He sighed and put his free hand in his pocket. "I never told any of you where I came from. It wasn't a good way to get the lot of you to trust me, I'll freely say." To a degree, the lying Atlas had to do needed to feel real even to him. He'd manufactured a sort of fake history of his own. But if he wasn't careful, he'd wind up crossing his lines. He'd have to get a notebook, jot down his connections. But he'd have to be careful not to do it in such a way that it would be obvious he didn't really know any of them.
If there was one thing to be said for Frank Fontaine, it was that the man was a master of deception.
"And me showin' up with my wife and a wee bairn in tow... well, that helped a bit, but." He heaved an even deeper sigh and made his expression turn withdrawn and sad. "Imogen didn't last more than two weeks. Nothing could be done for her." He sniffed and rubbed vigorously at his eyes. "I'm only really lucky, I s'pose, that you lot were there to help with Cat."