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

“Preferably not where my brother might see. Unless, of course, you’re ready to bring him in on this?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s bad enough you know.” After another moment’s thought, I cave. I can’t very well leave him stranded on the front porch for one of the nosy neighbors to see. Beaux has many ways of gathering his information.

“Fine,” I say. “But you have to stay quiet. My roommate, she . . . she doesn’t know about all this or that Julian and I broke up,” I explain.

Mason’s eyebrows shoot up in curiosity, much like Julian’s.

“As a mouse,” he whispers, lifting his finger to his lips. I roll my eyes and drag him inside. Grey runs from the living room to the dining room at the sight of him. She always was a smart one.

Mason moves quietly through the house, and just as Kat opens her bedroom door, Mason makes it through mine.

“Who was it?” she asks.

“Uh . . . Jehovah’s Witness,” I tell her. “Anyway, I’ve got to pack, but do you want to do Chinese for supper?” I ask, moving into my room.

“Um, of course,” Kat says, as if I need ask.

“Great! I’ll place the order,” I tell her, closing the door before she can respond.

“Thanks!”

I close my eyes and exhale as I lean against my bedroom door. I hear Kat pour herself a glass of wine in the kitchen and then retreat to her editing. If I’m lucky, then that and visions of Chinese food will occupy her for the next hour while I check myself into a mental hospital for allowing Mason, the rapist, into my bedroom.

Opening my eyes, Mason watches me from the edge of my bed. I’m instantly nauseous.

I ignore him and move to grab my phone from atop my dresser. I find my most recent playlist, click play, and turn the volume up. Regardless of my needing to tell Kat about my plan, it can’t be like this. Once I’m sure she can’t hear us, I turn back to Mason.

“Nope,” I tell him. “Up. I don’t allow rapists into my bed,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Wow,” he says, standing. “First you hold me at knifepoint, then you force me into your bedroom, and now I’m a rapist who’s refused the right to sit?”

“Mason,” I say, exhausted. “Whatever this is, I really don’t have time for—”

“For the truth about your ex-fiancé’s past?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, less than impressed. It’s then that I notice the yellow folder he holds in his hand. It’s labeled B. Thomas with the name Mathis in parentheses. “What is that?” I ask, nodding toward the folder.

“Something I thought you should see. Something I think you’re going to want to sit down for.”

I bite my lip and reluctantly allow Mason to sit across from me as he shows me what he’s found.

“Beauregard Thomas, then Beauregard Mathis, was ten years old when he was taken into Child Protective Custody on the grounds of abuse and neglect,” Mason says.

Mason gives me the folder and what’s inside breaks my heart. Beaux was abused by his father between the ages of eight and ten. There’s court testimony in which his birth mother, Helena, admits that Beaux told her about the abuse and asked her to make it stop. Instead, she did nothing but drink. She didn’t abuse her son, but she did nothing to stop the abuse he was already suffering.

There are photos of the house they lived in. It wasn’t much bigger than my place now and just as old. There are beer bottles everywhere and rat traps on the kitchen floor. The furniture is covered with stains of God only knows what. Maybe this is why Beaux never liked coming over here. Our house is in no way in this condition, but it is small and old. He always complained about it and labeled it as such. Maybe it triggered something in him.

I shake my head, angry at the sympathy I feel for him.

Mason has photocopies of pictures Beaux drew in a therapist’s office once he’d been adopted. He draws himself sleeping. He always colors himself in the color blue. A man drawn in red crayon watches him sleep. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out what he was trying to say.

“I uh, I can’t look at this anymore,” I say, through tear-filled eyes. I hand the papers back to Mason.

“I—I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mason says.

“Then what did you mean?” I ask, turning to look at him.

“I just . . .” Mason exhales. He stands and walks toward the fireplace. Without facing me he says, “I wanted you to know why, why he hurts people, why he hurt you.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. He knows? About . . . about me?

“What? What are you talking about?” I ask for what seems like the millionth time. I pray he’s wrong. I pray he doesn’t say—

“I needed to know why he was a threat to my brother,” Mason says, turning to face me. “Obviously, Julian is at risk because of his connection to you. But what is your connection to Beauregard?” Mason asks. He drops his eyes to the floor and moves to sit beside me. “There’s no record of it,” Mason says. “No physical proof of any sort, not even a hospital admittance. But I know what he did,” he assures me. “The same thing he did to all the others.”

My cheeks turn red and I suddenly feel small in his presence. I haven’t even told Julian about this. I can’t have his brother know, his brother who . . .

“Well, if you know,” I say, slowly. I refuse to look at him. “Then you know none of this information excuses what he’s done.”

“I know,” Mason says, nodding. “But what if he could stop hurting people? What if he could be better? I mean, isn’t that the point of everything you’re doing?” he asks me. “Just because someone goes to jail, doesn’t mean they won’t go right back to