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JOE: “Turn the key, Marienne. And don’t ever look for me.”

He walks to the door. Pauses. Doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t open it. She just leans her forehead against the cold metal and whispers to the silence.

JOE GOLDBERG (40s, disheveled but eerily calm) sits in a plastic chair. His hands are uncuffed. That’s the first sign something is wrong. On the table is a leather-bound journal—his. And a single key.

JOE: “Turn the key, Marienne. And don’t ever look for me.”

He walks to the door. Pauses. Doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t open it. She just leans her forehead against the cold metal and whispers to the silence.

JOE GOLDBERG (40s, disheveled but eerily calm) sits in a plastic chair. His hands are uncuffed. That’s the first sign something is wrong. On the table is a leather-bound journal—his. And a single key.