For a moment Solomon was inclined not to answer. What was the point of it? That situation had told him all he needed to know, and giving Skulduggery more information only ever enabled him to manipulate people further.
And yet it hadn't given Solomon all he needed to know. It hadn't, and the urge to dismiss the question, the strength of that urge, wasn't like him. Solomon asked questions. Not always, true, but usually. Why would he deny that one so vehemently? Even the questions he didn't ask, he recognised as questions. Why not the same of that one? That one, of all others?
Why that one, unless he'd been conditioned into dismissing it to begin with?
"I don't know his name," Solomon said instead, but stiffly, and still not looking in Skulduggery's direction. "He said it was Dillon, but it wasn't. I remember trying to use it against him. He claimed to be your brother."
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And yet it hadn't given Solomon all he needed to know. It hadn't, and the urge to dismiss the question, the strength of that urge, wasn't like him. Solomon asked questions. Not always, true, but usually. Why would he deny that one so vehemently? Even the questions he didn't ask, he recognised as questions. Why not the same of that one? That one, of all others?
Why that one, unless he'd been conditioned into dismissing it to begin with?
"I don't know his name," Solomon said instead, but stiffly, and still not looking in Skulduggery's direction. "He said it was Dillon, but it wasn't. I remember trying to use it against him. He claimed to be your brother."