I'm not proud of what I did. I'm not proud of anything.

But it doesn't matter. Absolutely nothing has changed. And I'm struck with a singular, impending, and terrible feeling—a feeling that I'm going to get away with everything.

Close to home now, I pass the corner store and I see Melvin through the large shop windows playing Street Fighter II on an old arcade machine.

I studied him, his face basking in the glow of the game. Melvin never played games online, playing against other people—real people. He was happiest here, playing on a machine that was offline. Melvin always stayed away from Facebook. What does he know that I don't? What does Leonard Shelby know that I don't?

I stride through the store parking lot without looking, a car stops to let me pass.

I walk through the automatic sliding doors and the fragrance of fresh vegetables and curry hits me like the warm blowing air from the vent above. To my left, the cashier bags cans into a paper bag for an old woman, and to my right is Melvin rattling the joystick and banging the buttons on the old arcade game.

I sneak up beside him and see the reflection of his face on glass screen. He glances up at me from his reflection.

"Yo," he says. He's playing as Ken, fighting Chun-Li, and has one more round to go.

The flaming word FIGHT flashes onto the screen and Melvin starts mashing on the buttons with his index and middle finger pressed tightly together. His backpack rests on the floor between his legs. The front pouch pocket is open and I can see his phone sticking out of it.

"Melvin..." I start.

"Hold on," he snaps, licking his lips, focusing on the game.

I eye his phone. This is my chance to check it—check it for Facebook. Check it for Leonard Shelby.

I crouch down like I'm tying my shoe then snatch his phone before standing up.

Melvin spins around and I hide his phone behind my back.

"Vega is next. You want him?" Melvin says.

"No, go ahead. Let's see how fast you can beat him."

Melvin turns back around to play his game and I peek down at his phone as if it's my own. I press the home button twice which opens his screen without a passcode.

Oh. Em. Fucking. Gee. He is on Facebook.

I open the app, preparing to see Leonard's page—preparing to call him out, to blame him for everything. But it's not Leonard's page—it's Melvin's page.

His profile pic is a selfie in his backyard. The timeline is empty of posts, even his friend list is empty. He only has one 'like' – a fan page for Anne Curtis. Anne, his girlfriend—his long distance sweetheart.

I click on the fan page and see that it has 14 million followers. What the fuck? Beside her name is a blue verified check mark.

A prickly feeling spreads from the back of my neck and down my spine. Something in my subconscious convulses, and I tap his Facebook messages.

There's only one message thread in his inbox -- a single thread with lines and lines of short messages from Melvin to Anne Curtis, none of them answered. Lines like "I love you!" and "how are you babe?"

My stomach churns and I drop the phone back into his backpack.

A voice from the arcade game exclaims, "You lose!".

"Shit!" Melvin slaps the joystick and turns to me. "You're up."

"I got to go," I rub the back of my head, unable to look him in the eyes.

He peers at me suspiciously then at his backpack. I avoid his gaze, my eyes fixed at the cars parked outside the window.

"Okay," he says. "See you around."

"Yea. Okay. I'll see you around."

I gather myself and move towards the exit, the automatic doors slide open.

"Yo!" he yells.

I stop and look back at him, the sliding doors still open.

"I really do love her, man," he says, firmly. "The love is real, isn't it?"

I nod and exit through the door. Outside in the parking lot, I glance back into the store window and see Melvin looking down at his phone, but he's not swiping on it, or tapping on it – he's just standing there, staring blankly at it, for what seems like a very, very long time.