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

tousled mop. And he doesn’t have a tattoo on him, at least any visible ones, which is a stark contrast to his artsy younger brother. He’s the more clean-cut of the two and from the tone of his voice, I’d say the more arrogant and narcissistic.

“Well, I’m not sure what kind of family reunion you expect based on how we left things,” Julian says.

I feel uncomfortable listening in on Julian’s conversation with his brother considering how hesitant he was to speak about Mason the other night.

“I never wanted it to come to this, Jules,” Mason says. “I—I know I said some things that hurt you. I know I shouldn’t have blamed you for what happened to . . .” Mason pauses. Clearly, both brothers are hesitant to fully express their feelings on why they are now estranged. “But I never wanted you to leave LA. I never wanted you to feel like I didn’t want to be your brother anymore,” Mason explains. “And now, you’re here, over halfway across the country, and with articles like this . . .”

I hear a shuffling of papers and cringe as I imagine Mason holding up my Hub article.

“New Orleans’s adopted son,” Mason reads. “How the hell am I supposed to take this? Am I just supposed to let my little brother set up shop in the armpit of the South and say nothing?”

The hairs on my arms rise as Mason’s temper flares. New Orleans is not an armpit and Julian doesn’t need your permission to live his life.

“I don’t know how you’re supposed to take it, Mason,” Julian says. “But you are supposed to take it.”

I hear Julian exhale, and the sounds of footsteps let me know they are moving to the sofa. I inch closer to Julian’s bedroom door to hear more clearly.

“Look,” Julian says. “We’re brothers and we always will be. But just because we’re all each other has, doesn’t mean our lives are meant to be parallel to one another. I . . . I like it here, in this armpit as you call it. And you are thriving in LA. You’re great at what you do, as am I. But what we do is different. Who we surround ourselves with are different types of people. And the truth is, LA hasn’t felt like home to me since we lost Mom and Dad,” Julian admits.

I bite my lip and close my eyes. I wish I could run to Julian and hug him and hold him. I want to be there for him like he’s been there for me so many times before. But, I can’t.

“And what happened between us, the things you said,” Julian begins. “It just made me realize more than ever that I needed—I need a break from it all. Maybe even a permanent one.”

“What I said was stupid and wrong,” Mason says.

“Maybe,” Julian says. “But . . . it wasn’t completely false. I do . . . I do feel guilt over what happened.”

What? What guilt? What happened? What did Mason say?

“And it wasn’t what you said that brought it on. I’ve . . . I’ve always felt it. You calling me out on it just made it something I could no longer avoid,” Julian says.

There’s a brief silence between the brothers, one in which I’m sure to hold my breath and steady my toes. These old wood floors are known to whine under weight.

Mason is the one to break the silence. “So, why don’t you show me what this armpit is all about? I mean, clearly you’ve found something in this smelly, old, slightly dilapidated seaside town to keep you occupied and entertained.”

Julian hesitates to respond.

“Look, Jules,” Mason says. I hear him stand. “I’m not here to disrupt your perfect little world. I’d just like to understand what or who is to blame for my brother’s newfound sense of being.”

Julian smirks. I imagine his lips drawing up into a smile, much like mine are now.

“Let me show you Lucid,” Julian says then. “I’m sure after a tour, you’ll be just as excited about the possibilities of a New Orleans expansion as I am. And I’ll even take you to lunch afterwards. I know this placed called Mimi’s. They have the best chicken tacos.”

“Great,” Mason says. “And, then you’ll introduce me to the real reason for your southern fascination, right?”

“Shut up.”

I listen as Julian grabs his keys from the kitchen island and locks the front door behind him. I wait a few more moments, making sure neither one of them will return while I make my escape. Once I’m sure they aren’t coming back, I slip out of Julian’s bedroom and check the time on my phone. My time is almost up. Kat will be out of the shower soon.

I move to the kitchen sink and once more, open the cabinet beneath it. A lump forms in my throat as I pull out a rectangular shaped box wrapped in shiny, red wrapping paper. Small items rustle around inside as I lift it, small items like checkers. On the top of the box is a gold bow and a small envelope with an E written on it. It’s Beaux’s handwriting.

My skin turns to ice and my hands tremble as I open the envelope. Upon reading it, my head aches with the pressure of the truth. The note simply reads: Now you know.

My lip quivers. Tears fill my eyes, but I don’t allow them to fall. I’m too angry to cry.

The note isn’t signed, nor does it imply anything incriminating. I won’t know for sure until I peel back the wrapping paper, but I’m almost certain. Beaux killed Mr. Turnip, and there’s nothing I can do to prove it.

* * *

I spend most of the day mindlessly watching Gilmore Girls, trying to find a way of moving forward. I wrack my brain for every possibility.

Kat will be the last person Beaux goes after. If his goal is to keep what’s transpired between us a secret, the last person he’ll threaten will be the one who knows every creepy, sadistic thing he’s done—well, almost. Eva is relatively safe