Page 19 of Alone With You in the Ether

“I don’t think so,” he said. His water glass was empty, and he tapped his fingers lightly against its side. “I think you pretty much told me the truth. Except for the thing about the heist not being your idea.”

“It wasn’t a heist,” she said.

“It was basically a heist,” he said, “and you’re definitely the one who thought of it. I just want to know why.”

She picked up her glass of wine, giving it a pointed swirl. “Perhaps I’m very vain,” she suggested, “or too clever for my own good. Too interested in causing my parents grief.”

“Those,” Aldo said, “sound like lies. Or possibly someone else’s truths.”

They were. Her mother’s, specifically.

“You said you wanted to be an artist,” he prompted.

She waited for the statement to resolve to a question, but no such luck. “Yes, and…?”

“Well, what’s your… you know. Medium? Aside from crime.” His smile quirked.

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Technically I just studied art,” she said. “I have a degree in art history.”

“Do you have a favorite painting?”

She took a sip of her wine. “No, not really. I like certain styles,” she said. “Certain themes. But having a single favorite piece feels juvenile, somehow.”

“You’re lying,” he said, and she gave him a dispassionate glance.

“You seem to think very little of me,” she remarked, and he shook his head.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a lie.”

“Unless it’s a lie for the sake of lying?” she guessed, unimpressed.

“No.” He shook his head. “I think it’s unrealistic to expect truth all the time. I just want to, you know, sort out the equation.” He shrugged. “Why you lie, I guess.”

“You want to puzzle me out like a math problem,” she said dully. “How flattering.”

“If it helps, not too many people are all that difficult to puzzle out, comparatively.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Most people are a very specific set of variables. You know, goals, motivations, flaws, varying degrees of psychological trauma—”

“No,” she corrected, “I meant I find it difficult to believe I’m in any way complex.”

He stopped for a moment, tilting his head.

“You don’t really mean that, do you?” he said.

“Crime doesn’t make a person complex,” she pointed out. “Everyone has a history.”

“Sure,” he said, “but that’s not what’s interesting.”

He leaned forward, shifting to accommodate the worst possible thing: curiosity, which again Regan realized must have become mutual at some point while she hadn’t been paying attention.

“Why,” Aldo said slowly, “did you mastermind a heist?”

She stared at him. Things had clearly gotten away from her.

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