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

once more to cold and unfeeling. He wipes the snot from his face and sits up straight.

“I made her suffer the way I suffered for so many years, and then I choked her,” he says. “I choked her so hard, I broke her neck.”

I hit pause. Just as I do, Beaux’s lips lift into a grin. He stares back at me and I wonder, if Kat hadn’t called the cops, would he have killed me too? Choked me to death?

I lift my hand to my throat and work hard to keep the memories from taking over. I haven’t got much time left, and there’s still so much I need to know.

I click out of the video file back to the main folder. I find a list of membership dues, expenses, even club locations, but no photo evidence of any wrongdoings. Of course, an organization that operates with the use of blackmail would ensure none was available to be used against them.

Just as I think I’ve found all I’m going to find, a folder catches my eye. It’s separate from the Club Gent files. It’s a personal file of my father’s saved on the same jump drive, and it’s labeled B.T.

A lump forms in my throat at the sight. Please don’t tell me . . .

Inside the folder are years’ worth of communication logs between Beaux and my dad, starting before Beaux and I even met. Apparently, they first met when my dad got into some legal trouble back in 2016. Beaux had only been practicing for a couple years at this time and . . .

“What?” I ask aloud.

Beaux bribed a girl to drop a sexual assault suit against my father and his company. In addition to being the Mayor of Presley, my father is also the co-owner of a rather large drilling company. Since the oil and gas industry has brought millions to the pockets of rural Louisiana citizens, it makes sense why he hired Beaux’s firm to make the case disappear. They’re known for being the corporate elite’s go-to. Not to mention, my father had to have been aware of Beaux’s connection to the brotherhood. I bet it was in their best interest just as much as my father’s that this case never saw the light of day. But Beaux didn’t just make the case disappear. When the bribe didn’t work, he made the girl disappear.

My father has a copy of the police report. Her mother reported her missing when she didn’t show up to Sunday lunch that weekend. A news article written several weeks later details the findings, in so many words, of a young, brunette girl found at the docks in New Orleans. The article claims she drowned, which may or may not be true. Regardless of the cause of death, Beaux committed the act.

The records don’t indicate that my father requested this of his attorneys, but indicate Beaux acted alone. It was one of his first big cases, and it put his name on the map among his firm’s sleazy clientele. He’s made a career off that one case, one murder, probably his payment for completing the heinous crime.

At that, I close out of the files and shut down my computer. Darkness surrounds me, both physically and figuratively.

My father knew of Beaux’s involvement with Club Gent and the sex crimes he committed when we started dating. He knew about the abuse Beaux suffered as a child. He knew about him torturing and murdering his mother. He knew about the murder he committed with no provocation at all, just to save a stranger’s hide. And he did nothing but encourage us and celebrate us when we got engaged. He gave me no warning. He had no concern for my safety. All the while I had no clue who I was dating, sleeping with, planning to spend the rest of my life with.

None of this makes sense. What kind of father allows his daughter to marry a murderer, a rapist? He didn’t need the insurance. He already had enough blackmail on Beaux to keep him quiet about anything he may have known about him. Not to mention, attorney-client privilege and the fact that Beaux had more to lose than him.

Why would my father let me walk right into the arms of the man destined to ruin my life?

There’s a knock at my door. I hide the jump drive beneath the skirt of my dress.

“Who is it?” I call.

“It’s Eva. Can I come in?” my sister asks.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. I thought she’d already gone to bed.

Eva opens the door and flips on the light switch. My eyes take a second to adjust to the bright lights.

“Why are you sitting in the dark? You still haven’t showered?” she asks.

“Ugh, no, not yet. I just—I love this dress and I was um . . . Face Timing Kat,” I lie.

“Oh, okay,” Eva says. She’s wearing pajama shorts and an old high-school t-shirt.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. Her smile soon falters. “I’m not sure.”

“Cookies or cake?”

“Huh?” she asks.

“Cookies or cake?”

* * *

After showering, I meet Eva downstairs in the family room, where she has cookies and milk set up for both of us.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she tells me.

“Why is that?” I ask, taking a bite of my cookie.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you,” she barks. My eyebrows rise in response. “Sorry,” she says. “I just . . . I think I’m getting cold feet, for lack of a better phrase.”

I nod and set my snack to the side. This deserves my full attention.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, why do you think that may be? Are you nervous about the ceremony? Or is it something deeper, like nervous to be someone’s wife?” I ask.

“I’m not nervous about the ceremony,” she tells me. “It’ll be beautiful, and I love my dress. It’s just . . . I think about you and Beaux and you two were together nearly three years before deciding to part ways,” she says. “I don’t know, sometimes I think maybe we’re moving too fast. I worry that