Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

147. A Room of Truths

CHAPTER 147

A ROOM OF TRUTHS

DEX

THE NEXT DAY

I t’s time for the next phase of my plan. Margaux thinks I have an overnight work trip, but that was a white lie. I’m taking a personal day instead. Because I have other plans. Plans to make things right.

The air in the room is dense, heavy with years of pain and injustice. I lean against the doorframe, watching Phil squirm in the chair, his wrists tied firmly to the armrests. He refuses to look at the walls, his face cast downward like a scolded child.

"Look," I command, my voice a razor slicing through the silence.

He shakes his head, muttering something incoherent.

I stride forward, gripping the sides of his head and forcing it upward. His resistance is feeble. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if darkness could save him.

“I told you to look ,” I growl.

“No,” he whimpers, trying to shake his head, but I hold it in place. “No,” he says again.

“Alright then,” I say, pulling two ophthalmic speculums from my bag that I happen to have on hand. What can I say? My job is interesting. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

Phil thrashes weakly, but it’s no use. Within seconds, his eyes are pried open, wide and unable to blink.

And then he sees it.

The walls come alive with horror as he’s forced to see the toll his son has taken on the world. Every wall plastered with evidence of his son’s evil acts.

Mugshots of Timmy at every stage of his miserable adult life.

Police records detailing arrests for domestic violence, public intoxication, and terroristic threats. Criminal charges, police statements, court records, and outstanding child support notices.

Photos of women’s faces bruised and swollen, fat lips, black eyes, children with bruises.

X-rays and scans of shattered bones and fractured skulls.

Handwritten restraining orders filled with words that sting like acid: attacked me with deer antlers, attacked me with a hammer, strangled me, poured boiling water on me, threatened me with a chainsaw, threatened to blow fireworks up between my eyes, threatened to drive a truck into me.

Phil’s breath catches, but he stays still, as if not moving means none of this is real.

I step closer, my voice dripping with disdain. “They must’ve all done something to deserve it, right, Phil? Every woman. Every child. Every shattered bone and fractured skull—clearly, they earned it.”

“No,” Phil mumbles.

“Say it louder, Phil. Defend your son. Go on, tell me how he’s really a ‘nice guy.’”

His face flames with indignation. “He’s a good person! He just—he’s had a hard life!”

I laugh, a sharp, cruel sound. “A hard life ? Timmy’s life wasn’t hard—it was easy because you let him make everyone else’s life hard instead. You enabled this monster, Phil. Every time you defended him, excused him, brushed it under the rug—you made this.”

I press the remote in my hand, and the screens light up. Footage of Timmy floods the room.

“I’m going to kill you, you stupid fucking cunt!”

“I’m greasing the wheels to put you in jail.”

“I’m going to destroy your life.”

“You won’t be alive soon.”

“Sure, I make some things up when I tell dad things. But I want him on my side, so I say what I have to.”

Phil’s breathing grows shallow, and sweat beads on his brow.

“Recognize that voice?” I ask.

“I—”

“And this?” I press another button. Surveillance footage shows Timmy stumbling through the meth encampment, laughing as he flicks a lighter at someone’s tent. Another clip shows him screaming at Margaux, the veins in his neck bulging as he calls her every vile name imaginable.

Footage of him stumbling around muttering to himself and cursing at random passersby.

Phil slumps in the chair.

“Is this your ‘really nice guy’?” I ask.

“But, but…”

“No fucking buts, Phil. It’s time to face the fucking truth. Your son is an evil, abusive criminal.”

“It’s just… the alcohol..”

“Face the fucking music, Phil. It’s not the alcohol, or even the copious amount of drugs he’s done. It’s your parenting. You created a monster, a demon that hurts women and children.”

His face flames with indignation. “Well no, that’s not true?—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Phil. There are rigorous studies that show subhumans like your piece of shit excuse for a son become that way because of their value systems. And where do you think people—especially men —develop their value systems from?”

“I—I?—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Stop making excuses. The reality is that you are largely responsible for all the pain and trauma and damage and loss that your son has caused. Instead of being a man and holding your son accountable, you preferred to brush his actions under the rug, choosing your own peace over protecting others from pain. You willingly stood by your son in the face of evidence of his wrongdoing, going so far as to gaslight his victims and make them feel even worse , questioning their own sanity.”

His breathing is ragged now, and I can’t tell whether it’s from anger or fear and honestly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck which it is.

“Your son might be a dangerous, evil mess, Phil. But you … you are the lowest of the low. The tree that the Timmy apple fell from. You, in your own way, abused his victims. Did you get off on that, Phil? Did you enjoy calling Margaux a ‘volcano of pain’ and blaming her? Did it make you feel better to abdicate your own complicity in Timmy’s behavior by transferring the blame onto someone whose skull he fucking broke ? Did you really think it was okay to blame her because after months and months and months of his abuse and torture she finally snapped and, what—told him he was a loser and a piece of shit? If you believe his shit—that she finally smacked him a few times, or pulled his hair or scratched him—wouldn’t you have done the same fucking thing? If someone spent hour after hour telling you that you were a slut, cunt, bitch, ugly, gross, that you should have been raped, that your dead uncle doesn’t matter, that you’re making up health issues, removing pieces of your vehicle so you can’t get away, kidnapping your friend’s son, threatening to kill you constantly, telling you that you won’t be alive soon, and going so far as to rape you and then laugh about it?”

