I don't know what I was expecting. Helicopters and machine guns, I guess.

Instead, a bored-sounding woman takes all the information I have to offer with the disaffected attitude of a customer service representative listening to someone lodge a petty complaint, and that's that.

Even so, I feel better once it's done. It's out of my hands now—that part, at least. Belle is another matter. I can't, in good conscience, let her marry my brother without knowing what she's getting in to.

I stew in my nerves for several hours until I hear the others return. Dylan and my dad will have gone to their hotel, and the bridesmaids and Dylan's friends have their own accommodations. It's just me, Isaac, Belle, and their parents. I might not get a chance like this again.

Keeping the light off in my room and the door shut, I listen while the others prepare for bed. I hold my breath when I hear Isaac pause outside my door, but after a moment he keeps going down the hall to his own room, not wanting to disturb me if I'm asleep.

I want to see him, of course—more than anything—but I know that if I let him kiss me, or hold me in his arms, I'll waver. I want Belle to know the truth, and I want Isaac to keep looking at me the way he did earlier—to keep believing in a happy future for us—but I don't think that I can have both. One will cost my heart, the other my soul.

If it was just me, I'd probably trade my soul, but it's not. It's not even just Belle, anymore, either. It's her whole family. Dylan's tangled up in something dark and messy, and when it drags him down, I'll be damned if he drags Belle and her family down with him.

Once I'm pretty sure everyone has retreated to their own rooms, I go and knock softly on Belle's door. There's a sliver of light along the bottom edge, telling me she's still awake.

She opens it and peers out at me, dressed in an oversized t-shirt with a big Star Trek logo splashed across the front. I wonder again what brought her and Dylan together.

"Hi, Belle. Can I talk to you for a minute?" I ask.

"Hey, Felix." She smiles uncertainly. "Sure, come on in."

She shuts the door behind me, hops onto her bed, and pats the spot beside her.

"What's up? Is everything okay?"

I sit gingerly beside her, heart beating faster with a sudden rush of nerves and sweat prickling across my chest and back.

"Not really," I say. "There's something you need to know, and...I'm afraid it's not good."

"Okay." She regards me patiently, her mid-length, curly brown hair in a simple braid for sleep, and her large, dark eyes soft with curious expectation.

I swallow the bitter tang at the back of my throat and start to speak.

I can't look at her while I do, and keep my eyes fixed on my hands. She doesn't interrupt me, and when my voice starts to shake, she shifts a little closer and rubs her hand gently over my back.

Her reaction is not what I'd expected it to be, and when I finish, neither of us says anything for a moment. Finally, she reaches for one of my hands and squeezes it in hers.

"Felix? I want you to know it's okay. I'm not mad."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Dylan told me. I know," she says gently. "It's okay."

Speechless, I move away from her and stand. "What the...? How can you be okay with...? Wait, what did he tell you?"

She frowns at me, still looking patient and concerned. "He explained it to me, so I wouldn't be upset," she says. "How you tell lies when you're stressed, and the thing about him and the videos is a story you've told before. He said you can't help it, and that I should just listen and let you talk. It's okay," she says again. "I'm not angry."

I feel like I can't breathe. "I'm not—I'm—"

"Hey, it's really fine," she assures me, getting to her feet and laying a hand on my arm. "I understand."

"What about the violence?" I ask, struggling against the crushing weight closing around my heart. "Did he tell you about that?"

She frowns with misplaced sympathy. "He...He said that you used to hurt yourself sometimes," she says, "for attention, but that you don't do that anymore. Hey, are you sure you're okay right now? Should we call someone?"

I shut my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath. "No, I'm fine. You're right—I just needed to talk. It...helped.  I'm sorry I bothered you."

I move towards the door, feeling like I'm underwater, or in a dream.

"Wait, Felix," she calls after me, looking concerned. "You'll let me know if you need anything, right? We're here for you."

"Sure. Maybe, um...don't tell Dylan about this okay? I don't want to upset him before the wedding."

