Page 66 of Redemption

If the children of staff members had “accidents” around the estate, my parents didn’t give a fuck. And if their parents put up a fuss, hefty bonuses made the problem go away. Or outright dismissal if my mother was irked enough.

“What changed when you were eleven?” Abigail presses gently. “Why did you stop being violent?”

“I almost killed another child. A child whomattered, according to my mother.”

I force myself to continue over her horrified gasp. I’m staring at the painting of us together, the one that looks so right but all wrong at the same time.

“Peter was a bully,” I explain. “He often picked on me for being a freak. The other children were right to sense something off in me. I wasn’t good at concealing it back then. I didn’t even try.

“I never retaliated at school because I knew better than to get caught. But then one day, Peter was tired of never getting a reaction from me. So, he ran his mouth about Katie. He said I’d probably killed my sister. He said it was my fault she was dead.” I glare at the painting. “I shoved him out of the window. He spent two weeks in hospital.”

Abigail doesn’t seem to have the words to respond to that cold declaration, so I carry on.

“The police were called. I was questioned. Mum made it very clear that I would be locked up if I didn’t figure out how to mask my true nature. She said I was lucky that Peter’s family accepted a payoff and a few threats with the weight of the family name behind them.” I sneer around the last. “She thinks she can buy anything she wants. People. Freedom. Absolution.”

I stop talking. I’ve said too much.

Abigail is far too quiet, and I don’t dare to look at her and see her expression of revulsion.

“You were a traumatized child.” Her softly spoken words hit me like a blow to the chest. “It sounds like you didn’t have any support after you saw your sister die. Your father was responsible for her death, and he didn’t suffer any consequences, did he? That’s what you mean when you say your mother thinks she can buy anything. Isn’t it?”

I stare at her with open awe. “You’re not… You don’t think I’m a monster for what I did to that boy? I hurt people, Abigail. Children.”

“You were a child yourself. You had witnessed something horrible, and you were living in an emotionally abusive home. It doesn’t sound like anyone showed you another way to behave, and you lashed out.”

“That doesn’t scare you?” I challenge, hardly able to believe she’s not cringing away from me.

“There have been plenty of times when you’ve scared me, Dane. Now isn’t one of them. I’m not afraid of the boy who suffered so much pain. I’m sorry you went through that.”

I just told her I almost killed a child, and she’s apologizing to me.

She truly is my miracle.

I decide not to say anything else that might change the way she’s looking at me right now: like I’m worthy of compassion. Empathy. Affection.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about the estate,” she says. “I can change the painting. I can destroy it if you want me to. We can burn it together.”

I grasp her hands in mine, pulling her close. “No. Never destroy anything you create. Especially not on my account. The world needs your art.”

Her cheeks color my favorite shade of pink. “I’m really not that talented.”

“Yes, you are.” I look at the central painting again, the one of us standing together, looking out at the countryside. “You made a place I loathe look like home. That’s a gift, Abigail. Don’t you dare hide it or destroy it.”

The longer I look at the painting, the more it feels right. And I start to realize that maybe it’s not the setting that makes it feel like home. Maybe it’s that perfect purple curl curved around my finger.

19

ABIGAIL

“Where are we going?” I ask warily.

Dane has been enigmatic about our destination, and his teasing non-answers are starting to grate on me.

“Back to Charleston?” I ask, but I don’t sound as hopeful as I should.

I tell myself that’s because it’s highly unlikely, not because some part of me doesn’t want to leave this peaceful space I’ve found with him. As long as I don’t think too hard about going home, I’m able to indulge my growing, irrational desire to stay with him, despite everything he’s done.

“Do we look like we’re dressed for travel?” he drawls, shooting me an unbearably sexy smirk from the driver’s seat of the sleek black Porsche.

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