The Finalists: David Bell

The Finalists – David Bell – Spoken Script 

Have you ever wondered how far people might go when opportunity, ambition, and desperation collide? // David Bell’s The Finalists plunges us into a high-stakes college scholarship competition — one that is as thrilling as it is deadly.

On a sunny spring day, six college students arrive to compete for the prestigious Hyde Fellowship, a scholarship that promises not just financial reward, but the kind of life-changing opportunities that can shape careers and futures. // Each finalist brings something unique: Milo, the confident front-runner, exudes charisma and strategy; Natalia, the brilliant tactician, plans every move with precision; James, the conscientious rule-follower, struggles to balance fairness with ambition; Sydney, the driven athlete, is fueled by determination and discipline; Duffy, the rugged cowboy, relies on instinct and grit; and Emily, the social justice advocate, carries a deep sense of purpose and integrity. // These strangers are united by one single goal: winning the Hyde Fellowship — but as the hours pass, they discover that nothing about this competition is ordinary.

Once inside Hyde House, a secluded and imposing Victorian building, the doors lock behind them, electronic devices are confiscated, and the finalists are placed under the watch of a calculating administrator and Nicholas Hyde, the heir to a vast family fortune. // What begins as a test of knowledge, skill, and strategy quickly escalates into a psychological battlefield. // When one finalist drops dead, fear and suspicion spread like wildfire, and the students realize that survival may demand choices they never imagined.

At its core, The Finalists is about human psychology under pressure. // Bell explores the extremes of competition, privilege, and ambition, showing how high stakes can reveal both the best and worst in people. // Alliances form and crumble, strategies shift under stress, and every decision carries consequences that ripple far beyond the walls of Hyde House. // Readers are drawn into the tension, uncertainty, and moral complexity of a contest where success and survival are inseparable.

So — why should you read The Finalists? // Because it’s a tense, gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat from start to finish. // It’s a story about ambition, ethics, and the cost of survival, a narrative that forces us to ask: what would we do if every choice could mean success, failure, or worse? // Bell doesn’t just entertain — he challenges us to reflect on human nature, the lure of opportunity, and the darkness that can emerge under pressure.

In the end, The Finalists is a pulse-pounding exploration of power, strategy, and morality. // It reminds us that even in a world of rules, structure, and opportunity, chaos can strike, and only those willing to think, act, and adapt may survive. // And that is what makes this thriller not only suspenseful but unforgettable — a story that lingers long after the final hour is over, challenging us to consider how far we would go when ambition meets desperation.

Reading 1 (Part 2)

THE HOUSE SITS ON the far eastern edge of campus, nestled in

the woods among the sycamores, the maples, and the white

oaks, all older than the college. Older than Kentucky itself.

To reach it by car, one must turn left off the main road that

circles campus and onto Ezekiel Hyde Lane, a narrow,

winding strip of asphalt that cuts through the trees, enters

the clearing, and ends in the small parking lot on the side

of Hyde House. On foot, the house can be reached by way

of the numerous paths that cut through the trees and give

the campus its natural beauty.

I step out of my car and look back up the road I just

traveled, and it’s easy to believe the world doesn’t exist

even though the rest of campus is just a third of a mile

away. Standing on the Hyde House grounds can feel like

standing in another century, which is exactly the way

Ezekiel Hyde, the founder of the college and its first

president, wanted it to stay.

The sun is bright, and its rays hit the windows of Hyde

House, reflecting the light, capturing the morning glow.

Is it weird to say the sight of that house still lifts my

spirits?

It’s eight fifteen, and I’m early. Which is good. I want to

be here before the students. More than anything, I want to

be here before Ezekiel Hyde’s great-great-great-great￾grandson, Nicholas, arrives.

I climb the portico steps to the Neo-Federal structure.

Up close the brick is more weathered than I realized. I

reach for the brass knob, which is tarnished. The heavy

black door needs to be repainted. For years, the college’s

board of trustees has wanted to renovate the house, but the

money is never there. The college has a list of projects that

never get done.

I pull on the knob and, not surprisingly, find the door

locked.

I step off the right side of the portico, my shoes sinking

into the soft soil, and press my face against the window.

I’ve been in Hyde House many times for college events and

know the layout well. I’m staring into the music room, the

space where Major Hyde, his family, and subsequent

generations of Hydes came to listen to recitals on the

piano. The piano originally moved to the house by Major

Hyde fell into disrepair and was sold in the 1990s, but a

music stand remains along with a bust of Major Hyde’s

favorite composer, Wagner.

The sun warms the back of my neck. I wait on the lawn

in front of the house. In the distance, the campus is quiet

on a Saturday morning in April. The students sleep off the

night before. Purple hyacinths bloom in the flower beds,

and I catch their overwhelming scent. A robin chirps in a

nearby tree.

I want to call Rachel, apologize for our fight earlier.

Money. We only fight about money. We have to decide

whether to get new windows or a new roof, and we

disagree about which is the higher priority. Our household

is like the college—there’s never enough money to go

around.

But before I can hit the call button, the phone rings.

“Shoot,” I say, then answer. “Hello?”

Reading 3 (Part 4)

A HUSH FALLS OVER the room.

Everyone exchanges looks, but no one speaks.

Nicholas holds the bottle of Pappy by the neck, and the

pendulum in the grandfather clock swings back and forth

with a faint tick, marking the time.

“We’ve all finished the written exam now,” Natalia says.

“We’re halfway through. . . .”

“What are you saying?” Nicholas asks.

“It seems like if we’re halfway through, it would be

pretty easy to finish,” Natalia says. “You know, just

continue on.”

