Page 57 of Moonstruck
“Crimes that seemed unrelated but might actually have a connection. Your father’s crimes,” Zane managed. “I never implied it was your father, just sort of tested the waters to see if others saw the pattern I did.”
“Shit,” Asa muttered.
“No. No, this is good,” Atticus said, earning a surprised look from Asa. “I think you’re right. About seeding the idea of a single crime-fighting vigilante.”
“A what?” Zane said.
“Dad told you about that?” Asa asked.
“Told him about what?” Zane pressed, his confusion obvious.
“I told my father that having a reporter on our side—one who might be able to shape the public and their opinion about certain cases—could be beneficial to our cause.”
“You want me to lie,” Zane realized, voice dull.
“No. Exactly the opposite. We want you to tell the truth. Just not the whole truth,” Atticus said.
“What does that even mean?” Zane asked.
Asa looked at Atticus, who gestured for him to go ahead. Asa turned to Zane. “It means the victims in these murders you’re discussing are all very bad men. Some of the men we killed, the police knew were monsters. Like Noah’s father, Wayne Holt. They knew he was a child rapist and predator, but they could never prove it in a court of law. We aren’t bound by bureaucracy. Imagine if you just happened upon information about some of the unsolved murders in this town that showed the world who these men really were? Monsters.”
Asa could see Zane’s wheels starting to turn. “So, you want me to use my crime blog to out your victims and their crimes? Won’t that bring more attention to your family?”
Atticus shook his head. “We’re well insulated. We’ve got ourselves covered a dozen different ways. But we can’t afford somebody asking questions about our father. Nobody can ever even whisper about Thomas Mulvaney being anything but the bleeding heart philanthropic billionaire the world loves. If you’re covering these stories, if you’re the authority on these possibly related crimes, if we’re the ones controlling the narrative, it only helps. Thomas Mulvaney’s journalist son-in-law would never delve into crimes that his own family committed. That would be crazy.”
“So, you just want me to…expose their crimes?” Zane asked.
Atticus steepled his fingers together like some supervillain. “We want you to do what you do. Research the victims. Report your findings. Muse out loud about the possibility of a single vigilante killer. When your blog blows up—which it will the moment you become a Mulvaney—you can gently steer your audience in any direction you like. As long as that direction is away from us. Your new family.”
“You should start a YouTube channel,” Asa said with a grin. “Way more visibility.” He pushed an errant curl from Zane’s forehead. “People will love this nerdy, adorkable persona you have. Especially when you wear your glasses.”
Zane flushed. “I don’t really have a face for video.”
Asa scoffed. “You’re beautiful. Besides, I don’t think you understand the amount of time you’re about to spend in the public eye. We constantly have cameras on us. You will always have to be aware of your surroundings. We don’t care if people track our day to day movements. They’ll always try to catch Noah and Adam out at lunch or making out in their car. We live for that kind of press. As long as you’re living our public life, you can look annoyed about the cameras being there but you need to tolerate them. Make sense?”
Zane gave a hesitant nod.
“When you’re engaging in some non-public activities, you’ll learn evasive measures,” Atticus said. “Hopefully better than Asa did with you.”
Asa gave him the finger.
“This is…a lot,” Zane managed.
“This is being a Mulvaney,” Atticus retorted. “Being the son-in-law of a rich billionaire is better than being dead. Even if you’re married tohim.”
Asa gave Atticus another finger. “Can you get the cloned drive to the drop-off location and have a courier send the laptop back to Zane’s mother?”
Atticus frowned. “Zane’s mother?”
“Yeah, we think Zane’s brother might have been involved in this case Dad’s having me look into.”
Atticus’s brows hooked upward. “The game?”
Zane nodded, swallowing hard. “He was part of a suicide cluster at a different school, during a different year.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Atticus said, sounding sincere. “Write down the address and I’ll have my receptionist get it back where it belongs. I’ll drop the cloned drive on my way out when I leave for the garage.”
“The garage,” Zane gasped, as if suddenly remembering something. “I can finally ask about the garage. What’s going on there? What’s with all the kids going in and out all hours of the night? Your husband’s obviously not running drugs, so what gives?”
