In Impulse Unraveled, episode “He Said, She Said,” the illusion of justice splinters like glass, and the line between memory and manipulation dissolves into darkness. This isn’t just a story about trauma—it’s a courtroom without walls, where truth is cross-examined in every glance, and guilt hides in plain sight.
He Said
It starts off strange. There’s no spectacular teleportation into Clay Boone’s home. No dramatic vanishing act. Instead, Henry throws a rock through his window—a quiet, intimate act of defiance. No portals, no powers—just the sound of shattered glass punctuating years of unspoken pain. A single rock says more than a thousand words ever could.
Clay, paralyzed but not pacified, seems unfazed by danger. He downs painkillers with beer like it’s communion. He’s not afraid of dying—he’s already halfway there. And as he numbs his body, the truth he’s hiding festers somewhere deeper.
Patty, Clay’s ex, denies anything untoward ever happened between them. “I never did anything I didn’t want to,” she says. But Henry’s truth is a jagged blade: she accuses Clay of rape, of violence, of shattering her life. Two testimonies, both echoing from the same mouth of hell. But only one can be real. Or can they both?
Clay wants answers. He goes to Lucas, but like every Boone, Lucas evades. Clay asks why Henry was locked in his trunk—Lucas changes the subject. He asks what Lucas meant about “the Millers.” The conversation dies, buried under secrets. The Boone family doesn’t talk. They bury.
She Said
The episode spirals deeper into the psychological. Seizures are explored—not the kind you see, but the kind that steal you from yourself in the dead of night. The kind where you wake up mid-scream and wonder who used your body to cry out. The kind where your mouth opens, but it’s not your voice. You’re possessed by your own pain. And no one believes you.
The law is no refuge. We learn that police aren’t obligated to enforce the law. Not always. According to precedent, they’re executors of state discretion—not slaves to federal decree. They can choose to charge or not, protect or not. It’s selective justice—by design. A weapon with a badge.
Sure, they need evidence. But that’s just for show. The prosecutor decides whether your life gets shredded in court. Politics slips its hand into every arrest, every charge. Justice isn’t blind—it’s bought, bartered, or silenced.
Henry starts asking the wrong questions. She probes into the town’s underworld, hinting to Bill Boone about a local drug death. She recognized the corpse. Boone recognizes the threat. He replies with a smile—a smile that promises ruin if she digs deeper. There’s power in silence. There’s danger in curiosity.
The Breaking Point
Deputy Anna cracks. Not metaphorically—she fractures. Her badge no longer protects the innocent; it becomes a mask for obsession. She doesn’t request a warrant. She doesn’t follow protocol. She breaks into Bill Boone’s house, desperate to find Amos Miller’s Bible—a relic that could tie Boone to murder. A holy book turned murder weapon.
But here’s the twist: her evidence is inadmissible. Her rage poisoned the case. In trying to prove a monster exists, she becomes one. In this town, the law is a knife that cuts both ways. Justice is always a few shades darker than you’d expect.
Impulse Unraveled: “He Said, She Said” doesn’t just explore competing narratives. It smashes them together, wraps them in blood and glass, and forces the audience to pick through the wreckage. Truth is subjective. Justice is optional. And in Reston, darkness is always just one choice away.