Page 92 of Filthy Little Secret

I trusted him.

He told me he wouldn’t hurt me.

33

TIM

Nanna and I sit at the table, playing a game of rummy, chatting about a story on the news about a baby who was discovered in a well.

We talk more now that I can be myself. I’m not constantly hiding things from her. Nanna deals the next hand, and I take the opportunity to text Mark again. I check the time and see that he’s been out of class for about twenty minutes, so I’m getting a little worried about him.

It’s probably nothing. Like my worrying about Nanna.

It’s likely he just got a call from his mom.

I hear a click as the door opens.

I push to my feet and hurry to greet him.

“You’re home early,” I say, my voice unable to disguise my enthusiasm.

I notice his face is unusually pale. He looks like he’s about to be sick.

“Mark? What’s wrong?”

He stares at me blankly as I approach him. In a daze.

“Mark, we need to get you a glass of water or—”

“We need to talk.”

His words cut through the air like a knife.

A knot twists in my gut. Talk? What the fuck is going on?

Nanna even has a worried look on her face. I excuse us and take him out the back door so we can have some privacy.

When he turns back to me, I approach him. I want to be here for him through whatever he’s dealing with.

He backs away and raises his hands before him.

“No,” he says clearly. Not loud. Not angry. Just like he wants me to stay the fuck away from him.

“You need to tell me what happened.”

“You haven’t heard?” he asks, as though the world has been suffering through the apocalypse, and I’m the only one who hasn’t noticed.

He laughs, but it’s not like he’s amused. It’s the way a crazy person would laugh. His eyes are wild, his expression twitching about. “Who did you show that video of us fucking to?”

“What?”

“At the Governor’s Mansion. The night in the basement. There had to be someone. Unless you decided you wanted to share our video of us fucking in my mother’s house with the world.”

“That’s not possible. I deleted them.”

“Maybe you did, but who the fuck did you share them with first?” he shouts, his face bright red, tears running down his face.

I can’t tell which is worse—his rage or his hurt.

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