Okay, that’s not going to work. Regroup. I’ll have to show him a few of my cards if I’m going to get to see his hand. Two parts truth, one part lie.

“I mean it.” I look up through my lashes, then lift my chin as if defying him to disbelieve me. “You know I’m a liar, you know I con people—you’re not stupid. It’s been a really, really long time since I had anyone I could trust.”

Truth.

Gideon’s eyes meet mine, then skitter away toward the far wall. His body language is obscured by the chair, but his face, at least, looks conflicted. “Me, too.”

“Maybe we can help each other, then. I need information about my father’s death, information LaRoux Industries has somewhere. And you’re after something there too, or you wouldn’t have been at their headquarters that day.”

Truth.

He doesn’t reply this time, but I can see him thinking. He wants to trust me. A good mark always wants to trust you—a good mark wants you to con him. The audience wants you to succeed. I just have to not screw it up.

I swallow hard. “All I want is to find the truth about what happened to my father.”

Lie.

“LaRoux Industries is dangerous, Dimples,” Gideon says in that slow drawl of his. “Maybe you’d be better off just leaving Corinth, changing your name again, disappearing.”

I fight not to grit my teeth. I don’t need to be told about danger. I’m a daughter of Avon—I’ve lived in the shadow of what LaRoux Industries can do almost my entire life. I’ve watched my only family destroyed by the Fury LaRoux created. I was the one back there about to have my mind wiped cleaner than one of Gideon’s data drives. And I don’t exactly imagine myself slipping away after murdering Roderick LaRoux to an easy life—my goal’s a one-way ticket. Though, of course, Gideon doesn’t know that. And no reason for him to know.

Instead of snapping, I blink at him, then lean forward so that the anger in my voice will sound like passion. “If they were responsible for the death of someone you loved, would you be satisfied just disappearing?”

He’s silent for a long time, so long I start to wonder if maybe he could tell I was angry after all. Then he lets his breath out audibly and gives an almost imperceptible nod. “All right,” he says softly. “Maybe we can help each other.”

I almost give my own sigh of relief. “Just promise me one thing?”

Gideon lifts an eyebrow, some of that amusement returning to his gaze. “Already with the demands and we’re not even through our second date.”

“Don’t tell the Knave about me.” I indicate his computer screens and their endless data streaming in and out with a flick of my eyes. “Please. I’ve survived this long by keeping to myself, and working with an ally will be hard enough. I just…I’m on your side. So long as it’s just your side. Can you do that?”

Both his brows go up this time, and he hesitates. “I won’t tell anyone about you,” he replies eventually.

I can’t help but let my breath out, and it emerges shakier than I’d like. My palms feel hot where they’re pressed against my thighs. A good actress feels some of what she emotes, but I need to get a grip. I shouldn’t care whether he trusts me or not, just whether he gets me where I need to go.

He’s watching me with his usual air of indolent charm, though now I can see the shrewdness behind the lazy grin. For a wild, insane moment I want to blurt out the truth—I want to tell him everything. I choke it down. Walk carefully, Sofia.

I lift my chin again, this time so I can meet his eyes. “Then I might as well tell you…Sofia. My name’s Sofia.” Truth. “God, I can’t remember the last time I gave someone my real name.” Truth. “So…no more secrets.”

Lie.

Time is a disease this species has created, and as their captives, time infects us as well. The symptoms are impatience, and boredom, and madness, and despair. And worst of all: understanding. These creatures cannot see into each other as we can, and therefore they know each other only through the words they invent. And words breed untruth.

And the blue-eyed man has been lying to us.

SOFIA. THE NAME SUITS HER. It’s graceful, like it might slip away between my fingers, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“No more secrets,” I echo, though I know it can’t be a promise of my own. I can see it right there for an instant—how much more there is in that space between us, how much more we could both say. But right as I can feel myself on the edge of doing something stupid, she sighs, scooting back on the bed so she can lean her head against the wall, breaking the moment. I let it go.

“Do you have anything to eat down here?” she asks, toeing off the shoes I snagged for her, so she can draw her knees in against her chest and close her eyes.

“I don’t think it’s going to suit your palate,” I warn her, pushing to my feet and reaching up into the rafters for the locker where I’m pretty sure I stuffed my snacks.

“Hey,” she replies, opening one eye. “Just because you found me living in a penthouse doesn’t mean I was born there.”

“I have no idea where you were born,” I agree, though the gray marble that is Avon flashes through my mind. “But you asked me not to try and find out.” I find a bunch of energy bars and a couple of cans of stims. Cracking the seal on one, I hand it across to her, then open my own, taking a long swig.

She sips and grimaces, then sips again. “You don’t need to know that, for us to work together.”

“True,” I agree. “I can live with the mystery.”

“You work for the Knave, Gideon.” Her lashes lift properly so she can peer at me. It’s not an apology, but it’s something related to it—an explanation she wants me to understand. “I know all the hearsay can’t be right, but if even a fraction of it is, he’s ruthless, impossible to pin down. He could be LaRoux for all anyone actually knows about him. You’re his lackey, at the end of the day. The less you know, the better.”

“Lackey’s a little harsh.” I reach for a joke, but I can hear in my own voice that I don’t quite make it. “I prefer henchman.” She doesn’t smile, and I don’t either. “I’m my own man. You can trust me, I promise you that.”

“I’m trying,” she replies, tired. “You came for me when you didn’t have to. But I don’t trust him.”

“Who told you not to?” I can’t help myself. When this thing is done, I’m going to track down whoever’s been ruining my rep and devise a punishment to make future generations quail. A punishment that would make Commander Towers view the year of her life she’s spent on the run from me as a walk in the park.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replies, grimacing as she sips from her can again, then setting it down beside the bed as her willingness to subject herself to it runs out. “But trust me, I know.”

Silence settles over us, and though having someone in my den makes my skin feel twitchy, there’s something warmer about having her here, too. I’d be the last to admit it, but after what I’ve seen at LRI Headquarters, I don’t really want to be alone.