“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.
“I have a boyfriend,” she decided to announce.
“Doesn’t answer the question,” he replied.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Anything else?” asked the waiter, prompting her to jump.
“Just the check, please,” she said quickly.
By the time the waiter had gone, Aldo had raised one hand to his mouth, observing her from his vantage point across the booth. The other hand was resting on the table, forearm tensing while he drummed his fingers in silent agitation.
“So,” Regan said, “if I answer this question, you’ll leave me alone, is that it?”
Aldo’s mouth twitched. “Probably not,” he said. He tapped his fingers on the table again. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“I asked you first,” she countered even though she hadn’t, and he shrugged.
“I thought maybe we could be friends,” he said. “Or, if that sounds like too much work, then maybe we can have five more conversations.”
She might have said yes to being friends, even just to be polite, but the follow-up offer was too strange not to question.
“Five?” she echoed. “That’s very specific.”
“Yes.”
“Why five?”
“Seems like a reasonable number.”
“Is that supposed to have some sort of mathematical significance?”
“I think theoretically the mathematical factor would be compiling the sum of your parts.”
“Which you think you can do in six total conversations?” she asked, and then blinked, registering what she’d just said. “Ah,” she murmured, shaking her head at him. “Bees.”
His mouth was most crooked when he was pleased; one side of it lilted up in concession while the other fought to remain in place. “You can refuse, of course.”
“You know I won’t, though.” She sipped the rest of her wine. “Was that just a guess?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “absolutely.”
“The check, whenever you’re ready,” said the waiter, reappearing at Regan’s side, and she paused him, reaching for her credit card before sending him scurrying off again.
“Alright. Six total conversations,” she agreed slowly, returning her attention to Aldo, “but you have to tell me what you learn about me each time.”