u/Alex12bb

I understand that Eddie lived with his wife Lorraine up in the lake houses for a very long time but how did he know the song ‘i will always think of you’. Did his wife or did he learn it by hearing it throughout the years or would it just be a famous song in those times? I wonder if they wanted to put any link inbetween them or if this was just for the show? Maybe i missed it but he did seem to know Beatrice somewhat from that framed picture Bojack showed him.

Hello guys. The title is a work in progress. My book is a thriller/ si-fi. Its about our protagonist Jasmine who is currently looking for her family. Ultimately realising that the people she grew up with, whom gave her their moral, broke their most important one. Don’t betray family. I’m looking for someone to give me feedback and any sort of guidance on how to make it flow better and any ideas you’d think would make this book more fleshed out.

Hello guys. I’m looking for some feedback on this new story idea i had. this is a draft so im looking on how to make it flow better and in general any ideas.

The screech of the iron pipe scraping across the floorboards echoed through the house, flat and hollow in the dead air. Flakes of charred wallpaper drifted down like grey snow. Beside a kitchen frozen in time, framed family portraits stared out from beneath thick coats of dust. On the long dining table, six plates with faded floral patterns sat with their respective cutlery.
“Do you remember this house?”
Your voice didn't carry anger or sadness. It was simply a statement thrown into the dark.
The man bound to the chair strained against the ropes, the dry wood groaning beneath his weight. His skin was a mottled grid of fresh, blooming dark purples and dull yellows, his breath hitching with every sudden movement.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he rasped.
His voice was harsher than the memory you kept of it, stripped of whatever softness it once held.
You didn't answer. You didn't even look him in the eye.
His gaze tracked you like a trapped animal. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw your shoulders straighten. Your fingers traced the lifting edges of the stickers with reverence before closing around the leg of a small pink stool. Its chipped paint exposed the dry, grey wood underneath.
You dragged it across the floorboards without rushing, the noise sharp and harsh, before placing it squarely in front of him. You sat down, resting your wrists on your knees, watching him the way one watches water come to a boil.
“Tell me, Roger. Where were you when this old place burned down?”
His eyes widened ever so slightly, the ropes groaning beneath the sudden tension in his wrists. His jaw clenched as you leaned forward, resting your weight on your thighs.
“Around. Why do you need to know?” he spat.
To anyone else, he looked unshakable. That line had probably worked on dozens of people. Roger Estelo had built his reputation on making sure it did.
You knew him far too well for it to work on you.
“Liam Stron. Does that name ring any bells?”
You lifted the iron pole, resting the blunt tip against his chest, pressing just hard enough into a fresh bruise blooming beneath his skin.
He lunged forward as far as the bindings allowed, his face inches from yours.
“That’s none of your business, lady. Now run along before you get yourself killed.”
A sudden, loud metallic crack echoed through every corner of the house as you struck the floorboards near his feet. Without breaking eye contact, your hand reached into your coat pocket with precise, calculated ease.
You pulled out a tarnished silver pocket watch. It caught the cool, faint moonlight, scattering fractured reflections across the dark floor. You held it by the chain, letting it dangle motionlessly before his eyes.
Roger recoiled, pulling his head back as far as the chair would let him. He muttered something beneath his breath, a quick, frantic string of words. Before his gaze slowly dragged upward to meet yours through a curtain of unkempt black hair.
“Jes?”
The word came out breathless and rushed, as if the mere possibility of being right terrified him to his core.
For a moment, the hardened criminal disappeared.
