"Dylan...What are you doing here?" I back away from him slowly. There's only one way out of the room, and he's blocking it.

"Dad's bag is still in the car," he says. "I haven't unpacked his things yet, and as soon as he told me where you'd gone I knew you would poke your head where it doesn't belong. I hoped I'd get here before you did, but..." He shrugs, looking at the open cases scattered over the bed.

"What the fuck is all this?" I ask.

"What does it look like?" he returns, watching me with a weird, almost patient smile.

"It looks like bad shit," I say. He's got me in a corner between the wall and the bed, and I hold my ground.

"It's just porn," he says, shrugging. "Don't be such a prude."

"It's not 'just porn,'" I argue. "This shit is dark—twisted."

"Nobody got hurt making it, if that's what you're worried about. In fact, most of them had a pretty good time, from what I saw."

"You're sick. How can you be a part of something like this?"

He shrugs. "It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."

I shake my head. "Why would you want to?"

His smile fades and he eyes me more critically. "You wanna know why? Fine. I'll tell you why. I got into some trouble in college. Racked up some debts I couldn't pay. Then Neil saw one of my films—an amateur thing I'd done—not porn, but he recognized my talent. He offered me a deal and I took it. He paid off my debts, and instead of loan sharks and banks, I owe him. I make the movies, he sells them. There's a market for...unusual tastes...and people are willing to pay for quality. We're just meeting a demand. Like I said, no one gets hurt."

"Even if that's true, it's still gross, and wrong," I say, fighting hard to keep the tremble from my voice and hands.

"Nah—I only film the straight stuff," he smirks.

I stare at him. I don't understand how we're related. How can he think that this stuff is fine, but two men innocently loving one another is a problem?

"So? What were you planning to do? Run to your boyfriend? Tell on me to Isabelle?" he asks, taking a deep breath through his nose. "You know I can't let you do that, right?"

"Dylan...I can't just let this go."

He shrugs, looking strangely sober. "I wouldn't be so sure. You see, I want out of this business, Felix. You're right—it's messed up, more than you can imagine. I've had enough—seen enough. But I still owe Neil a lot of money. I just need to get through this wedding, and then I can leave this whole sordid mess behind."

I feel a shock of new horror at his words. I'd suspected that her money was part of what Dylan liked about Isabelle, but I hadn't imagined it was the only thing.

"Do you even love her?" I ask, anger making my voice shake more than fear.

"Eh," he shrugs again. "Enough."

"You're unbelievable," I say, and move to push past him, fury making me reckless, but he stops me, setting his hand to my chest at the base of my throat.

"Hey, now. Not so fast. We're not done here."

"You can't hurt me," I snap. "People will notice, and it won't keep me quiet."

He raises his brows. "You think I don't know how to hurt you without leaving a mark?" he asks, and pushes me with a sudden hard shove so I fall back on the bed, crushing some of the cases under me as I do. "Filming all this shit has been quite the education, you know."

I stare up at him, shocked and frightened. An hour ago I'd thought the worst he might do is push me around. Now I don't know what he might be capable of.

"Relax," he says. "Just listen to me, and nothing bad will happen to you."

"Are you threatening me, or reassuring me? Because I can't tell," I snap, using outrage to mask my very real fear.

"I'm telling you what's what. Now shut the fuck up and listen."

Carefully, I sit up, and he watches me a moment, as though to make sure I won't try to bolt or something. I think about it, but he's right in front of the door. There's no way I could get past him without a fight, and I doubt I would win. When he seems satisfied,  he goes on.

"I still owe Neil a lot of money. I'm indebted to him in other ways too. He's basically made my career. He could unmake it just as easy. He thought I was up here making a film, and now—thanks to you—he knows I'm not. I told him I want out, and he's not happy, but he's willing to make a deal. He wants his money, and all my unreleased work," he points to the DVDs, "and one other thing. He wants me to make one more film for him. With you."

I'm too surprised and appalled to speak, and merely stare. This has to be some kind of sick joke.

"He took a liking to you," Dylan goes on with a frown, "and was disappointed when he found out you weren't one of my actors. I told him that could change."

