Page 67 of Taboo
He comes in and sits cross-legged on the rug.
“Can I draw?” he asks, his voice small.
I nod, pulling out a sketchpad and pencils for him. He starts scribbling, and I watch, trying to focus on his quiet presence.
“Amelia,” he says suddenly, his pencil pausing, his eyes fixed on the paper, “I… Can I tell you something?"
"Sure, sweetie," I reply, holding his gaze, trying my best to assure him that it will be okay, that I will be okay.
He lowers his head again, but eventually speaks. "I didn’t spill the ink. I would never do that to your dragon. I love your dragon. I only said I did ‘cause I knew Mommy wanted me to. She looked at me like… like she needed me to say it, and I was scared that she would hit me if I didn’t.”
His voice trembles, his fingers tighten on the pencil, and my breath stops, shock slicing through me.
My heart is like a drum, pounding with realization. Jason’s words confirm it—his dimmed spark, his quiet withdrawal whenever Sara is nearby. Is Sara being strict? Fine, young children probably need it from time to time, but for Jason to outright lie and take the blame for something that he didn’t do out of fear of her is completely unacceptable. It is clearer than ever now that it is her treatment of him that has made this sweet boy into a shadow of himself.
I swallow, my throat tight with sadness for this sensitive little boy. “Oh, Jason,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You don’t have to take the blame for things you didn’t do. Don’t do that. Don’t ever do that.”
His eyes glisten, but he doesn’t speak. His pencil begins moving again. He looks pitiful that I start to burn with rage at Sara. It flares hot in my veins. I can’t let this go—not for me, not for the painting, but for Jason, Max’s son, the boy I love like my own.
“Wait here, little angel,” I say gently. “And draw something amazing for me, okay?”
I kiss his forehead and walk out of the room. It’s time to have a conversation with Sara. I’m not going to deal with her harshness towards him because that is for Max to deal with, butmaking him take the blame for what he didn’t do is something that neither she nor I should condone.
First, I go to her bedroom, well, I guess, their bedroom, but I get no response to my knock so I head downstairs. The house is quiet, save for the faint tick of a clock. The conservatory’s glass doors gleam in the moonlight. I push through and find Sara’s there, perched on a wicker chair, calmly sipping from a teacup. She looks up, her eyes narrowing.
"Are you alright, Amelia?"
"Yeah," I reply. "I was looking for you."
"I couldn’t sleep," she says. "So I came down for some tea while I wait for Max to return. Would you like to join me?”
“No, thank you.”
“And once again, I’m so sorry for what Jason did. I’ll speak to Max when he comes back and we’ll definitely find a way to get an expert to salvage it for you, or at least pay you."
I am disgusted by every single word coming out of her mouth, but I don’t bother responding to any of it.
"That’s not why I want to talk to you."
"Oh, okay," she says, curiously. "Shoot. What is it?”
Her voice is casual. And now I’m immensely annoyed. "It’s about Jason,” I begin, my hands fisted at my sides. “Why did you make him take the blame for the painting? He didn’t touch it—he told me he didn’t, and I believe him. So, if he told me that, then it means he would have told you the same thing. Why did you insist that he did and make him apologize? What’s going on?”
Chapter
Forty-Four
SARA
Amelia’s voice is sharp and accusing.
Why did I make him take the blame for the painting?
Apparently, the little weasel told her he didn’t do it.
Her eyes are fiercely contemptuous. I look at her face, the soft glow from the lantern outside highlights the defiance in her pretty jaw.
So… my dear son spilled everything, and now this bitch is standing here, daring to fucking challenge me in my own home.