"Sure, Felix," she gives me another uncertain smile. "I got you."

I retreat, shutting the door gently after me as I go.

In my own room, I lie on my bed in the dark, unsure what I ought to do. If I'd insisted my story was the truth, maybe Belle would have believed me; or maybe I'd only have scared her. I should have known Dylan would be a step ahead of me. It's almost funny, too: convincing Belle that I'm the one who lies; that I'm the one who might be dangerous—if only to myself.

I don't sleep, and when morning arrives I have a real headache, my eyes sting with fatigue, and I still don't have any answers. Finally, as the first light of day spills through the windows, I fall into an uneasy dream.

In it, the FBI arrests me for telling lies while Dylan and his friends look on and laugh.

Waking in a cold sweat, I realize that it's past noon, and that at least some of the sounds from my dream have carried over into the real world. I hear a lot of loud laughter, anyway, and recognize Dylan's voice.

Rising stiffly, I pull on some clothes and run a comb through my hair. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and frown at my reflection. If I were asked to judge, based on appearances alone, whether to believe Dylan or myself, I have to admit I'd probably go with Dylan.

I look like I've lost weight in the last week—unsurprising, with all the exercise I've been getting here—and my mid-toned, caramel skin has an unhealthy gray cast. My dark eyes are shadowed and have that haunted, Girl, Interrupted, look that isn't exactly suggestive of mental stability. No wonder Isabelle was concerned.

What I need, I realize, is proof. Somehow, I have to go back to Dylan's room, get the DVDs, and show Isabelle the truth.

When I feel like I can manage to look and behave like a relatively normal version of myself, I head downstairs.

What I see when I do puts an immediate halt to my plan.

Everyone is gathered in the home theater, watching a movie. My Dad, Dylan, Isaac, Isabelle, her parents, and her uncle Reg—who apparently returned from his business trip sometime the night before.

On the enormous TV, a much younger version of myself is dressed as Rapunzel, leaning out of a treehouse while Dylan climbs the rope 'hair' I have looped around my head and anchored to a branch. It's a wonder anyone survives childhood.

Kid-Dylan keeps whispering my lines to me and giving me directions on where to look for the camera. I don't remember this particular day, but it's clear we're both having a great time.

Meanwhile, present-day Dylan twists in his seat where he lounges with one arm around Isabelle and gives me a smug, self-satisfied look. Beside him, on the floor, I see a black bag full of DVDs.

"Felix," my Dad calls, spotting me, "come join us! Isn't this sweet? It was Dylan's idea," he adds proudly.

When he pauses to take a breath, Dylan speaks up. "We're all sharing memories from our childhoods—mine and Belle's, that is. Catching up on our lives before we met. I brought our movies," he says, gesturing at the bag.

I bet most of the cases are empty—we didn't make that many videos—and it's definitely not the same bag that I saw the day before. Still, it's close enough that I can add gaslighting to Dylan's list of unscrupulous skills.

He must have pulled this video up from wherever he'd had it stored and burned the disk last night. As for the other DVDs, I'm guessing they're beyond my reach now—either in Neil's hands already, or safely stashed somewhere I'll never find them.

"Come join us, Felix," Isabelle says, patting the seat on her other side. I glance from her over to Isaac, and he gives me a ready smile.

There's something different in it though—something more cautious, more guarded than I've seen before. Maybe Belle didn't tell Dylan what I'd said last night, but it looks like she confided in Isaac, and that she passed on Dylan's lies about me as well.

I was ready to lose either my heart or my soul.

Leave it to Dylan to demand both.

"Sorry," I say, speaking past a sudden obstruction in my throat. "I just came down for some water. I'm still not feeling well."

Retreating to the kitchen, I pour myself a glass from the tap and drink it down, struggling not to choke on the mix of hate and sadness congealing in my chest.

Dylan wants smooth sailing.

Maybe I'll go down with the ship, but it's time to make some waves.