"Dylan," I swallow back the bile rising in my throat. "I don't even know you anymore. How could you—"

"I'm not done!" he snaps, clapping his hands together loudly and making me jump. "Just listen! I'm not Neil's only filmmaker, okay? There are others. He's basically a producer, funding different filmmakers and profiting from their work. Now, I don't film illegal stuff, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Neil's been pushing me recently to cross too many lines—film things that could send everyone involved to prison for a long time if we got caught. That's why I want out now."

He pauses, rubbing his hands over his short hair and staring down at me with an unhappy scowl.

"He's a dangerous guy, Felix. He can make people disappear; and once he sees something he wants, he doesn't give up until he has it, one way or another. You care about Dad, right? And Isaac? Isabelle? If you do you'll stay quiet about this, and cooperate. Understand?"

I realize that there's only one way out of this right now. I have no idea how much of Dylan's story is true, but I can tell that his fear is real, and that he's desperate—possibly desperate enough that if I don't tell him what he wants to hear, I could end up in the trunk of his car along with Dad's travel bag.

"Yeah," I nod slowly, "I understand, Dylan. If it keeps this guy away from our family and the Masons...I'll do whatever you want."

He stares at me with narrowed eyes, and I'm not sure he's going to believe me, but finally, he nods. "Good. Let's get back to the party before people wonder where we've gone. Don't want to be late to my own wedding recital, after all."

Feeling sick and shaky, I slowly climb off the bed, expecting at any moment that he'll turn on me, change his mind and throw me back down, but he doesn't. He follows me, and outside he gets Dad's bag from his car and tosses me a bottle of pills.

"There. Take that back to the old man. You're welcome," he says.

Then he gets in his vehicle and drives off, heading back to the house. I follow, still too much in shock to properly process my distress.

At the house, I spend the rest of the day in a sort of daze, on auto-pilot while my mind is elsewhere. Apparently, I make it through all the wedding music just fine, even though I barely remember playing it.

As everyone prepares to head to dinner, suddenly I can't pretend anymore.

I can't sit, and eat, and smile, and listen to people talk while this terrible thing is eating at my soul.

I make my excuses, claiming that I have a migraine—an affliction I've suffered from in the past—and won't be good company at dinner.

"I thought migraines were a woman thing," I hear one of Dylan's friends say.

"Yeah, he must be on his period or something," Dylan laughs.

I hate him. I hate him so much, it makes me sick. Because he's my brother and—

No, I realize, he's not my brother anymore. He hasn't been my brother for a long time. It makes this easier, in a way, what I plan to do, but it still hurts.

Isaac follows me upstairs to my room, looking concerned.

"You're sure you're okay?" he asks. "You've been out of it all day."

"Yeah. Probably just dehydrated," I say. "I just need to lie down and keep my eyes closed for a while."

If he hadn't already had several drinks, I think he'd probably press for more of an explanation, but in his current state he accepts my words readily enough. As his green eyes go to my mouth and light with something more than concern, I manage to dredge up a real smile. It's a precarious and possibly dangerous place to be, but he's the only thing that makes me feel happy right now.

"I wish I could stay with you," he says, stepping into my arms and giving me a light kiss, "but I promised Belle I'd run defense for her bridesmaids. Dylan's friends are kinda a bunch of dicks, you know?"

"I'm glad I'm not the only one who noticed," I say.

"God, I can't wait for this wedding to be over," he murmurs, leaning his head on my shoulder and rocking back and forth like we're dancing. "I want to do so many things with you, go so many places. We're gonna conquer the world—just you an' me, Felix. We're gonna have it all."

"Okay, Alexander. Maybe no more drinks for you tonight," I laugh.

"Alexander?" he asks, drawing away from me in surprise. "Who's Alexander?"

"No one," I assure him. "Alexander the Great. He—never mind." I kiss him once more and then push him towards the door. "Go on. Have fun."

He grins and then departs, taking my fleeting happiness with him. I wish I could hold on to it forever. I wish I could believe, as he seems to, that some sort of future exists for us.

I don't. Not after what I plan to do. Because it's going to destroy his sister's life, and who knows who else's along the way. Mine, for sure, but that hardly matters now.

Alone at last, I get out my laptop and start looking things up. Things like how to report the sort of stuff I'd seen described on the covers of those disks—because despite what Dylan said about not doing anything illegal, that's sure as hell not how it looked.

Half an hour later, I do something I never thought I'd do in my entire life. Something I didn't think that real, sane people actually did.

I contact the FBI.