The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

sir,” Julian responds and like yesterday, I hear a sincerity in his voice that surprises me. “I’ll take care of her.”

Julian’s words ignite my body, and the hairs on my arms rise beneath the slippery fabric of my blouse. Why? I can’t explain.

“Yes.” Mr. Edgar nods. “I sure hope so.” And, with that, he turns on his heels and slowly makes his way toward the exit. As the door swings shut behind him, the light in a room full of darkness, and a feeling of warmth leaves with him. He was right. It was never the place that was special. It was the people. It was him. It was Mr. Turnip. It was everything my life used to be that made this city home. With each person that leaves me, the more darkness surrounds me.

“Emma. Emma?”

Julian waves his hand in front of my eyes to pull me back to reality. He stands before me—hair high and tousled, wearing dark skinny jeans and a gray t-shirt so thin I can see the contour of his abs perfectly. He looks nothing like the big businessman I thought I’d find. Yet, he is. He’s the new owner of Lucid, and I have to interview him.

I wipe the remaining wetness from my eyes on the inside of my shirt, clear my throat, and stand tall.

“Hi, I’m Emma Marshall,” I say, extending my hand. “I’ll be interviewing you today on behalf of The Hub, New Orleans. Do you mind if I record this?”

Julian’s cheeks flush, and a coy smile spreads across his lips. “Not at all,” he says, his voice slightly deeper than usual. “I’m Julian Cole, co-owner of Cole Creative, Director of A&R for the label, and now owner/manager of the infamous Lucid Records here in New Orleans. Welcome to my world,” he says, taking my hand in his.

* * *

Julian walks me through the small retail space, pointing out the areas he’d like to upgrade.

“The space is already small, and the fluorescent lights only make it appear smaller,” he explains. “I’d like to remove them, do some recessed lighting, bust out a wall and add some windows for natural light. A fresh coat of paint wouldn’t hurt either,” he mumbles to himself. “And I’m sure you’ve noticed the cleanliness isn’t really up to code, so I’ll be initiating some new policies to ensure customers have a clean and organized shopping experience,” he says, turning to face me.

He’s very professional with his hands behind his back, perfect posture, and clear speaking voice. Yet, I can’t help but feel a disconnect between the Julian I see now and the Julian I came to know yesterday. Frustrated, I pause my recorder and shove it in my back pocket.

“Something wrong, Ms. Marshall?” Julian asks, yet unlike before his face shows no sign of true concern. Rather, he’s only asking out of obligation to appease the woman interviewing him. I exhale and move past him, creating more distance between us.

“No,” I finally say. “It’s just, I was wrong to think you’d be different. So was Mr. Edgar,” I say with a nod. “I think I’ve got enough. Thank you for your ti—”

“Emma, wait,” Julian says, blocking the exit. He exhales and shakes his head before moving his eyes to mine.

“So, it’s Emma now?” I ask. “No more ‘Ms. Marshall’?” I taunt, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You started it,” he says, his voice low. I bite my lip. “Look, I like Emma. I can talk to Emma. But Ms. Marshall?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Well, she brings out Mr. Cole, and Mr. Cole isn’t exactly someone I like being. I mean, why do you think I volunteered to leave LA for some renovation mission any number of people could’ve handled?”

As he speaks, his mind drifts. His eyes glass over as he remembers back. The plumpness of life leaves his cheeks hollow.

“Well, why don’t you tell me?” I ask. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me what you love about this place, not just the things you want to change,” I tell him, eyebrow raised.

Julian nods and meets my gaze with a smile. And just like that, the cold, matter-of-fact Mr. Cole is gone, and back is the soulful, compassionate violin player who just might have what it takes to run this place with honor.

“Well, the place has good bones, and the location is great,” he tells me. “Paired with the musical history of New Orleans, the property is a unique asset for our record label. And even though it could use a few upgrades, I love the soul of this place.”

His words catch my interest.

“Lucid has been the primary record shop in New Orleans for over one hundred years and, what many people may not know is that, in the twenties, it was home to a hidden speakeasy,” Julian continues.

“What?” I ask, choking on dust. “I mean, I guess it’s possible,” I breathe, fanning the air in front of me. “But how would I not know that?”

“Well, it’s not public record, nor common knowledge,” Julian says, leaning against the checkout bar. “The family didn’t include it in their records for fear of evidence that could be used against them. Mr. Edgar only recently discovered the hidden space when he had it inspected for listing.”

I nod. “So . . . where is it?” I ask, looking around.

“Follow me,” Julian says.

Julian leads me behind the checkout bar, down the hall toward the bathrooms. The lights above us flicker and, for some reason, the corridor feels smaller than when I worked here. Maybe it’s just my proximity to Julian that makes it feel like the walls are closing in, pushing us closer together.

We reach the bathrooms, but instead of entering, Julian flips a light switch, which works as a doorknob to a secret staircase.

“Woah.”

The wall separating the men’s and women’s restrooms shifts, and Julian pulls it open to reveal a staircase leading to straight darkness. “Are we . . . going down there?” I ask, half-wishing he says no.

“Of course we are. But you’ll