“You lied,” it’s more than an accusation; it sounds almost like a curse.
I lift my head, surprised. Yes, I did lie, but I didn’t expect him to look so, well, angry. His hair was disheveled, red of face, his clothes thrown carelessly over his shoulder—so unlike Jonah that it was one of the first things I noted—and I could see discarded items, presumable thrown, on the floor behind him.
I simply stood there. Mute, unknowing, feeling something settle and rot in my stomach.
Not much to say there—I was already out, waiting to step over the threshold.
He slams the door shut, and I hear a single dull note of an object smacking against the door.
I know what this feeling is now.
This feeling is guilt.