The Truth About Unspeakable Things Emily Myers (love story books to read TXT) 📖

“Well, maybe he won’t be released.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mason says. “I barely know you and yet I know you’re not that naïve.”

He’s not wrong. I know how difficult it is to prove a rape occurred, especially when there’s no DNA evidence. And because of the time that’s passed between the occurrence and now, there won’t be. Of course, a good attorney could get Beaux on any number of other charges—extortion, bribery, sexual harassment, serving alcohol to a minor in the case of Marissa and I’m sure countless others. But the thing is Beaux is a good attorney with a stellar reputation among the New Orleans elite. Even with the video evidence from Club Gent, under the right circumstances, this case goes nowhere. I’ll be dubbed an unreliable source due to my history with Beaux and the whole thing could be thrown out. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.

“So, what are you saying?” I ask Mason. “Are you saying I don’t try? I sit on my evidence and the stomach-twisting testimonies of women who he’s abused and wait for him to have some emotional epiphany?”

“No,” Mason says. “In fact, I’m . . . I’m not telling you to do anything. But I just thought you should know, when given the chance to change, when shown true empathy, even the most vile and cruel can change for the better. I should know,” he admits.

Mason fidgets in place as he considers what to say next. I grow tense beside him. The music plays loudly in the background. I begin to sweat at the thought of no one being able to hear my screams.

“Um,” I start, standing.

“When I was eighteen and Julian was sixteen, our mom was diagnosed with breast cancer,” he tells me then. He stares straight ahead as he speaks and I find myself sitting down, once more, next to him.

“She beat it, but she had to fight it for several years before reaching remission,” Mason says. “During that time, my dad’s worst qualities of impatience, dominance, and pride came to light. He started cheating on my mom, even going as far as to bring the women into their bedroom. My mom had her own hospital-grade room in a different wing of our home,” he explains.

“Julian and I saw what he was doing, and it affected us both in two completely different ways,” Mason says. “Julian was angry at my father, rightfully so. He threatened to tell my mom just to get my dad to stop,” Mason pauses then, clearing his throat. “But, ultimately, he didn’t because I begged him not to. It would’ve only hurt my mom, our mom, and who knows how it would’ve affected her recovery,” Mason explains. I nod.

Mason’s story of his father’s infidelity brings me back to the night Julian cooked me dinner. We talked about his family, briefly, but enough to get an idea of Julian’s relationship with his parents. He said he was sure his father went to Hell but didn’t elaborate. It was clearly a sore subject for him, and I can see why. The weight he carried all those years must’ve been unbearable.

“Instead he pulled away from most people, especially girls, and he threw himself into his music. It was his way of escape, of dealing with the surrounding horror,” Mason continues. “I took a different approach,” he admits. His eyes shift in my direction as if considering whether he should continue.

“It’s okay. You can continue,” I say, though I’m afraid of what he may say.

“I started . . .” he begins. “I started viewing women as the problem. I—I blamed them instead of my dad for tearing my family apart. Even though my mom didn’t know what was happening, Julian and I felt the divide forming between the four of us. And it was easier to blame them than my father, because, deep down, I—I wanted things to go back to normal. I wanted my mom to recover and my dad to be the doting husband he once was,” Mason explains. “So, I . . .” he hesitates. “I hunted them down.”

“The women?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I hunted them, and I made them never want to come back nor think the name John Cole ever again.” His face turns red as he speaks. His fists clench.

“And . . . and how did you do that?” I ask, though I already know.

He’s quiet at first. He closes his eyes as if to keep from crying. When he opens them again, they’re bloodshot red.

“I raped them,” he admits.

My blood runs cold, but I don’t move. I knew this much. I just had to hear him say it.

“And it worked,” he says. “They never came back. But, uh, turns out they weren’t the problem,” he tells me. “Even after my mom recovered, my dad never stopped cheating. By the time I realized I was punishing the wrong person, it was too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” My eyes move to the kitchen knife sitting just a few feet away. Please God, don’t let him say—

“By the time I realized I was punishing the wrong person, I couldn’t stop. I was infected with this disease that fed on pain. The more pain I felt, the more I sought out a release—or revenge, rather. And through my involvement with the Gents, I only became an ever more dangerous predator,” Mason admits.

“Why? Why are you telling me all this?” I ask. Blood rushes to my head as if to tell me to get the hell out, now. I don’t listen.

“It’s like I said before,” Mason says, looking at me. “Trauma affects people in different ways, and even the most cruel and vile, when shown empathy, can work toward redemption,” he says. “I haven’t been involved with the Gents in well over two years now. I unofficially resigned the second my parents died. I say unofficially, because official resignation isn’t allowed. And I—I haven’t hurt nor thought about hurting another woman since,” he tells me. “I have spent a small fortune on therapy and