The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

Previously, on The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair...

In America, ladies and gentlemen,

we are obsessed with sex and morality.

Excuse me, why, uh... why are blowjobs bad?

I'm just, personally, I'm a big fan, I don't know...

You're the reason I'm here, Professor.

You're what I aspire to be, sir.

Well, Mr. Goldman, I have no doubt

that you're going to be a huge success.

I'm totally blocked, Harry.

It's been over a year, and I got nothing.

You know, why don't you come to me?

You made it!

- How are you, man? - Ah, good to see you!

What, are you spying on me, Marcus?

This needs to stay between us.

Author Harry Quebert was arrested today

after police discovered the body

of 15-year-old Nola Kellergan,

who disappeared from her house in August of 1975.

How's it looking for him?

Not good.

They found a manuscript of his "Origin of Evil"

buried with the dead girl.

Talk to the nice townsfolk.

Those hicks are potential witnesses.

Hey, we're gonna get you out of here, okay?

Is there anything you haven't told me?

I was supposed to meet Nola at 8:00.

That was the night she disappeared.

It's a fucking disaster!

If the prosecution gets hold of this,

Harry is screwed.

"On my desk, there's a porcelain pot."

Inside is a key to my locker at the gym in Montburry.

"Everything is in there..."

It's "The Origin of Evil."

It's Harry's original manuscript.

"...Burn it all.

I'm in danger."

Thank you.

Hey.

Hey.

Did you burn everything?

And the manuscript?

Yes, I did exactly what you told me.

Thank you.

Why was that box in your gym locker?

I was afraid someone else might find it,

so I just... panicked.

I thought it would be safe somewhere else.

You thought it would be safe?

Mm, just makes you look guilty, that's all.

Do you think I'm guilty, Marcus?

No, Harry. I don't.

I loved her, Marcus, but it was innocent.

I never crossed that line.

And I did not kill her.

The, um...

the manuscript was "The Origin of Evil."

The very first draft.

How come there was no title on the cover page?

The title came afterwards.

After... after Nola's disappearance, you mean?

Yeah, but I don't want

to talk about the manuscript.

It's brought nothing but suffering into my life.

Okay.

Oh, for Christ's sake.

You still have that?

Yeah, it's a good luck charm.

Huh.

It was a gift from the great Harry Quebert

back when I was a fledgling non-writer.

Marcus, please put it away.

I want you to tell me about Nola.

Who she was.

I need to know everything, Harry,

if we're gonna get you out of here.

Ahh...

I don't wanna go back there, Marcus.

I know you don't, but you need to.

Well, where shall I begin?

From the beginning.

It was an afternoon in June, 1975.

I'd been struggling up to that point

to get started on the book, and I looked up,

right when the rain started, and... there she was,

just dancing, enjoying the rain.

I was just lost watching her.

That was the first time I met her.

She had a magical quality about her, something...

I'd never seen before.

I remember asking her what her name was,

and it wasn't until... maybe a week later

that I... I ran into her in town.

I was in the middle of my morning run,

and she appeared once again.

Harry!

Oh, hey! Hello!

Hi!

Guess what?

Hey, Nola!

Hey, hi!

Guess what?

What?

I checked out your book yesterday

out of the library.

Uh-huh?

"The Mirror of Life"?

You're the only "Q" in Fiction,

right between Boris Pasternak and Ayn Rand.

What, no, uh... Pope, no Poe, no Proust?

Well, the collection at the Sommerdale Library

isn't exactly extensive.

Ah... Isn't it exciting?

Yes, uh, very exciting.

It must be wonderful

to be taken seriously as a writer,

to be told your words are worth publishing.

Like you weren't crazy to dream.

Uh, yeah, well, um...

success and fame can be gratifying,

I'll admit that, but...

I don't know, all the other stuff is...

like, the parties and... that stuff's overrated.

I don't believe you.

That's why I came here, you know,

to get away from it all, to find some inspiration.

Well, this is me.

I work here on Saturdays. - Okay.

You should, uh, come by.

Maybe it will inspire you.

Okay.

And I'll sneak you a free plate of fries.

- Possibly. - Okay.

See you, Nola.

And then I...

found myself thinking about her more and more,

just consuming my thoughts.

Mm-hm.

Nola?

Are you okay?

- Yes, yes, yes... - What happened?

Yes, I'm... I'm fine!

Shh... Shh!

Can you help me?

Yes, I'll help you.

Okay, I'll get the... I'll get the broom.

Yeah, I think that... Oh, my gosh.

We shouldn't be laughing!

No, it's fine.

If she finds out, she's gonna fire me.

She's not gonna fire you.

You're, like, the best waitress she's got anyway.

Oh, my goodness, look at this mess.

Well, it's a good thing they come for the burgers

and not the service.

Hmm, although, I just wish someone would tell me,

whenever I order just a simple cup of coffee,

I am presented with every, like, condiment

known to mankind.

That's because it has been decreed

by the mistress of the inn.

Who?

Mrs. Quinn.

Mrs. Quinn?

As you will have noticed, ladies,

for the past week,

the famous New York writer, Mr. Harry Quebert,

has been coming here every day, which means

he sees in our restaurant

the standards of quality and refinement

found in the best establishments on the East Coast.

Now, I have written a memo

to remind you of how Mr. Quebert should be treated.

Read it, reread it, and learn it by heart.

"Do not disturb Mr. Quebert"

because he needs calm and... concentration.

His previous visits to Clark's

indicate that he always orders black coffee.

Serve him coffee when he arrives,

"and nothing else..."

Do not bother Mr. Quebert by suggesting he order food.

However, serve him all the condiments we have,

so should he be inclined to order,

he won't have to ask for them.

You see, famous writers should not have to ask

for what they want.

Their minds must be free to create.

"It is possible"

that what he's writing will become a masterpiece,

"and Clark's will be known all over the country!"

Is this one of the best restaurants?

Yes, Mrs. Quinn.

Yes, Mom.

And don't call me "Mom," okay?

It's not a country inn.

Good.

Now, I want to see you all acting servile.