For fans of Rachel Hawkins with a raunchy reality show twist, Then it got dark follows a group of hotheaded contestants competing to prove themselves in front of an audience of millions… But how can you hide your motive to kill when you are followed everywhere?
Curious? Then read on to find out the synopsis and an excerpt from Bea Fitzgerald’s Then it got darkwhich will be released on August 27, 2024.
The first episode is waiting for you… are you ready to watch it?
There have never been more witnesses to a murder…
Six people land on a deserted island, ready to make their reality show debut. The contestants are suitably glamorous and dramatic – and they’re hungry to prove themselves, too. The stakes are high, and with millions of viewers watching, losing is not an option. But three weeks and eighteen episodes later, five of the six contestants are sitting in a Portuguese police station, and none of them are a winner.
Because twelve million people watched Rhys Sutton die on camera and someone has to pay for the crime.
The best friend, the rival, the girlfriend, the lover and the arch enemy remain. And of course, no one talks. But how do you keep secrets when the whole world is watching? Especially when Rhys was the most hated man on TV just one day before his murder.
Most people just want to be remembered. Of course, no one admits that. But memory is everything people strive for. Every dream and every wish. Who hasn’t carved their initials into a desk just to leave a mark on a small piece of the world? What is the longing for love other than the desire to know that your life has made a difference? That you were a single thread in the gray life of someone else.
Well, I don’t want to be remembered. Memory is reflection. I want to be immediate, fleeting, and now. I want to control a space, dominate a single second, and be gone as soon as it’s over.
The mark of any good show is that, no matter how much you long for it, you can’t remember it. From the second the curtain closes, the whole thing slips through your fingers like grains of sand until, if you’re lucky, all you’re left with is the feeling. You should feel like something incredible is over. No matter how much joy you get from it, every good performance should be marked by loss.
What distinguishes icons – real icons – from celebrities is that they are not simply famous people; they are a moment, an impression, a fixed point in creation.
When I’m gone, I don’t want to be a memory. I want to be a feeling that lingers long after my bones have left this world. I want to make a difference. I want to make a difference.
— RHYS SUTTON, SAMPLE TRANSPORT BELT, ICONIC
***
“Can I smoke here?” asks Kalpana, already pulling a cigarette out of a hemp case and fiddling with a lighter in her shaking hands.
“This is a police station, ma’am,” says the taller officer, standing behind a chair that he is now leaning against.
“Yes, in Portugal,” says Kalpana. “There are a lot of strange laws about these things.”
The officer takes a breath. “No, smoking is prohibited here.”
Kalpana squints before putting the hand-rolled cigarette back in the box. “Okay, can we make this quick then? We haven’t even started yet and I already need a break.”
“A man is dead,” says the smaller officer in a calm voice, but with a sharpness that hurts most of the witnesses. Kalpana barely notices.
“Yes – because he was an idiot. It was an accident, right?” she asks, her fingers twitching on the table without a cigarette to keep them steady.
“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”
Isko’s head rests in his hands, or rather his hands cover his face – it’s hard to say which.
“I’m sorry,” the taller officer says. Isko isn’t sure if they’ve forgotten their names or if he just sobbed when they introduced himself, but he hears a French accent and then realizes that this isn’t a local investigation. But why should it be?
“No, no, I’m sorry – I… we’ll be together soon… I… seeing something like this, I…” his voice falters and he bursts into tears again. “I can’t believe it. Which, I think, is ridiculous. It almost feels like nothing else could have happened.”
The detectives exchange a look. The smaller man looks disdainful, but he doesn’t try to hide it as he turns back to Isko. “What do you mean?”
Isko looks up, watery-eyed, dazed and disoriented, as if he’s shocked to find himself here with these men. It’s as if he can’t remember leaving the island, as if part of him is still clutching the beach, begging it to give him back everything it took. “Do you know what happens when you put people like us together – people with so much passion it bleeds? With so much desperate desire to be something, to do something, to become something? Do you know what happens when you put us all in a house in the middle of a deserted island?”
