“Don’t call me son,” said Anthony through clenched teeth.

“But before she talked to you, I took matters into my own hands.”

A red rage filled Anthony’s field of vision. “You’re supposed to wish me well. But you didn’t. You didn’t wish me well because you couldn’t stand to think that I was going to publish something better than what you could write. So you exposed me. You ruined me. When all along, you weren’t even writing your own books.” Anthony got up, banging his hand on the table.

Bridget’s voice came sailing in from the other side of the shop: “Everything okay in there?”

“Fine,” said Anthony in a strangled voice. “Just knocked over some books, sorry, I’ll pick them up.”

“No worries! Just wanted to make sure!”

“You took the credit for all of Mom’s work,” Anthony accused his father, biting off each word, “all of this time. And you’re calling me dishonorable?”

“It wasn’t her work. It was shared work. And we’ve already talked about this. It wasn’t about the credit. Your mother doesn’t care about that. She didn’t mind.”

“How do you know she didn’t? Because I think she minded. I think she fucking minded. She told me she minded.”

“She didn’t.”

“She did!”

“I don’t believe you. We were a team. Are. We are a team. The level of success we’ve reached together was possible because we both had our roles.”

Anthony snorted, and Leonard held his hand up in a gesture of instruction that forced Anthony to stop and listen. “I didn’t make your mother do anything she didn’t want to do, Anthony. She wanted to be a part of it, and she was good at it, and I needed the help. So we worked together. We work together.”

“Then why is it your face on the book jacket, and not hers? Why is it you who gets up in front of the crowds of people? You on television?”

“Because we both have things we excel at. She’s a master of plot, a true master. She never wanted to be on CBS This Morning! Anyway, it was better this way. Women thriller writers don’t sell the way men do. Maybe now it’s changing, but back then—no, even now. Look at the list, Anthony. Patterson. Le Carré. Stephen King.”

“Sue Grafton!” cried Anthony.

“Maybe,” conceded Leonard. “But no doubt she was an exception, not the rule. So, your mother’s brain, my face, together we won. We built a life together. We traveled. We raised you! We have enough money to do anything we want, for the rest of our lives.”

“I think that’s a bullshit argument.”

“Think what you want, son.”

“Stop it. Stop calling me that.” Anthony sat for a moment. His rage was a monster, a Demogorgon, growing before his eyes. It became clear to him what he had to do: “If you thought it was okay to out me for what I did, maybe I think it’s okay to out you. I can see the article now: ‘Leonard Puckett Has Sold Millions of Books. But Who Really Wrote Them?’ Or, this would be a good one: ‘Is Honesty the Best Policy? Top Thriller Writer Says No!’”