Hotel room. What fresh hell could this be? That’s the thing with having a fucking secret. Everything becomes about that. Hiding, holding, waiting for it to ambush you, from the inside or the outside. That clutch of fear when you catch sight of a supermarket tabloid or see a blind item about a “notorious Hollywood partier.” The moment of panic when any one of a million celebrity bloggers swans over to you at a party. Expecting that every unexpected event will turn into the Big Reveal.
He puts the tape into the VCR, praying that it isn’t of him.