Page 92 of Crybaby

I continue skulking through the house, my mind racing because how could such beauty breed such hate? Carson is a bully, a psychopath, and a rapist—it doesn’t make sense that someone of his standing has turned out so fucked up, right?

Wrong.

It’s because of that that he believes he’s untouchable.

When I get to the top of the staircase, I tip my chin and look at the stained-glass dome over me. The full moon illuminates the intricate patterns, which can be interpreted as anything, dependent on the beholder. To me, all I can focus on is the red.

Enough with the sightseeing; it’s time to uncover the dirty little secrets which will destroy this family before Darcie destroys Carson—in every sense of the word.

It’s not enough that we kidnap his ass and make him pay for what he did. I want the entire Beckett family to suffer and be looked at the way I have been looked at my entire life. I want them to know what it feels like to be an outsider.

I hear Carson’s arrogant voice behind his bedroom door. Curiosity gets the better of me and I tiptoe toward his room. I hear him sweet talking some poor girl, assuring her he won’t show the pictures to his friends.

But I know she’s just next in line.

Unable to stomach his lies a second longer, I make my way toward Walter’s office and when I turn the handle, sigh in relief when the door opens. I close the door softly behind me as I enter.

The room is filled with awards for Walter’s accomplishments. He even framed a newspaper article where he helped put away the town’s first serial killer—good times.

I take a seat in his brown leather chair and peer around the room, wondering what Walter sees. All I see is the lair of a pretentious asshole. I reach for a silver frame on his desk. It’s of the Beckett family, smiling happily in front of their lake house.

I toss the frame into the trash can under the desk, envy suddenly hitting me because I wonder how I would have turned out if I were in Carson’s shoes.

The desk drawers are locked, no surprise, so I jimmy them open with the silver letter opener. When the top one pops open, I hunt through it, not sure what I’m looking for. I’ll know what when I find it, however.

Nothing excites me until I open the bottom drawer and a small silver key catches my eye. I look between it and the tall filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

Bingo.

Grabbing the key, I make my way to the filing cabinet, and the key is a perfect fit. The top drawer is filled with more garbage, and anger hits me because I’m missing something. This is Walter’s private space, but it appears too clean-cut like the real dirt is hidden where no one would ever look.

Peering around the room, I take my time to examine every single thing. The books are stacked alphabetically; the paintings hung at precise angles. Nothing is out of place, which I know means it’s done entirely for show.

I just need to think like a narcissistic asshole.

Tapping my chin, I look at the small painting above the fireplace. It’s of a foxhound with a dead duck hanging limply in his jaws. Why can’t I stop looking at it?

Turning my cheek to the right, I arch my neck to view the painting from a different angle, and when I see it’s not flush with the wall, I realize I’ve been looking in all the wrong places.

A man like Walter Beckett doesn’t stow his secrets away in a predictable place such as a filing cabinet. I march through the office and carefully remove the painting from the wall, revealing a small silver safe.

There’s an old-school dial on it where only the owner would know the combination to open it. But Walter is predictable, and when I turn the dial a little to the left, and then the right, before turning it back to the center, I smile because this asshole is about to go down.

The combination is Carson’s birthday. Why do I know when that douchebag’s birthday is? Because every year, the football team holds a bonfire in his honor, which every loser is dying to get an invite to—suffice to say, I would rather set myself on fire than attend.

The safe clicks open, and without delay, I open the door.

There’s some jewelry inside, a revolver, and a small metal box. I grab the box and open it, elated when I see folded paperwork inside. Opening the first page, I read over a letter from the chief judge pardoning Carson from sexual assault charges against a minor.

I read over his crimes and shake my head. If this went to court, Carson would have done some serious time. Not to mention, tarnished the precious Beckett name.

Each piece of paperwork I pull out is like the ones before it, all pardons from important people, making Carson’s rap sheet disappear. No wonder he has a godlike complex; this fucker has never had to deal with any repercussions of his actions.

But what he did to Darcie, that’s something which hewillbe held accountable for.

I stuff the documents into my pocket as it’s the evidence I need to soil the squeaky-clean reputation of the Beckett family.

However, an aged piece of paper seems out of place with the others, so automatically, I unfold it and read over the words which shatter my fucking world beyond repair.

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