There is a pause while the two detectives weigh their options.
“No, I’m not sure,” says the great detective carefully, letting his words skirt the edges of his contempt as if he could hide it entirely.
“These things happen,” Isko says so forcefully that it almost sounds profound. “We are people who live for our passion. Is it any surprise that we could also die for it?”
***
Jerome looks at the detectives calmly, his gaze straight, his back straight. But his hands clench around the cup in front of him and then open again, so tightly that the plastic stretches.
“You need to catch whoever did this. And fast, if you don’t mind.”
The smaller detective – still tall, at least six feet tall, but a full head shorter than the other – gives Jerome a look as stern as a camera. “I had no idea you were in such a hurry, Mr. Frances. Since you’re spending a few more days on the island, I thought you’d have had time.”
“They didn’t give us our phones back, but it doesn’t take a genius to imagine how we’re all being dragged through the mud right now. I’m thinking about investors, stock prices…”
“And you think someone did this?” the detective interrupts. “You said that, didn’t you, catch the perpetrator? You think it was intentional.”
“I’m not sure Interpol is usually involved in accidents. They clearly have reason to suspect a crime.”
The investigators don’t suspect a crime, but the Internet does, so they pretend they are investigating. A case that can easily be closed, filed away and forgotten.
“The circumstances were unusual,” says the tall detective. “And the profile was impressive. But maybe it wasn’t a case at all. It could also have been an accident.”
Jerome can’t hide his disbelief fast enough – or maybe it’s intentional. Maybe it’s just a pretense.
“But you don’t think it was an accident, Mr. Frances?”
He doesn’t even hesitate before it bursts out in a rehearsed torrent. “I think everyone in that house was a psychopath. You have no idea what it was like to be around them – they always talk about the most absurd things, so smug and pseudo-intellectual. So I’m going to answer your questions and help you with whatever you need, because they’re horrible, pretentious people who couldn’t admit to themselves that they were vile, fame-hungry assholes.”
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“I- “
“And they would absolutely kill to win.”
***
“Well, Miss Yaxley-Carter—” the smaller detective begins, and Araminta is annoyed by his accent: British, from the Home Counties at that—someone who should definitely know who the devil she is, and treat her far, far better.
“I’m not saying anything until my lawyer comes,” she hisses, resisting the urge to kick the table. She can’t believe she’s here in this dark room with its cold metal chairs and bars that can be used to attach handcuffs.
“We have been in touch with your family,” says the British detective. It is both her despair and her relief. Despite everything she has done and fought for, she is now back here, safe and comforted by the protection offered by the Yaxley-Carter name – and its money. “Your lawyer is on the way.”
“Then I’ll see you both when she arrives.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” he says. “We’re happy to wait.”
She nods briefly.
“So you studied sculpture?” asks the taller detective with genuine interest.
“My lawyer,” Araminta growls through clenched teeth.
***
Theo looks up as the detectives come in. They look exhausted – much more tired than when they first introduced themselves.
“Mr. Newman,” says the taller detective. He’s French, straight from Interpol – Detective Inspector Cloutier, he thinks, though he’s not sure. The introductions were so rushed, and any voice that hadn’t been on an island with them for the past few weeks was like a new language. “Can you please confirm for the tape whether you want your lawyer with you? Your management was very insistent; they even…”
“No,” says Theo. “It’s fine. Any news? Do you still want to keep us here?”
“We’re not keeping you here, Mr. Newman. We just have a few questions,” says Detective Inspector Kennard, the Brit – although he’s also from Interpol. That means he’s here to pin a murder on someone. The detective steps forward without waiting for his answer.
“How would you describe your relationship with the deceased?”
“With Rhys?”
“Is there another deceased candidate we should know about?” Kennard grumbles.
“Yes,” Cloutier interrupts. “How would you describe your relationship with Rhys Sutton?”
Theo shakes his head, completely perplexed. “God, that’s the question, isn’t it?”
