Here's where it gets dark and twisty, yall.

CONTENT WARNING: mentions of child pornography, statutory rape. Nothing graphic, no specific details, no vivid flashbacks, but proceed with caution.

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CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER SEVEN: SURRENDER THE TRUTH

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Friday evening, 11:52 P.M.

The last few hours had been full of snacks, their favorite TV shows, and light-hearted conversation. In the spirit of keeping her concussed partner awake and lucid as much as possible, Ingrid brewed coffee for Fillmore and switched to green tea for herself.

They were currently lounging on her bed watching Fillmore's favorite episode of Rick and Morty. He cackled at whatever inappropriate joke Rick made, but Ingrid wasn't paying attention. She detested the show, but she wasn't the one who needed to stay awake, so she let him watch in peace. Pen in one hand and mug in the other, she opted to curl up in her black faux fur blanket and focus on her book of word puzzles.

Well, focus wasn't the correct word. She couldn't focus and hadonly completed three puzzles in the last thirty minutes. On a good day, she could finish four times that amount in that period of time. On a bad day, maybe half of that number. What kind of day did that make today?

The worst, she lamented with a gulp. She rapidly clicked the pen open and closed as she tried desperately to keep her emotions from resurfacing. Three hours ago, she was practically begging the universe to bring her partner back to her side, and the universe had obliged. But now a part of her wished she was alone so she could release all the anguish churning inside of her.

"So, are we just not gonna talk about today?" Fillmore asked abruptly, breaking her fickle concentration.

She stopped clicking her pen and gulped. "I'd rather not, actually," she answered, her stomach somersaulting. She didn't take her eyes off her puzzle, even as the letters started blurring together.

"Why not?" he pressed, muting the TV and turning to look at her.

Ingrid let her eyelids fall shut with a sigh. She really didn't want to have this conversation. "It's late, Fillmore."

"I've got all night, remember?" He threw his hands up. "Doctor's orders."

She shook her head and glared at the wall in front of them. When Cornelius Fillmore set his mind something, he was like a dog with a bone. And for whatever reason, he was determined to have this conversation. He's not gonna let it go, Third, she thought to herself. She bit back a yawn, suddenly feeling too tired to push back. Might as well humor him. "Okay, fine," she said, dread coursing through her. She flipped the puzzle book shut and set it on her nightstand. "Talk."

"You first."

"You started it," she argued, shooting him a tired glare. "You talk first."

He shook his head. "I want you to start."

"Why?"

He nodded at the puzzle book. "You've been staring at the same page for, like, ten minutes. Something's obviously on your mind."

She scoffed, reverting her gaze back to the wall. "For the 'world's greatest detective', it certainly shouldn't be rocket science," she answered, words dripping with sarcasm. "You should surrender the title."

He rolled his eyes. She always tried to scare him off with insults when he brought up a hard subject. She was more predictable than she'd care to admit, but he wouldn't be deterred. "You've been quiet," he continued, "even before what went down in the shed."

"It was a rough case, Fillmore," she offered with an indifferent shrug. She stirred her tea with her spoon and watched the loose leaves swirl. "I don't know what else you want me to say."

Fillmore decided to cut to the chase. "What was it about Eden's disclosure that set you off?"

Ingrid froze, her stirring (and her heart) coming to an abrupt halt. Just the topic – and the prying question – she was hoping to avoid. She gazed deep into her drink, searching for an answer in the loose tea leaves.

She could lie to him. You should lie to him, she thought. At least, the part of her that wanted to keep it all buried did. It was a secret she'd harbored for a long time, and for that very reason – a long time had passed. And it wasn't exactly good down-time conversation; not unless she wanted to bring the conversation down. Oh, that sounds like fun. Kinda like that time my old boyfriend took naked pictures of me and sent them to his friends for street cred. Good times.

Her family never talked about it. Once her father found out, he shipped her off to Nepal while he coordinated the family's next move. She didn't talk about it much to the guidance counselor at her new school either. More like couldn't. It was still too fresh, too overwhelming to wrap her young, genius mind around.

So, she just… never did.

"Ingrid?" Fillmore's soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked over at him, eyes wide and glassy. He'd turned to face her, one arm resting across the headboard behind her. "What was it?" he asked again, less demanding this time.

Ingrid eyed him up and down, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. "I just…" she started, but her heart clogged up her throat. She sank farther back into her pillows, trying to gulp it back down. She swallowed again but her sore throat continued to tighten.

Fillmore watched his best friend struggle to open up with sympathetic eyes. Much like Eden's story, he knew that there was more to Ingrid's than met the eye. It pained him that she wouldn't let him in, even after all this time. She hardly ever talked about her past, save for the key points – her mother leaving, all the moves, her juvenile record. But she never went into great detail. Anytime he could pry information out of her, she always kept it brief. After all these years, he knew it wasn't personal. Her need for privacy was one of the many things that made Ingrid, Ingrid.

But he wanted her to trust him unconditionally. With everything. All the little details she kept hidden from everyone else. He wanted her to have a safe place to lay her armor down, and he wanted to be that place. That person.

"You know you can tell me anything, mama," he murmured, hoping it would be the reassurance she needed to let whatever it was go.

Ingrid's composure melted in the form of fresh tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away just in time for a lone tear to trickle down her bruised cheek, just out of his view. She should lie… but she didn't want to. She didn't need to, not to Fillmore.

She needed to surrender the truth.

"I just—" Her voice caught. She cleared her throat for the umpteenth time, angrily swiping at the tears on her cheek with her free hand. "I know how she feels, is all," she blurted before the tears could take over.

