Sharks by Matt Rogers (best book series to read TXT) 📕

You solve problems. You help the downtrodden. You deliver justice. Please. Spare me…’

King said, ‘We’re trying to do the right thing for Lyla. For Caleb. Are you so far gone you don’t care what happens to them?’

‘Of course I care,’ Teddy said. A defensive statement, followed swiftly by eyes that lit up with flame. ‘How dare you.’

‘How dare I?’

‘You heard me.’

Slater didn’t bother with a retort. He stood there, looming over Teddy, until the old man realised the predicament he was in and started to squirm.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Whatever you suspect, I can guarantee you—’

Slater threw a diary with cream pages down on the desk next to Teddy.

Teddy looked at it. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a logbook.’

‘Okay.’

‘It has your name in it.’

‘You think?’ Teddy said, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Who’d you get it from — Vince? Has it got the whole eighty k I owe in it?’

‘We didn’t get it from Vince,’ King said, which made Teddy twitch, but he didn’t crack.

‘Alright,’ Teddy said. ‘You want me to ask you who you got it from?’

‘Someone else.’

‘Thanks for the information.’

‘It’s got your real name in it.’

Hesitation.

Only a second’s worth.

But that was enough.

Like a professional poker player accidentally revealing his tell.

Teddy opened his mouth to retort, to throw back accusations, to throw up smokescreens, to try to distract them…

Then he gave up.

His lower lip started to quiver, and he rocked back in the seat, and his eyes squeezed shut, and he put his head in his hands and muttered, ‘Oh, fuck.’

King looked over at Slater. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I didn’t let you know,’ Slater said. ‘When I read it, I wanted to be sure it wasn’t a typo. Because it sure looked like one at the time.’

King said nothing.

Slater said, ‘Then I put it all together at the construction yard. When Vince was rambling. I connected the dots.’

‘And?’

Slater kicked the office chair, rattling the whole thing in its frame, shaking Teddy. He let out a pitiful cry, all his secrets laid bare.

Slater said, ‘He can tell you.’

But Teddy couldn’t.

His shoulders were heaving now, and he was sobbing into his hands.

‘I can explain,’ Teddy said. ‘I swear, I can explain everything. It’s not what it looks like.’

Slater said, ‘I’m all ears.’

King was still staring at Slater. ‘You tell me.’

Slater picked up the logbook, flipped through the pages of neatly handwritten fine print, found a certain row of entries on the ninth page, and handed the open diary over to King.

King took it, looked down, read it.

Looked back up. Looked at Teddy. ‘Oh.’

He put the open diary back on the desk.

The name was in full view, face up.

theodore walcott.

67

‘I think I understand,’ Slater said. ‘But I need him to confirm it.’

Teddy said, ‘Have you told Lyla?’

‘No,’ Slater said. ‘So far I’ve spared you that much misery. I assumed she wasn’t aware. But I’m going to. She deserves to know.’

‘You son of a bitch,’ Teddy said, but there was nothing behind it. Each word came out quieter than the last, until the whole insult petered out to non-existence, somehow more pathetic than if he’d never said it at all.

‘Me?’ Slater said. ‘I never hid my identity from the person I love most.’

‘I hid my last name,’ Teddy said. ‘Not my identity. I love her more than anything, but it was something she didn’t need to know.’

‘You’re cousins or something?’ King said. ‘You and Dylan?’

Slater said, ‘Brothers.’

Teddy looked at him.

Slater said, ‘Just a hunch. You’re his elder by what, ten years?’

Teddy said, ‘Nine. He’s older than he looks. And I’m younger than I look. We’ve had different lives. And he got better genetics.’

Inwardly, King rocked back. It was the same sensation as discovering something new and then seeing it everywhere, when it had been hiding in plain sight all along. You buy a certain make and model of car, and then you see the same models all over the road. They’d always been there — you just hadn’t noticed. Now he looked deep into Teddy’s face and saw the likeness, the coldness, the expression that had never been there before, masked under a polite facade.

King said, ‘So you are brothers?’

Teddy nodded.

‘You’re not as emotional as you want us to believe,’ Slater said. ‘Not as weak, either. Am I right?’

Teddy’s whole face shifted.

Like an automaton, taking over his brain in the background. One second his eyes were wet and his lip was quivering, the next his face was stone.

He was still a gentle man, still old and frail. There are certain physiological disadvantages you can’t change, no matter how hard you try. Age makes weaklings of us all.

But his mind was sharp.

His voice was level when he said, ‘I had to do that. I had no other choice. I’m sorry.’

King jolted. Now the old man’s accent was some twisted mix of British and American. He got the impression of a method actor finally trying to return to his real voice, but finding himself somewhere in no man’s land, taking certain inflections of speech from each.

Slater waited for King to speak, but King was mute.

Rattled by the transformation, questioning everything.

Slater had anticipated it, so it came as less of a shock. He took the lead. ‘Is there a reason for it?’

Teddy said, ‘You grow up in a cult, you learn to be callous. Cynical. Withdrawn. It’s antisocial, you see. Ordinary people let their emotions get the better of them all the time. I had to come off as an ordinary person. For appearance’s sake.’

‘A cult?’ King said.

Teddy smiled. It wasn’t sinister. He wasn’t evil. Like Slater had thought earlier, there are few true megalomaniacs on this planet. Dylan was one. Teddy was not. The smile was sad, and full of regret over a life that hadn’t gone the way he’d ever intended it to.

Teddy said, ‘The Walcotts.’

King nodded.

A silent understanding.

Teddy said, ‘Archie was a ruthless businessman through and through. He was always Archie to me. Never Grandpa. He brainwashed us all through childhood, and what you learn as a child gets coded into you. You usually