“That’s what you called me, anyway.”
The flat detachment in your voice made his eyes dart across your face, desperately searching for a trace of warmth. A sliver of humanity he could recognize.
But he didn't find it.
Not after all these years.
The woman sitting in front of him was a hollow shell of the person he knew.
“What are you doing here, Jasmine?”
The words rushed out of him, sharp and frantic.
“You were supposed to stay gone. Those were the rules.”
You winced as you stepped behind the chair, grabbing the frame and forcefully pivoting him toward the living room.
Everything sat preserved beneath a thick shroud of dust. Sun-bleached toys lay scattered across the floorboards where they had fallen a decade ago. A board game sat half-finished on the rug, its pieces frozen in place mid-turn.
You ignored him, turning instead toward a small picnic table set in the center of the room. The once pristine cups lay covered in soot, discolored by years of decay. Nearby, toy dolls lay facedown on the rug, their painted faces cracked into artificial frowns.
“Just tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice hushed.
His eyes tracked the way you knelt down carefully. A harsh cough cut him off before he spat out his next words with a venom you hadn't heard from him in years.
“Tell me before they realize I’m gone. They’ll get you. You know they will.”
The porcelain clinked as you picked up two of the cups. A faint, fragile sound you knew far too well. Your fingers clamped around the small handle of one, your hand trembling just enough for the ceramic to rattle.
As quickly as the comfort came, you forced yourself upright, locking your spine straight.
“Save your breath, Rog,” you said quietly. “You’re going to need it.”
You caught the brief hitch in his chest the moment you called him that. You saw the desperate, white-knuckled way he dug his fingers into the chair.
Roger’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“Oh, Jas,” he spat venomously. “You really think the Saints care about a dead house?”
His voice dropped, thick with misplaced confidence as he leaned back into the chair, the restraints pulled taut beneath the tension.
“If I’m not back by sunrise, they’ll send everyone out to find me.”
The wood groaned as you made your way through the living room, unsettling him already as you moved through the debris with practiced ease. Methodically, careful not to move anything out of place.
“Let them come.”
As you got closer, Roger pressed himself deeper into the chair.
“You survived those streets because you kept your promises. Tonight, you’re telling me which ones you broke.”
The silence that followed suffocated the room.
An array of expressions passed over his face before he finally looked away, unable to meet your gaze.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His hands grappled with both handles beside him, his jaw grinding as he tried to find his footing.
You let your gaze land on the plate beside you, its once-bright orange turned a bitter red. The ridges made your fingers curl underneath it. A comforting feeling that brought you back to the day you had set them out.
Before everything went down the way it did.
“You don’t?”
Your hand tightened around the plate, the porcelain digging into your palm. You lifted it slowly above your head, watching the way his eyes followed it attentively.
Never once did he look away.
“You really don’t?”
There was a slight raise in your voice as you made your way around the table, dragging your finger against every plate until you reached the sixth one.
It sat at the far end of the table, just out of Roger’s view.
His shoulders tensed as you rounded the table toward the sixth plate. He heard your fingers wrap around the porcelain as you lifted it.
You caught him trying to look over his shoulder, his mouth opening as if to say something before shutting closed again.
You gave him a moment.
Then you lowered the plate toward the table in a quick dropping motion.
“Stop.”
The carefully placed facade slipped.
His eyes widened in something more than surprise.
You paused just above the table.
He let out a small, shaky breath, his eyes never once leaving your hands.

