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

need to use your phone for light. There’re no windows, and the electricity isn’t up to code,” he says, pulling his out.

“Okay,” I say, feigning bravery.

It’s not that I’m scared of the dark, it’s just . . . a secret room that no one knows about and probably hasn’t been inhabited in a hundred years. What if there’re rats or dead people’s bones or worse? What if Julian really is a serial killer? Sure, I meant it as a joke yesterday—well, sort of, but I never did run that background check. Damn you, Emma! If I live to see the outside of this record shop, that’s the first thing I’m doing.

Julian leads the way and the old, wooden steps creak under his weight. I grab my phone from my back pocket, thankful that I charged it overnight, and shine the light at my feet.

“Oh, God! What is that smell?” I ask, covering my nose with my free hand.

“It’s decades of mildew and water damage,” Julian says. “We’re having it cleaned as soon as we can, but because no one knew it was down here, hurricane water stood without being pumped out. We could’ve requested Mr. Edgar handle the cost before the sale was finalized, but God only knows how much it’ll be. I didn’t want him spending his retirement on this just so I could turn around and make money off it,” he explains.

My eyes shift from the steps to the back of his head. My chest tightens.

“Thank you,” I say.

Julian reaches the landing and turns to help me with the last few steps.

“For what?”

The small amount of light between us glistens against his icy green eyes so beautifully it’s hard to look away.

“I, um . . .” I miss the last step and Julian is quick to catch me. His arms are tight around my waist, as are mine around his shoulders as I hang on for dear life. My head briefly rests on his chest, and I hear his heartbeat. It quickens as the distance between us closes. I pull away before the lines of professionalism and neighbordom are crossed.

“Um, thank you,” I say, adjusting myself, “for that and, uh, for not taking Mr. Edgar to the cleaners.”

I inhale, though the horrid smell surrounding us makes me regret it.

“God, it’s terrible!” I say. Julian laughs. “I uh,” I close my eyes as the odor sears them. “I know this place is a dump,” I admit. “I mean I love it and so do the people of this city, but it does need work, and you definitely could’ve asked Mr. Edgar to take responsibility for it, or at least pay him less for the property, but um, you didn’t. And I . . . I thank you for that,” I tell him.

“Of course,” Julian says. Though his forehead crinkles as if there’s something else on his mind.

“What?” I ask, my voice muffled by my hand.

“It’s just,” Julian begins. “I’m just curious why you care so much, about this place, about Mr. Edgar?” he asks. “I mean it’s obvious you two have history and that his last remarks were just as much about you as they were this place.”

What? No. If he thinks that then that means he . . . He promised Mr. Edgar he’d take care of me. But that doesn’t make . . . “Oh, no,” I tell him, taking a step back. “I don’t think so. He was just—this place meant everything to him, and he just wanted it left in good hands,” I assure him.

Julian raises his eyebrow as if to say yeah, right, and I cave. Removing my hand from my nose, I brave the smell and—

“I used to work here,” I reveal.

“What? Really?” Julian asks.

“Yeah,” I exhale, letting my phone drop to my hip. “All throughout college, even when I interned at The Hub,” I tell him. “The guy who used to live in your house,” I begin.

“Mr. Turnip,” Julian interjects.

“Yes, um . . .” I’m pleased he remembered. “He helped me get the job. He and Mr. Edgar were good friends. And uh, they both looked out for me when—when I didn’t really have anyone else,” I admit, dropping my eyes to my feet.

“Emma—” Julian begins.

“What is that?” I ask. Big mistake. Huge. The light from my cellphone illuminates the soggy floor beneath us and the giant, and I do mean giant, rats surrounding us.

“Ah!” I scream.

I turn and race up the stairs, leaving Julian to fend for himself. I trip and crawl the last few steps to the open door.

Reaching the main level, I stand and shake my body to make sure nothing latched onto me.

“Ew, ew,” I say as I shiver.

My entire body feels wet, and the air conditioner of the main floor turns the moisture on my skin to ice.

Laughter precedes Julian as he makes his way up the creaky steps much slower than I did.

“Why are you laughing?” I yell into the darkness. “That was creepy!” I tell him as he comes into view.

“That was funny.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, then this must be hilarious,” I say as I slam the door shut, leaving him in rat-infested darkness.

“Oh, come on,” Julian pleads. “Let me make it up to you.”

I bite my lip to hold back laughter. “And how do you plan on doing that?” I ask, hands on hips.

“Let me take you to Mimi’s. You never did get your tacos,” he says. My smile falters, and I pull my arms up over my chest. Is he asking me . . .? “For the interview, of course,” he says, his voice echoing from the other side of the wall.

My stomach grumbles, and my mouth waters for chicken tacos. And even though I’d never admit this out loud, I don’t mind Julian’s company.

“Emma?”

Realizing I haven’t responded, I flip the light switch and pull open the secret door. Julian comes into view. His t-shirt and forehead are slightly damp from the moisture downstairs. Our eyes lock and I say, “For the interview.”

Chapter 9

Mimi’s is less crowded during the day than at night, and Julian and I quickly get a table overlooking the