Hello, You – Season 1, Part 1

The bell above the bookstore door chimed—a soft, ordinary sound that meant nothing to anyone but him. But when she walked in, that chime might as well have been a thunderclap. She moved like a question he didn’t know he’d been waiting to answer. Her hair loose, sweater oversized, and fingers running along the spines of poetry like she already belonged to them. Her name was Guinevere Beck, but she introduced herself as just Beck. And with that, everything changed.

I’m Joe Goldberg, and I don’t believe in fate. But I believe in signals. And Beck? She was a signal. She picked up Paula Fox like it wasn’t a coincidence. Her voice was warm. A little unsure. She smiled like she wasn’t used to being truly seen. I didn’t need her to tell me she was a writer—I already knew. It was in the way she moved her lips silently as she read. The way she chose her books like lovers: curious, hesitant, and hopeful.

When she left, I didn’t stop her. I just memorized the name on her credit card. Easy enough. Guinevere Beck. I typed it into a browser the moment she walked out. Public profiles, Instagram, Twitter—open windows into her life. She wanted to be seen. Her world was wide open to me. No privacy settings, no boundaries. In this city, privacy is luxury. She’d offered herself up without knowing it. I didn’t take advantage. Not yet. I just… looked.

She lived in a walk-up in Bushwick. The window didn’t lock. I watched her from across the street some nights, bathed in the soft light of her laptop. She typed fast, deleted faster. Her life looked lonely. Even with friends like Peach Salinger—yes, of those Salingers—Beck seemed adrift. She laughed too hard at parties. Cried too quietly in bed. She wore brokenness like perfume—faint, but noticeable if you got close enough.

There was a boyfriend, Benji, of course. He had a trust fund and a cold-pressed juice company and a face that begged to be punched. He didn’t deserve her. He called her “babe” like it was a leash. I watched them argue through a cracked screen. She told him he didn’t see her. He told her she was “too much.” She cried in the shower while he slept in her bed. That night, I decided something.

Benji had to go.

I didn’t plan it. It just… happened. He walked into the bookstore on a rainy day, trying to sell his terrible memoir. I offered him a drink downstairs. My basement had a cage left behind by the old owner. It wasn’t meant to hold people, but it worked. I didn’t kill him right away. I gave him chances. I recorded him. Learned who he really was. A racist, selfish, entitled mess. I didn’t do it for Beck. I did it because no one should hurt her again. So yes—I killed Benji. Burned his body. Made it look like an overdose. She grieved, briefly. Then moved on.

We started spending time together. Long walks. Late talks. Her smile softened around me. She kissed me one night outside her apartment, her breath warm and sweet. She told me I made her feel like someone worth loving. I told her the same.

But then came Peach. Beautiful. Controlling. She hovered like smoke, always watching, always pulling Beck back. I watched Peach, too. Saw how she manipulated. How she wanted Beck. The lies. The pills. The half-truths. When Beck wasn’t looking, Peach turned her into a project, something to own.

The day I followed them to Peach’s family estate in Greenwich, I didn’t plan on killing her. But things escalated. Peach found out someone had been watching. Found photos. Suspicion. She confronted Beck, accused her of inviting danger. She pulled a gun. I panicked. I fought her. The shot rang through the trees. Peach fell. Dead. I made it look like suicide.

Beck was devastated. I held her through the grief. Told her everything would be okay. That sometimes the world takes people from us for a reason. She believed me. We got closer. She read her poetry to me at night. She told me about her father who abandoned her. About the men who used her body but not her mind. About how hard it was to be enough in a world that wanted too much. I listened. I loved her, truly.

But something shifted. She grew distant. Her writing stalled. She saw a therapist—Dr. Nicky, played by John Stamos—a man too eager to be understanding. I followed her to sessions. He touched her shoulder too often. She laughed too loudly. I felt it slipping. The life we were building.

Then one night, she found the box. The keepsakes. Her phone. Peach’s scarf. Benji’s watch. She screamed. Ran. I caught her. Locked her in the cage. Told her the truth. That I had done it all for love.

She didn’t understand. Not at first. She cried, pleaded, tried to play me. Then she kissed me. Told me she forgave me. Asked to use the bathroom. I believed her. I was wrong.

She stabbed me with a typewriter key. Tried to escape. I chased her. The struggle was short. Violent. Final.

Beck was gone.

I published her unfinished manuscript. Claimed she wrote everything. A confession from the grave. The public wept. Her book sold out. And Dr. Nicky? He took the fall. I sent fake messages. Planted evidence. The police believed it. He was arrested. Justice served.

I stood at Beck’s grave and whispered, “You were too good for this world.” And that should’ve been the end. But endings are just new beginnings.

Because Candace, my past—the past—wasn’t dead. She stepped out of the shadows, eyes full of rage, lips curled in a promise: “I’m going to destroy you, Joe.” And just like that, everything changed. Again.