“I—he?—”

"You created him, Phil. You. And instead of owning up to it, you’ve been his accomplice. You’ve called his victims liars, you’ve made them question their sanity, and you’ve let Timmy go free to destroy more lives. How does it feel to know you’re as guilty as he is?"

"I didn’t mean?—"

"You meant to protect yourself," I snarl, leaning in close. "It was easier for you to blame Margaux. Easier to call her vile names than to admit your son is the source of all this destruction. You’re a coward , Phil."

He begins to shake, tears slipping from the corners of his forced-open eyes.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, Phil. I’m going to leave you here to let a bit of this sink in to your thick fucking skull.”

He quivers, starts to say something, and then shuts his mouth.

I cross my arms. "Take it in. Every broken bone, every tear-streaked face, every shattered life. This is your legacy. Enjoy it."

I turn the volume up, Timmy’s ranting voice filling the room.

“Have a nice evening, Phil,” I say. “I’d say it’s been nice to meet you, but I’m not a good liar.”

Phil whimpers as I walk out, slamming the door behind me.

When I return the next morning, Phil is broken. His shoulders slump, his head hangs low and his eyes are dull. The fight is gone from his body, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

There’s no more of the bluster he usually reserves to defend his son for his heinous acts. Because Phil loves a good woman-blaming moment, just like his son.

Good. It’s the least this piece of shit deserves after what he’s assisted his son to put innocent people through.

I crouch in front of him, removing the speculums from his eyes. He blinks rapidly, the motion too little, too late.

“Have you accepted the truth?” I ask, my voice cold. “Have you finally accepted who the problem is, Phil?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Say it,” I demand, pulling out my phone and hitting Record.

Margaux needs to hear this as part of her healing, and I’m sure others do, too. It might be under duress, but after spending a night seeing and hearing my little room of harsh truths, if Phil doesn’t finally accept the facts laid bare, he’s even more fucked than I realized.

He shifts in his chair.

“Say it, Phil,” I repeat. “ Fucking say it. Because I don’t want to have to physically hurt you, but I will if you don’t say the words that Margaux and all Timmy’s other victims need to hear.”

“Timmy is the problem,” he whispers.

“And were these situations validated or justified because ‘she must have done something to upset him?’ Or because ‘it takes two?’ That all of these relationships just happened to be toxic and the women were at fault?”

“Well…”

“Don’t play with me, Phil,” I growl. “I’m warning you. My dark side gets much darker than this.”

He sighs. “I see it now,” he says, his voice trembling. “He… he’s done horrible things. Hurt so many people. I enabled it. I believed him over them because it was easier than facing the truth.”

“And Margaux?”

“I’m sorry, Margaux,” he says, barely audible. “I’m sorry for blaming you, for making you feel like you were the problem. You weren’t. You tried to help him, and we all failed you. I failed you.”

I stop the recording.

“Good,” I say, leaning in close enough for him to feel my breath on his ear. “But sorry isn’t enough, Phil. Not for Margaux, not for the others. So what do you have to say for your part in all of this? For the way you made his victims feel small? That you made them question whether they really were the ones to blame? You’ll live with this guilt for the rest of your life, and that’s the only justice they’ll ever get.”

I press ‘Record’ again.

“I—,” he says, then he swallows. “I’m sorry. I just really loved my son and wanted to believe him and look past everything. I never intended on hurting anyone, but I see my actions have taken a toll.”

“Tell Margaux specifically how sorry you are. Be specific.”

“I—Margaux, I really liked you when we first met. And then Timmy told me so many things and… well, he’s my son. I guess it was just easier to believe his lies and ignore the fact he’s had this pattern with so many people before you. It was easier to paint you as the villain than to believe my own son was evil and that he needs to be in a mental institution or, well… prison. I’m… I’m not sorry for being a protective father, but I’m sorry for blaming you. For hurting you. For gaslighting you and magnifying my son’s abuse. You were just trying to help him to be a better person. And in return, he hurt you. Mentally and physically, and he broke all your stuff.”

“And? You’re sorry for calling her what?”

“I’m sorry for calling you a volcano of pain, Margaux. I don’t know where that even came from. It’s not true, and I’m sorry.”

I click ‘Stop’ on the recording.

I don’t know whether to believe him or not, but he’s said the words I needed him to, so I don’t really care. Karma will take its course. At the end of the day, Phil has to live with himself.

A tear slides down his face.

I still don’t quite believe his words. I still think he’s a woman-hating, self-aggrandizing prick who mollycoddled his son into the evil menace to society he is today.

But I have his voice on record.

And all I really care about is giving Margaux some of the closure and validation I know she so desperately needs.

I undo the ropes restraining Phil to the chair, re-tie them and blindfold him.

He slowly rises to his feet, and I load him into my van and drive him back to his neighborhood, a few blocks away from his house.

Untying him and removing the blindfold, I let him out.

Phil stumbles out of the van, his steps shaky. Before he leaves, he turns to me.

“Thank you," he whispers. "For making me see what I didn’t want to see. I think he’s far beyond any help I could give him. I’ve raised a devil, and let him create a hell that nobody else deserves, and I can never forgive myself for that.”

I say nothing, watching as he disappears into the morning light, a shadow of the man he was.

The monster he created may never be stopped, but for one brief moment, Phil had to face the full weight of his complicity.

And that’s a start.