Page 168 of Sexting the Pakhan

She stares at the screen. For a long moment, she does nothing.

Then her knees shift apart slightly. Her hand moves.

Not much. Just enough.

Enough to make me forget the wound in my leg.

Me:Good girl.

Her eyes close.

The words hit her. I see it.

She leans back in the chair, phone in one hand, the other hidden under the table. Her breathing changes. Her lips part. She’s trying to stay quiet, trying to hold herself together in a room where she thinks she’s alone.

She’s not alone.

That should shame me.

It does.

Not enough.

Then her eyes open. She looks straight at me.

I’m watching her.

She freezes. Her hand stops. The phone slips slightly in her grip.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then I lower my phone.

Her face drains of color, then burns red. “You,” she says.

I sit up slowly. “Yes.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s you.”

“Yes.”

She pulls her hand from beneath the table like she has touched fire. “You knew.”

“I found out the night of the shooting,” I say.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

She stands so fast the chair scrapes the floor. “You bastard.”

“I am.”

“You were watching me?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes flash. “Do you understand how wrong that is?”