Page 57 of The Penalty

“It’s fascinating. The movie is inspired by Hamlet and the themes are transcendent. Greed, power, revenge. And, at least in the movie, redemption.” She lifted her head to look at me. “Obviously, there are differences. Hamlet didn’t have a Timon or a Pumbaa to help him find happiness, so he spiraled into his own dark thoughts. And Simba thought he was doing the right thing when he followed Scar’s order to run away because he believed he killed his own dad.”

“Like I killed my mum,” I said absently.

Victoria sat up straight. Concern seeped from her.

What the fuck did I just say?

No. No. NO.

FUCK.

“Xavier, you—”

“Drop it.”

“I’m not going to drop it.” She shut off the movie and fully faced me. “You didn’t kill your mother. You were a baby. Nobody blames you.”

“I never said anyone blamed me.”

A deep ache pierced my heart from the gentle touch of her hand on my chest. Talking about my family wasn’t a preferred topic. For some reason though, it didn’t feel quite as daunting with Victoria.

I covered her hand with mine.

“I don’t want you to think I haven’t dealt with any of it. I have. I worked with a family therapist at a very young age. When I was old enough to understand some of the medical explanations, it helped ease the guilt I felt.”

“It must have been really hard for you,” she said quietly, placing her hands in her lap.

A shadow of sadness passed through her eyes. I knew she was thinking about her sister.

“It was. Fortunately my dad met Rebecca and she managed to make things a bit better.”

Victoria picked at the blanket. I didn’t plan on being open with her about any of this right now. Someday, yes. But not now.

“Do you see them often? Your dad and step-mother?”

“Occasionally.” Rarely. “I had dinner with them a few days before coming here.”

“You did?” Her warm smile thawed the chill crawling through my veins. “How was it?”

I shrugged. “The usual.”

“I’m sorry.” She climbed onto my lap and straddled me. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and ask too many questions.”

I’d never spoken this much about my childhood or family with anyone. Not even Bennet or Cade, and they knew some of the worst shit about me. Telling Victoria was…well, it was…comforting. Simple. Normal.

I wish you trusted me more.

Maybe this is also what she meant when she’d said that. Trusting her with all of it. All of me.

“I’ve told you before, love. You can always ask me anything.”

Victoria appeared thoughtful. “I am curious about one thing.”

“Tell me.”

“What did your mom look like?”

Growing up, I had several old photos of my mother framed in my bedroom. Some showed her pregnant and joyful. Others were from her university days.

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