I left my jacket and boots at the door and followed Folk to the kitchen. He was English enough that he drifted to the kettle on instinct while I lingered in the doorway. “Saint’s Polish.”
Folk dropped a tea bag into a mug before he looked at me. “I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I. Viktor told me.”
“How did Viktor know?”
“Jakov did his research before Sidorov agreed to work with us.”
“Does Alexei know?”
I gave my eleventh slow headshake of the day. “He’s never looked at Saint’s records beyond the hacking he did in the hospital.”
Before Folk could react, Ivy screamed into the kitchen and attached herself to my legs. “What are you doing here? Did Saint come home yet?”
“Not yet.” I picked her up and plunked her on the counter. “Neither did your big dad, so you and me, little lady, we’re going to cook your skinny old man some dinner.”
I jabbed a thumb at Folk.
He didn’t react to that either, just peered in my Waitrose bag before he left the kitchen.
Ivy watched him go, pursing her lips. It felt like she had something to say, but I wasn’t in the business of interrogating children. I put her to work peeling potatoes and we talked about everything and nothing before she gestured for me to bring my ear to her cupped hands. “My other dad doesn’t like sleeping without my big dad.”
I’d figured. And it made sense. But Folk wasn’t the type to be pacing the house just because he missed someone. As much as he loved Decoy, he was tougher than that.
Tougher than you.
Truth.
I fried eggs and supervised Ivy mashing the potatoes, noting that she’d learned her cooking techniques from Rubi. Fucking spudseverywhere.
Behind me, Folk chuckled. He’d magicked himself back into the kitchen, hair damp from the shower, more colour in his cheeks than when I’d arrived, but still less than he’d had when Decoy had still been here.
My other dad doesn’t like sleeping...
The answer was in there somewhere.
I fed the Whitlock-Greenes. If it had been Folk on the road instead of Decoy, I was pretty sure Ivy would’ve flicked the scallions across the table at the dad left behind. As it was, she cleared her plate and Folk hustled her away for a bath.
He came back as I was clearing up. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Actually, I do. Rubi taught her to throw most of the food at the ceiling.”
“He told her you once left your pants on the roof of the police station.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“It’s not.”
I dried a pan, stalling for time. For words. And maybe even for the balls to tell Folk something that was going to piss him the fuck off, when my instinct was to keep that shit to myself.
Never fucking learn, do you?
Not often. But I tried. “Old man Doherty called Nash this morning. Asked for a sit-down.”
Folk’s steady gaze didn’t waver. He closed the dishwasher with his foot—fucking gently, not booting the shite out of it. “You didn’t have to cook me dinner to tell me that.”