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His outrage is so fucking sweet, partly because I can already see the relief starting to creep in underneath it.
Not relief that I threatened Sherry; relief that the money exists again.
I reach for his hand where it rests on his knee. He lets me take it, his fingers cool against my palm, even as he keeps glaring.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s a very low bar.” His thumb twitches against mine.
“I’m working on personal growth.”
“You killed Steven.”
“Okay,” I concede, rubbing my thumb over the prominent knuckles I know so well now. “But that was necessary. And I’d do it again.”
His mouth twitches. Got him.
“The point is,” I say, watching his expression shift from outrage to cautious hope, “that money is yours again.”
His gaze drops to our joined hands. “How much?”
“More than she took.”
“What does that mean?” He looks up through his lashes.
“It means she paid interest.”
“That’s not how interest works.” His voice holds the faintest note of amusement now.
“It is when I calculate it.”
He stares at me. I stare back, maintaining eye contact until color blooms high on his cheeks. Eventually, he sighs, the sound shaky but real. “How much, Daddy?”
I tell him the figure. Watch his eyes widen all over again, the blue nearly swallowing the irises. “That’s almost everything she had.” His voice drops to a whisper.
“Not my problem.”
“Adrien.” There’s reproach in it now, but weaker than before.
“She stole from her son.”
“I know, but—” He starts to pull his hand away.
“No.” My voice firms enough that his mouth snaps shut. I soften immediately. “No, sweetheart. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” He won’t meet my eyes now.
“Start worrying about whether the person who hurt you has enough left over to be comfortable.”
His eyes drop to where our hands are joined. I squeeze gently.
“She had a home before that money. She still has one now. She has food. She has a car. She’ll survive.”
“She’s my mom…”
“I know.”
“She’s still…” He trails off, chewing on his lower lip.
