybe Simon killed himself.

His ear was missing. Some kind of van Gogh homage.

Wait. Someone cut off his ear?

He was practically impaled.

- Hardly screams suicide. - That hideous earring

must have been worth a few thousand. Good luck fencing that thing.

Oh, come on, guys.

No, this isn't about money.

Malcolm's finger, Simon's ear, I don't understand yet,

- but you've got pattern. - Simon never did care to listen

to people though, did he?

It's like a gallery of sociopathic behavior.

My suspect list is all of them.

Well, it's a silver lining for Kate.

You know how much Simon's shit is worth now?

That stupid cat is gonna be the biggest commission she's ever seen.

I need some air.

I'm with Rhys.

Aren't these supposed to be Simon's closest friends?

So fucking rich.

Rhys is different from them.

I can't tell if he's better or secretly worse.

What was your first thought when you heard Simon was murdered?

- Good. - Shock.

I guess. You?

The opposite.

Simon tore through people like Christmas presents.

They love enemies.

Nothing I could prove, but...

Maybe karma caught up to him.

I knew he was a bad person, but I...

I sincerely hoped he might change.

Or at least become honest.

Whatever that girl with the paint was on about...

Simon was a liar.

I keep thinking if Simon had lived to, you know, one day come clean,

not so much with the world but with himself, then he could've been...

So I'm gutted he's dead.

- He sounds genuine. - Yeah.

- Is he? - Don't look like that. I'm fine.

I just need a break.

I know the feeling.

I need to regroup before you hurt anyone else

or succeed in finding out more about me.

Where are you, Malcolm?

Just let me know you're breathing.

You can carry on fucking whoever she is. I truly don't care.

Please, call.

Toxic but earnest.

Scared. I still don't think she's you.

Blue, have you left the police station?

No, it's good you gave a statement. You have nothing to hide.

Yes, I meant it.

Wiltshire, 28 days.

They're expecting your call, which you'll do today if you're serious.

Is Kate helping her?

No, don't thank me, but just don't fuck it up.

And once you're cleaned up, let me know and we can discuss your future.

Her friends are narcissists who telegraph philanthropy

all over the papers.

Even Rhys's brand is screw-up gone good.

Kate is horrible to Blue in public, then secretly pays for rehab.

I don't get it.

Why would she hide that she's not a terrible person?

I did it.

Fell in with the most insane, damaged people on earth.

No way out but through.

I never thought I'd be so desperate to read another Agatha Christie.

You all right, Professor Moore? More Agatha? Couldn't be.

You can't put that down.

So come clean.

- Really writing a book? - Must she always be this smart?

Only because sometimes I find that people say

that they're writing a book for vanity.

Like Malcolm, because he...

He made us call him that. I...

- He was writing a book? - Was he?

Oh. I swore he knew my pain when he...

He volunteered to read my pages and then just...

left me hanging.

I think he's out sick.

Mm. If he's not dead, he could reply to a text.

It just makes me feel like...

This sounds stupid,

but it's really hard for me to show him them pages

and now it's just like I never existed to him, so...

- Was she just a student? - Yeah.

Wow. Malcolm really was full-spectrum asshole.

I'm sure it's not like that.

I'm sure he'll be back.

My entire identity as an aspiring writer can just pause. It's fine.

Look, I'm no Malcolm,

but I would be happy to read your pages.

Really?

Now that you're a writer, Malcolm can't bestow that or take it away,

and neither can I.

God, no. In fact, your taste is a little bit suspect.

Yeah.

Well, you should know that it's a, um...

It's a mystery with mythological creatures,

so can you handle being that entertained?

I've been told that I'm a snob, but I'm working on that.

Bring me unicorns.

Okay.

Um, I've gotta go.

I knew you were cool. For a millennial.

You know the worst part about you showing up in my life?

How good it was just starting to be.

I'm gonna get it back from you.

To do that is to figure you out first.

"It was tough, but I did it.

Hello, Joe."