Fillmore's eyes scrunched together. "How so?"

She shook her head and bit down hard on her tongue, resisting the urge to snap at him, Do I really need to spell it out for you, World's Greatest Detective? He didn't know. How could he know? Just tell him, Third. Just tell him.

"I had this, um…" she pondered her next words carefully. She lifted her free hand in air quotes, "'boyfriend', I guess, just before I came to X Middle. I was twelve. He was… sixteen."

Fillmore's eyebrows shot up. "Sixteen?"

Ingrid sighed. This sounds awful out loud, she lamented as a fierce blush burned her cheeks. "Yeah, I was in a really bad place after my mom left and I had…" she cringed before continuing, "developed early. So, I liked to try and pass as older than I was, and I was really good at it." The tale was pouring out of her now, her bottom lip was actively trembling.

Fillmore was flabbergasted. The only boyfriend he knew about was the Mathlete their freshman year. The relationship lasted only two weeks. (Apparently, it only took that long for her to discover he was very, very gay – something even he hadn't realized yet.) Needless to say, they parted ways amicably. In fact, they still talked. Hearing that there was someone before Artie… it rocked him. "Did Ariella know?" Fillmore dumbly asked. "Your dad?"

"Oh, of course not. Are you kidding?" she answered with a rapid shake of her head. She'd gripped the mug tightly in her hands which were starting to shake. "They had no clue."

"What the hell happened?" he asked incredulously.

She set the ceramic mug on top of her puzzle book, then pulled the sleeves of Fillmore's jacket over her shaking hands as she debated on how to answer. Oh, god, it's going to disgust him, she thought as she cracked her knuckles.

"I… thought we were in love," she told him, staring down at her lap. "And we… well…" she trailed off.

Fillmore filled in the blanks. "You slept together."

Ingrid's eyes fluttered closed in shame, her stomach churning, but she nodded. "A lot." Fillmore swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his head. But, wait, there's more, the voice in her head said. She sank further into her pillows. "And every time we'd finish he would… take pictures of me. Said I was his 'muse'. What he didn't say was that—" she gulped, "—I was his friends' muses, too."

Fillmore's jaw hit the floor. "He sent them to his friends? You're shitting me."

Ingrid chuckled, wiping the moisture from her blushing cheeks. "I wish," she croaked.

"And he didn't know your real age?"

She shrugged, still staring down at her lap. "He suspected. But he didn't know until after someone sent the pictures to my father, who got the cops involved."

Fillmore's head spun. It was a lot to take in. It all made sense though; how still she'd been during Eden's disclosure, how attentive. How quiet she'd been afterwards. "Please tell me they arrested the guy." Ingrid shook her head, her chapped lips forming a straight line. If it had been possible, Fillmore's jaw would've fallen further. "What?"

She fidgeted in place, the physical discomfort too much to bear. Ingrid decided it would be best to finish quickly, get it over with. She rambled on: "He was a year shy meeting the stat-rape requirements, so the ADA couldn't charge him. My dad fought to at least get him on a child porn charge, but nothing stuck. So, he packed me up and shipped me off to Nepal while he and Ariella packed up the house to move. Again." She paused to take a breath, and when Fillmore remained silent, she continued. "It worked out for the best, anyway. I didn't want him in jail, I mean, the sex was consensual."

"No, it wasn't," Fillmore interrupted with a firm shake of his head.

She scoffed and crossed her arms, keeping her gaze fixed on the wall across from her. "You sound like my father."

"Well, he's right." Fillmore crossed his legs and let his hands fall into his lap. "That guy took advantage of you."

Ingrid shook her head. "He loved me."

"No, he didn't," Fillmore argued carefully. Ingrid shut her eyes tight, fresh tears cascading freely down her face. "And I think, deep down, you know that."

She gulped down a sob. As always, he was right. Ingrid did know that. She spent the following four years trying to convince herself (and everyone else) otherwise and burying it in the back of her mind when she couldn't. She knew what he did was wrong.

She knew what she did was wrong.

Ingrid cleared her throat, which had gone bone-dry, and abruptly stood up. "Yeah, so, it just—with my photographic memory, it brought up a lot, you know?" she explained, pulling the hem of his jacket down over her butt and straightening her leggings. "And it obviously didn't help getting stripped in front of four different guys. But it's not like I was fully naked, so, not a big deal. I've dealt with worse."

Fillmore reached for her hand. "Ingrid—"

She pulled it out of reach, snatched her mug, and beelined for the door. "More coffee?" she asked, rushing out before he could answer.

By the time Ingrid had descended the stairs, she was failing to fight the sobs scouring her throat. Telling Fillmore was a mistake. He'd never see her the same again, never be able to look at her without knowing. She dropped the mug on the counter with a clatter. Now he saw her as she saw herself: used up, disgusting. Dirty.

Images of the texts on Eden's phone passed through her mind. fuck u whore, dont take n00ds if u dont want us to see em. Ingrid's stomach lurched, and a hand flew over her mouth. 10/10 would gangbang. dont be a fkn rat, or youll really be srry.

Nathan's threats echoed in her head. I know a few guys who'd love to get their hands on a pretty belt in undress. Ingrid shuddered, a strangled cry escaping between her fingers.

Shawn's face flashed before her eyes. Don't cry, babydoll. Just relax, and this won't hurt.

She gagged and rushed over to the sink.

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Don't worry: all the hurt/comfort goodness you've been waiting for is coming next.

'til next time,

ellameno