“What’s happening in here?”
The two turned to look at Atticus, who loomed in the doorway, his expression guarded.
“Nothing to worry about,” Thomas assured him. “Your boyfriend and I were just having a chat. He’s a good man. You’ve done well.”
Atticus stood there in stunned silence for a full minute before nodding. He looked at Jericho. “We should get going.”
Jericho nodded. “Good seeing you again, sir.”
Thomas nodded. “You as well. I’ll have Calliope call you when she has any updates.”
They were almost to the office door when Thomas called out, “Jericho.”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you come by, bring your family,” Thomas said. “All of them.”
Jericho did his best to mask his shock, just giving a nod.
Once they were back in the truck, Atticus turned on him. “What the hell was that all about?”
Jericho shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think your father was just feeling me out.”
“That’s the first time you’ve lied to me,” Atticus said. “Don’t do it again.”
Jericho sighed. “Fine. I told your father I think he made a mistake with you. I told him that I don’t think you’re a psychopath and that I think it was super shitty of him to turn you into a killer.”
Atticus’s brows ran for his hairline. “Wow. I bet that went over well.”
“He told me I was wrong.”
Atticus nodded. “I would expect nothing less. The alternative would be he was wrong, and Thomas Mulvaney is never wrong. Even when he’s wrong.”
This was hardly new information. Anybody who spent five minutes with Thomas could see he was used to going unquestioned. He carried himself with an air of superiority that came from being born into privilege. Still, the man seemed to genuinely care for his children, even if he never uttered the words out loud.
“He said he loves you,” Jericho said.
Atticus blinked rapidly, like his brain was trying to process that information. “What?” he said, voice hoarse.
Jericho nodded, as if that would somehow make the words penetrate. “Yeah. He said he loves you and he’s proud of you. That he’s not affectionate because none of you seem to like it.” A strange look crossed Atticus’s face. “What?” Jericho questioned.
“Before August came, when it was just me and him…he was far more affectionate. Not in a creepy way like my real dad. In a…fatherly way. With each new arrival, he became less and less touchy feely. I thought he was just losing interest in us as children and saw us more as, at best, colleagues, at worst, science projects.”
Jericho’s heart squeezed in his chest. “That’s…grim, Freckles.”
“It really isn’t a big deal. I’m almost forty years old. I have more than most people. I’m more than content with my life as it is. ”
“Including me?” Jericho asked, holding his breath.
Atticus hesitated, flushing like he was trying to gear himself up for something, finally saying, “Because of you.”
Jericho gripped his sweater, dragging him across the seat to seal their mouths together in a kiss that left them both breathless. “Same, Freckles.”
Atticus pressed their foreheads together, looking down at where Jericho still fisted his sweater, murmuring, “That’s cashmere.”
Jericho snorted, releasing the sweater and swiping his hand down the front to smooth away any damage. “My bad.”
As Jericho turned over the engine, Atticus asked, “Why do you think my dad—Thomas—got it wrong? Why do you think I’m not a psychopath?”
