The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (novel24 txt) 📕

days. The timing works out, but . . . but why? But that’s the thing—there is no reason why, no reason for Beaux to react so violently, no reason for him to beat me and rape me, no reason for him to murder someone in cold blood. And yet, he did beat me. He did rape me. He has intimidated me and manipulated me. And what if, for once, he’s telling the truth? What if he did kill Mr. Turnip? What if . . . what if Julian is next? Or Kat?

Beaux stands, replaces his masque, and leaves me to my thoughts. As the New Orleans night separates us, my mind begins to clear and my heart rate begins to calm. What if he is capable of anything? What if . . .? What if this is only the beginning? He’s going to torture me for the rest of my life.

“Beaux,” I call out, against my better judgement.

“Yes, my love?” he asks, turning to face me.

I shake my head at his remark. Even now, after everything he’s done, he acts as if I’m his, as if I belong to him, as if I always will. Of course, I always was more of a possession to him than anything else.

“If you’re so worried I’ll say something, then why don’t you just kill me too?” I ask.

My heartbeat quickens as I wait for his answer. It’s not one I want, but I have to know. He’s had a million opportunities to end my life. I always assumed my survival was due to his lack of gumption. Clearly, that was naïve of me.

Beaux purses his lips and takes two steps toward me. I dig my palms into the dirt as he moves closer to me.

Finally, he says, “Because I want you to live with what you did. Besides,” he smiles, “there are other ways of keeping you quiet.”

Chapter 18

“I want you to live with what you did,” Beaux whispers against my neck. I feel his lips draw into a wicked smile against my flesh. He twists my t-shirt in his palm. His knuckles are rough against my exposed stomach. He moves his free hand to my chin, yanking my face toward him, but I refuse to look at him. He laughs then and balls his fist. I close my eyes and—

“Ah!” I wake screaming. My sleep shirt is soaked through with sweat. My eyes dart around my room in a panic. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I lie back against the comforter and allow my box fan to cool my damp skin.

“It was just a dream,” I whisper. Yet, my words don’t calm me. Because it wasn’t just a dream, none of my nightmares are. My nightmares are memories and my monster is real.

* * *

I watch from behind the living room curtains as Julian leaves for work. Grey brushes up against my leg as if she can sense my unease.

After Beaux left me at the Gala, I found Julian and convinced him I was sick and needed to go home. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. I spent the night vomiting my guts into the toilet while Kat held my hair. I didn’t go into explicit detail or tell her what I assume to be true regarding Beaux and Mr. Turnip, but I couldn’t deny the fact that Beaux was the reason I was so upset.

Kat told me that this was my second chance to speak out. I should go to the police right that instant and have them swab my neck for DNA. I told her it was no use. He was wearing gloves. In that moment, the thought occurred to me, he probably wore gloves when he . . . when he went after Mr. Turnip. And if the checkerboard really is under Julian’s sink, there will be no evidence on it, nothing to connect back to him. Defeat washed over me.

How can I continue on under the shackles of Beaux’s threats? How can I move forward with Julian if my being with him puts him in Beaux’s crosshairs? The answer is, I can’t. I can’t live without knowing the truth. If Beaux killed Mr. Turnip, then he’s one bad day away from killing someone else I care for—Julian, Kat. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past him to go after my sister in Presley, even though we barely speak.

Julian. I can’t . . . I can’t risk his safety and I can’t risk our future together by telling him the truth. And if I find the checkerboard in Julian’s house, then Beaux is already too close for comfort. He said there are other ways of keeping me quiet, and he’s right.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

But what do I lose in silence? I lose sleep. I lose progress. I lose a future where Beaux’s threats no longer exist. I lose Julian. I lose . . . myself.

I reach down and pick Grey up. She’s warm and soft as she purrs against my chest.

“How do I do it, Grey?” I ask. “How do I keep everyone safe while I take this bastard down?”

“Hey, Emma, I’m going to take a shower,” Kat calls from her room. “How about ordering in and a Gilmore marathon when I’m done?”

That’s our go-to wallow method that cures, well sort of, any issue of the heart. If I say no, I’ll be met with a hundred and one questions that I simply can’t answer. Though, perhaps Emily Gilmore will have a few lessons on how to destroy a threat.

“Okay,” I yell back.

I place Grey in her favorite spot on the couch, nestled underneath Kat’s fuzzy white blanket. She closes her eyes and drifts to sleep before I even get my flip-flops on.

I slip out of the house while Kat showers. I expect I have about twenty minutes before she notices I’m gone, and if I find what I think I will, I’ll need time to hide it in my room before she sees.

If Beaux was just in Julian’s house, that means he hasn’t yet changed the locks. And since Beaux encouraged me