The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

“No,” I say, pushing past him.

“I said, look at me,” Beaux yells.

He grabs me by my arm and pulls me back to him. With one arm, he controls me. My hair begins to fall around my face. My dress wraps around my ankles. I’m his to toy with and he knows it.

“No!” I scream, closing my eyes as I do. I brace myself for the sharp crack of his hand while praying, desperately, for someone to hear my cries.

Beaux’s sharp blow doesn’t come. Instead, I open my eyes just in time to see him smile. And with him he takes any sense of strength I thought I had. Because the smile of a psychotic animal such as he is more frightening than his bite.

Beaux pushes me backward, forcing my body against the rough bark of a nearby oak tree. I turn and scan the dimly lit street for passersby, anyone who may help me. There’s no one, no one sober, at least. And the ancient, draped branches of the hundred-year-old tree only aid him in his assault.

Beaux laughs as he presses his body against mine. I throw my fists against his chest in an effort to fight him off. It’s no use. Just as I fill my lungs with enough air to scream, he covers my mouth with his palm and presses me harder against the prickly bark. It scrapes my skin and tears jewels from my dress.

“I never hit you, Emma,” he tells me, pulling my face toward him. “I never touched you in ways you didn’t want to be touched,” he says as he moves his free hand down my body. I wriggle underneath his touch, but he only squeezes my jaw tighter. I yelp in pain.

“I never made you do things against your will,” he says, leaning into me. His breath is hot against my flesh as he brings his lips just inches from mine. “And if you ever get the slightest inkling that I did, well,” he whispers into my ear. “I’m sure you can imagine how angry that would make me. And when I get angry, there’s no telling what I’ll do, is there?” I don’t answer. “Is there?” he yells, pressing me harder against the tree.

“No!” I yelp. His jaw tightens. The veins in his neck throb. His cold, blue eyes shine in the New Orleans night as he revels in my fear. “No,” I say, again.

Every muscle in my body is on high-alert as I wait for Beaux’s next move. I’m trapped, both physically and mentally, and he knows it. He enjoys it.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, with a nod. He removes his free hand from my chest only to move it to my neck. I wince and shrink back against the tree even more so. My heartbeat quickens. I remember the feeling of suffocating all too vividly. He rubs his finger up and down the center of my throat as if at any moment, he may press, obstructing my airway. My legs begin to shake. My palms sweat.

“Cancel your meeting with Clarissa James,” he whispers. “Tell her nothing about me, you, or anything else.” It’s not a question or request. It’s a demand, a warning. I nod in response. I’d be stupid not to.

Beaux smiles and, to my relief, takes a step back. I am left trembling and damp with sweat and tears.

“How is the new boyfriend, or should I say neighbor?” he asks. “You know, Mr. Turnip’s sudden passing was a sure shame. I know how close you two were. Of course, he never did care for me much,” Beaux says.

I wipe my eyes as my forehead wrinkles. What is he trying to say? Why is he bringing up Mr. Turnip? My head throbs and my stomach aches in his presence. I can barely see straight. Still, I manage to ask, “What are you trying to say, Beaux?” Though I’m almost certain I don’t want the answer.

Beaux looks at me in an all-too-familiar way. And, like the Devil himself, he brings me to my knees. My palms crash into the cool dirt. The fabric of my dress pools around me as I collapse to the ground. “You didn’t,” I choke.

Beaux looks away from me, as if contemplating his next words. He did. He wouldn’t be so careful if he hadn’t.

“You never did find his checkerboard, did you?” he asks.

My blood runs cold. My stomach tightens in realization.

“You . . . you murdered him,” I whisper.

Beaux approaches me, kneeling down to my level. I straighten my back in an attempt to distance myself.

“You know, I bet if you go to your boyfriend’s house and look underneath the kitchen sink, you’ll find it,” he tells me.

My lips part and my breathing calms. For the first time in a long time, I see the real Beaux, the human Beaux. The Beaux who is so insecure and afraid of being second-best, he resorts to intimidation and false truths. He built a career on positioning himself as someone capable of anything. Perhaps we give him too much credit.

“You’re lying,” I tell him. “I was just there last night. We washed dishes. There was nothing underneath the sink but cleaning supplies,” I say, speaking quickly. “You’re . . . you’re lying.”

My lips draw into a small grin as the mighty monster loses an ounce of his power.

“Hmm,” Beaux moans. His isn’t phased by my boldness. Rather, he finds it amusing. “Well, I guess that begs the question, how did it get there? More importantly, who put it there and when?” Beaux’s lips draw into a smile, once more revealing his wickedly white teeth. At the sight of his, my smile falters.

Mr. Turnip’s body was found just days after Beaux confronted me the second time. The coroner said there were no signs of forced entry, but . . . if Beaux knew where the spare key was, there wouldn’t have been any signs. By the time the body was found, Mr. Turnip had been dead for