The screech of the iron pipe scraping across the floorboards echoed through the house, flat and hollow in the dead air. Flakes of charred wallpaper drifted down like grey snow. Beside a kitchen frozen in time, framed family portraits stared out from beneath thick coats of dust. On the long dining table, six plates with faded floral patterns sat with their respective cutlery.
“Do you remember this house?”
Your voice didn't carry anger or sadness. It was simply a statement thrown into the dark.
The man bound to the chair strained against the ropes, the dry wood groaning beneath his weight. His skin was a mottled grid of fresh, blooming dark purples and dull yellows, his breath hitching with every sudden movement.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he rasped.
His voice was harsher than the memory you kept of it, stripped of whatever softness it once held.
You didn't answer. You didn't even look him in the eye.
His gaze tracked you like a trapped animal. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw your shoulders straighten. Your fingers traced the lifting edges of the stickers with reverence before closing around the leg of a small pink stool. Its chipped paint exposed the dry, grey wood underneath.
You dragged it across the floorboards without rushing, the noise sharp and harsh, before placing it squarely in front of him. You sat down, resting your wrists on your knees, watching him the way one watches water come to a boil.
“Tell me, Roger. Where were you when this old place burned down?”
His eyes widened ever so slightly, the ropes groaning beneath the sudden tension in his wrists. His jaw clenched as you leaned forward, resting your weight on your thighs.
“Around. Why do you need to know?” he spat.
To anyone else, he looked unshakable. That line had probably worked on dozens of people. Roger Estelo had built his reputation on making sure it did.
You knew him far too well for it to work on you.
“Liam Stron. Does that name ring any bells?”
You lifted the iron pole, resting the blunt tip against his chest, pressing just hard enough into a fresh bruise blooming beneath his skin.
He lunged forward as far as the bindings allowed, his face inches from yours.
“That’s none of your business, lady. Now run along before you get yourself killed.”
A sudden, loud metallic crack echoed through every corner of the house as you struck the floorboards near his feet. Without breaking eye contact, your hand reached into your coat pocket with precise, calculated ease.
You pulled out a tarnished silver pocket watch. It caught the cool, faint moonlight, scattering fractured reflections across the dark floor. You held it by the chain, letting it dangle motionlessly before his eyes.
Roger recoiled, pulling his head back as far as the chair would let him. He muttered something beneath his breath, a quick, frantic string of words. Before his gaze slowly dragged upward to meet yours through a curtain of unkempt black hair.
“Jes?”
The word came out breathless and rushed, as if the mere possibility of being right terrified him to his core.
For a moment, the hardened criminal disappeared.
“That’s what you called me, anyway.”
The flat detachment in your voice made his eyes dart across your face, desperately searching for a trace of warmth. A sliver of humanity he could recognize.
But he didn't find it.
Not after all these years.
The woman sitting in front of him was a hollow shell of the person he knew.
“What are you doing here, Jasmine?”
The words rushed out of him, sharp and frantic.
“You were supposed to stay gone. Those were the rules.”
You winced as you stepped behind the chair, grabbing the frame and forcefully pivoting him toward the living room.
Everything sat preserved beneath a thick shroud of dust. Sun-bleached toys lay scattered across the floorboards where they had fallen a decade ago. A board game sat half-finished on the rug, its pieces frozen in place mid-turn.
You ignored him, turning instead toward a small picnic table set in the center of the room. The once pristine cups lay covered in soot, discolored by years of decay. Nearby, toy dolls lay facedown on the rug, their painted faces cracked into artificial frowns.
“Just tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice hushed.
His eyes tracked the way you knelt down carefully. A harsh cough cut him off before he spat out his next words with a venom you hadn't heard from him in years.
“Tell me before they realize I’m gone. They’ll get you. You know they will.”
The porcelain clinked as you picked up two of the cups. A faint, fragile sound you knew far too well. Your fingers clamped around the small handle of one, your hand trembling just enough for the ceramic to rattle.
As quickly as the comfort came, you forced yourself upright, locking your spine straight.
“Save your breath, Rog,” you said quietly. “You’re going to need it.”
You caught the brief hitch in his chest the moment you called him that. You saw the desperate, white-knuckled way he dug his fingers into the chair.
Roger’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“Oh, Jas,” he spat venomously. “You really think the Saints care about a dead house?”
His voice dropped, thick with misplaced confidence as he leaned back into the chair, the restraints pulled taut beneath the tension.
“If I’m not back by sunrise, they’ll send everyone out to find me.”
The wood groaned as you made your way through the living room, unsettling him already as you moved through the debris with practiced ease. Methodically, careful not to move anything out of place.
“Let them come.”
As you got closer, Roger pressed himself deeper into the chair.
“You survived those streets because you kept your promises. Tonight, you’re telling me which ones you broke.”
The silence that followed suffocated the room.
An array of expressions passed over his face before he finally looked away, unable to meet your gaze.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His hands grappled with both handles beside him, his jaw grinding as he tried to find his footing.
You let your gaze land on the plate beside you, its once-bright orange turned a bitter red. The ridges made your fingers curl underneath it. A comforting feeling that brought you back to the day you had set them out.
Before everything went down the way it did.
“You don’t?”
Your hand tightened around the plate, the porcelain digging into your palm. You lifted it slowly above your head, watching the way his eyes followed it attentively.
Never once did he look away.
“You really don’t?”
There was a slight raise in your voice as you made your way around the table, dragging your finger against every plate until you reached the sixth one.
It sat at the far end of the table, just out of Roger’s view.
His shoulders tensed as you rounded the table toward the sixth plate. He heard your fingers wrap around the porcelain as you lifted it.
You caught him trying to look over his shoulder, his mouth opening as if to say something before shutting closed again.
You gave him a moment.
Then you lowered the plate toward the table in a quick dropping motion.
“Stop.”
The carefully placed facade slipped.
His eyes widened in something more than surprise.
You paused just above the table.
He let out a small, shaky breath, his eyes never once leaving your hands.