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

I lean into his touch. A small smile briefly lifts my lips. “If he doesn’t kill you first,” I whisper.

“What? What are you talking about?” Julian asks.

I exhale and move to a standing position as my legs begin to fall asleep. My throat is dry and hoarse with the truth, but my mind is light as my secrets leave me. I cross the room and chug down the rest of my wine.

Chapter 30

“The night of the Creative Concepts Gala,” I start, leaning up against the sound bar. “I told you I needed to go home because I was sick. And, I guess, that was true, but it wasn’t because of the heat or something I ate,” I admit. “Beaux was there. He found me and confronted me while you went to find us some drinks.”

“What!” Julian says. “How? How the hell could that have even happened?” His face flashes red.

“Well, because I never pressed charges, there wasn’t—isn’t a restraining order. There’s nothing stopping him from coming near me, talking to me, harassing me, or . . . threatening me,” I say.

“What do you mean? What happened the night of the Gala, Emma?” Julian asks. He leans forward in his seat and clasps his hands together, perhaps to keep him from punching something.

“He um, he had found out I was planning to see an attorney, that I was planning to press charges,” I reveal. “And um, long story short, he threatened you and, in so many words, Kat, if I didn’t keep my mouth shut. He said, if I didn’t believe him and what he was capable of, I should check underneath your kitchen sink.”

Confusion washes over Julian. “My kitchen sink?” he asks, pointing to himself. I nod. “How would he even know how to get in?”

I bite my lip and drop to the stool to my left.

“Because” I say. “Your house used to belong to Mr. Turnip and . . . you never changed the locks. I know, because I—I kind of, sort of broke into your house after you went to work one day. Or, rather, I thought you’d gone to work. You almost caught me when you came back in on the phone with Mason.” Julian’s jaw drops. “Anyway, I did it, because I wanted to know if he was telling the truth, about what he’d left underneath the sink, about what he’s capable of,” I say.

“And what did you find underneath the sink?” Julian asks.

I can’t tell if he’s pissed or proud of my sneaky abilities. I twirl my empty wine glass back and forth between my palms. This part still gives me chills.

“I found the checkerboard. Mr. Turnip’s missing checkerboard,” I reveal.

Julian leans back on the couch and crosses his legs. His eyes squint as he runs through the possibilities in his head.

“But the only way he could’ve had it would be . . .” Julian starts.

“If he was there the night Mr. Turnip died,” I finish.

Realization washes over Julian and once more, he closes his eyes, lifting his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Turnip’s body was found days after the coroner suspected he died. And . . . it would make sense,” I say. “The night Beaux found out about my . . . about the pregnancy, the night he came over, was also the night they believe Mr. Turnip fell.”

Julian opens his eyes and moves to pour himself a glass of whiskey. I’ve never seen him drink hard liquor before.

“Kat and I searched the house top to bottom for that checkerboard. It was the only thing either one of us wanted to remember him by,” I say.

My cheeks ache. With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to truly process Beaux’s crime against Mr. Turnip, the fact that he killed him, the fact that he was so cruel to take the one thing he knew I’d be looking for. Maybe he had hoped I’d discover the truth, just so I could feel the pain of Mr. Turnip’s loss all over again. Well, it worked.

“There’s only one explanation for why he’d have it,” I whisper.

“He killed him,” Julian says then. His back is toward me.

“Yeah,” I say. “And . . .” I compose myself. “And he all but threatened to do the same to you, so I knew I needed to distance myself. That’s why I broke things off. That’s why I let you believe Mason and I were together. That’s why I needed you to get out of New Orleans, so that he couldn’t find you and hurt you,” I tell him.

I stand, moving to his side. He stares blankly ahead, sipping his drink.

“Julian, I—I realize this isn’t fair of me to ask, but . . .”

He turns to me then.

“I still need you to leave the city. Only, this time, I hope we can do it together,” I say.

I tell Julian about the past six weeks, about the other girls Beaux assaulted, about Club Gent, even about my father and Mason’s involvement. Despite him knowing about Mason’s crimes against the women his father cheated with, he was surprised to hear this about his brother. I quickly change the subject to my article before we get sidetracked. It will be published at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, and I hope to be far away from Beaux and this city by then.

Julian presses his back against the countertop and finishes off his stiff drink while he considers all that I’ve said. That’s it. He knows everything. And for the first time since falling in love with him, I can breathe. For the first time, there are no secrets between us. At least, I hope there isn’t.

“Emma,” Julian breathes. “I can’t leave the city with you,” he says then.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. My shoulders droop. I feel weak. I barely find it in me to nod and excuse myself to the sofa. Julian stops me as I move past him. I turn to face him. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me back to him. I bite my lip.

“Does this mean . . .does this mean we’re