Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

96. When The Truth Is Optional

CHAPTER 96

WHEN THE TRUTH IS OPTIONAL

MARGAUX

LATER IN THE DAY

“ W ho are you talking to?” Timmy asks, his tone sharp and accusatory, his voice tinged with an anger that seems to grow louder with every ignored question. When I don’t answer, he huffs and sneers, “You’re raking for Sandoval.”

I blink. What does that even mean?

He’s clearly spiraling, each barbed comment more ludicrous than the last.

He’s become strangely obsessed with the whole Scandoval situation, despite claiming to hate reality TV. The irony isn’t lost on me, but I can’t muster the energy to react. Instead, I remain silent, hoping he’ll tire himself out.

But Timmy isn’t one to be ignored.

“The person who raped you… you deserved it,” he spits.

The air leaves my lungs. There was a time when this type of hate-fueled comment would have led to tears—and it still hurts, for sure—but I say nothing, because what’s the point?

“You’re ugly,” he adds, his words slicing through the room like a serrated knife.

I message Alice and let her know he’s acting even more erratic and cruel than what has become normal.

Alice:

You have to make arrangements to separate yourself from him.

He’s losing control of you and is spiraling.

I curl up in bed, my exhaustion outweighing my fear. Timmy’s venomous words reverberate in my head as I drift into a restless sleep.

I wake to Timmy stumbling into the apartment, his voice booming.

“I’m going to destroy your life, you stupid cunt!” he screams, his face twisted with rage. Before I can react, he spits on me. Warm saliva splashes onto my face and arm.

If I wanted to be in a splash zone, I’d go to Sea World.

I wipe it off with the edge of my blanket, refusing to engage. Somehow, miraculously, I fall asleep again.

But peace is fleeting.

I’m jarred awake by the sound of his slurred voice on the phone. “Yeah, she’s acting crazy. She’s attacking me,” he says, his tone deliberately calm, his words dripping with malice.

Me:

He’s lost his mind. I was lying here asleep, and he called the cops on me.

Alice:

You HAVE to start making your own reports.

Otherwise, all they have are HIS statements.

The door swishes and beeps. Timmy has gone again.

Good riddance.

About fifteen minutes later, there’s a loud knock on the door. “Police,” a deep voice announces.

Clad in only a sports bra and shorts, I answer the door, groggy and disoriented. I yawn as the officers greet me.

“Listen, we got a complaint,” one officer says.

“I know,” I reply with a sigh. “I heard him on the phone. I was sleeping, his call woke me up, and none of what he said was true.”

“Why does he have scratches on him?” the same officer asks, smirking.

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “He bashes himself up against the reef shelf and stuff, and runs around wearing only board shorts, as you can see. He’s always got scratches and cuts.”

The officer glances at my hands. “You don’t even have long fingernails,” he observes.

“This guy is always drunk,” another officer says, shaking his head. “You need to leave him.”

I nod, though the weight of their advice crushes me. I know he’s right. Everyone is right. But leaving feels insurmountable.

“We’ll go talk to him and then we’ll be back.”

I nod, thank them, and shut the door.

Me:

I feel dumb.

Alice:

You aren’t dumb. You were duped.

I sigh.

Me:

Yeah. How dare I believe someone would care for me so much? Ugh.

Alice:

That isn’t foolish.

I text my lawyer, not expecting a response at this hour. But I have a feeling I might need to lawyer up soon.

Me:

He’s so manipulative, and when you said he would try to get me to go to jail over and over again, it was too bizarre to believe. But you were right.

Alice:

It's so unfortunate that it's a pattern in these guys.

They run so far from their own consequences that when they catch them, their only alternative is to throw someone else to the wolves.

Timmy is outside, his screams audible through the walls. “I want her put in jail!” he yells, his voice escalating into a hysterical pitch. “For all she’s done to me! She attacked me! There need to be consequences! She needs to go to jail!”

I retreat to my phone, seeking solace in my messages with Alice.

Alice:

Just keep ignoring him.

The police are watching this all unfold.

Me:

I’m going to drink water in case they take me away for sleeping.

“She needs to go to jail!” he shrieks, still just outside the apartment. “Take her away!”

There’s another knock on the door, and some of the officers are back, the rest still with Timmy.

One of them glances in Timmy’s direction, then back to me, and rolls his eyes. “He’s over there pulling his hair and saying ‘Look, she’s pulling my hair’,” he smirks and shakes his head.

At least they aren’t falling for his lies.

Alice:

I’m sorry that this all had to happen this way.

As if on cue, I receive a message from an anonymous number:

Anonymous:

Timmy’s not a good person.

He’ll never change. Because he doesn’t want to.

He feels guilty when he fucks up. But only because he gets caught.

If he doesn’t think you’re giving him an opportunity to change—to see the best in him—because you’re over it, as you should be, he’ll lash out.

He’s been homeless intermittently.

Definitely a couch crasher.

He’s smashed car windows and slashed tires and thrown people’s car keys.

He drove an entire car into the ocean.

He’s been to jail way more times than most people have.

He’s missed countless court dates and has outstanding warrants in Montana.

He’s gotten fired from many, many jobs.

Kicked out of friends’ houses.

He’s had physical altercations with his brother and countless other people.

He’s had several restraining orders against him from girlfriends, including one involving children.

He cares for no-one but himself. And he doesn’t do that very well.

You don’t know me, Margaux.

But you HAVE to get out of this.

The words blur as I read them, my vision swimming. It feels like a cruel confirmation of everything I already know, but up until now have refused to face.

I glance at Timmy through the window. He’s pacing, gesticulating wildly, his face red and contorted.

Alice’s text flashes on my screen.

Alice:

This is your sign. You have to leave. You can’t wait anymore.

Tears spill down my cheeks as I clutch my phone.

I know she’s right.