A couple of students nod—Captain Stephenson and,

surprisingly, Emily, who proposed the vote-taking

compromise. And who has seemed all along like she

couldn’t wait to get out the door, scholarship or no.

Inevitably, everyone ends up looking in Sydney’s

direction, waiting to hear from her. She’s rubbing her

hands together but not speaking.

I decide to give her time to think. And a little help.

“Conversely,” I say, “everyone is in the exact same place

right now. You’ve all finished the written part of the exam.

There’s a natural stopping place here, like Emily said

earlier. We could just call it a day.”

Duffy’s face is puzzled. “But then we’d be blowing it for

future generations. We already covered that.”

“I think  .  .  .” Sydney’s voice makes us all turn to her

again. She continues to knead her hands together and

doesn’t look up, even though all eyes are on her. “I think

there’s, like, something you all should know about Milo.

Something important.”

We all wait. And I brace myself for a disturbing

revelation.

Sydney goes on. “It’s just . . . Well, his politics were very

important to him. He really cared about other people and

doing the right thing. That kind of thing mattered to him.

He wanted to make a difference. That’s why he wore that

shirt. Right?”

She stops talking. She raises her thumb to her mouth

and nibbles on a loose piece of skin none of us can see.

“I know that about him, Sydney.” Duffy tries to help her

out. If this were a volleyball game, he’d be setting her up

for a spike. “All Milo’s friends know that.”

Sydney smiles in a forced way. “That’s why I think we

should stay. He wouldn’t want everyone else to stop just

because he . . . well, because he . . . you know . . .”

“Passed away,” Captain Stephenson says.

“Yeah,” Sydney says. “Passed away.”

Everyone nods, solemn as church deacons.

Nicholas steps forward. “I guess we don’t have to vote,

then. We know how everyone feels—”

“I think we should still vote,” I say. “I think it’s

important to go on record with what we all think.”

Nicholas takes a step closer to me. He speaks in a low

voice that the students can no doubt hear. “Are you sure

you want to do that?”

“We agreed to take a vote, and I think we should take

one. So show of hands. Who wants to stay and finish the

second half of the process?”

For a moment, no hands go up. Nobody moves.

Then Captain Stephenson’s hand goes up. Followed

quickly by Nicholas’s.

Then Natalia, Emily, and Duffy raise their hands.

Finally, Sydney lifts hers. And since she has the longest

arms of anyone in the room, it looks like she’s almost

reaching the ceiling.

Every eye in the room turns to me. It doesn’t matter. I’m

clearly outvoted. But I did say everyone should go on

record with what they really think.

The students stare at me, waiting. But it’s not them I

notice. It’s Nicholas. He’s watching me, his face hopeful.

His eyes are wide, his face encouraging. He wants me to

join in, to be one of them. To do what everybody else is

doing.

I might have received a call from Grace Chan that

morning, and she spoke to me like she’s my boss. But I

know who I really work for. And why.

It’s simply a no-brainer.

I lift my hand.

The process continues.

Reading 3 (Part 4)

NATALIA SEEMS TO BE hiding inside her oversized sweater.

“You can’t look at me,” she says.

“I thought you wanted us to,” I say.

“I have a solution, but you can’t look at me while I take

care of it. And you have to promise not to be mad.”

“What are you talking about?” Emily looks at me. “She’s

not making any sense, is she?”

“Natalia, if you know something that can help us—”

She cuts me off by raising her hands, holding them up to

the group palms out. Like she wants to push us all away.

“Just don’t look. Okay? Everybody, turn your backs to me.

For just a minute or two. Okay? That’s all you have to do.”

“Sir, this is highly unusual. We’ve already had two

people die, and she wants us to turn our backs to her.”

“Natalia,” I say, “I want to respect your wishes and give

you a chance to say whatever you want to say. But can’t you

just tell us what your plan is so we can all know what we’re

getting into? The captain is right. We’re in some trouble

here, so we need to be open with one another.”

“No more locked doors, then,” Emily says.

“I locked the door,” Duffy says. “Not him. Not anybody

else. Okay? That was me. So what gives, Natalia?”

The giant eyes scan the line of us. Down one way and

then back up the other. Natalia looks like she’s deciding

something right in front of us.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “I guess when you’re locked in a

house with a group of people all day, privacy kind of goes

out the window.”

She uses her right hand and reaches for her back. The

hand slides under the sweater and appears to be digging

around, trying to get ahold of something in her jeans.

“Are you getting a weapon of some kind?” the captain

asks. “Sir, how do we know she doesn’t have something in

there?”

Natalia sighs at the comment but doesn’t say anything.

She continues to move her hand around for another twenty

seconds. She scrunches her face with the effort. Then her

arm stops, and the tension eases from her face, indicating

she has in her hand what she set out to get.

“Okay,” she says. “Here we go.”

She brings her arm out and holds the object up in the air

in front of all of us.

It’s red and oblong. Sleek, it catches the light.

Sydney says it first. “It’s a fucking phone. A flip phone,

but a phone.”

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

Natalia keeps her fingers wrapped around the phone.

“I’d heard we all had to give up our phones when we got

here. And I did. You took mine along with everybody else’s.

But my friend had this old flip phone, and they said I should

bring it. Just in case. I mean, I didn’t think anybody would

get murdered, but it seemed strange to go somewhere

without any way to call for help.”

“Then we’re set,” I say. “We can call the police.”

“Sir, this is highly irregular. You just heard what

happens if—”

“No, no,” I say. “We’re calling for help.”

Natalia opens the phone and starts to dial but stops.

“Wait. . . .”

“There’s no service, I bet,” Duffy says. “I’ve tried to

make a call out here in these trees before, and it didn’t

work.”