That’s hard, and I sit silently for a moment before I get up and start pacing her living room, one way and then the other, as I try to put my thoughts into words. Nut and Juice follow me the first lap, but then they lie down in their bed and watch me walk, occasionally looking to Poppy for a clue about what’s happening.
I wish I knew too, but I’m as lost as they are about how we all got here.
“What I told you before wasn’t a lie, except by cutting the tale short. I did get started with pickpocketing and petty theft stuff. I got caught once, as a juvenile, for shoplifting, but my parents helped me get out of it. There was lots of volunteer work to make restitution. But they never let me forget it. From that point on, I was the black sheep. A criminal. Ungrateful for all they’d done for me. I could’ve chosen to be better, prove myself worthy to them. But I didn’t. I figured if they’d already written me off, then why bother trying to prove otherwise?”
I clear my throat, mentally staring off into the past. “Ironically, it was during all that community service that I met people who appreciated me. There were other juvenile delinquents, and they accepted my point of view and taught me things. They gave me some new connections. I fell further and further.”
“Connor, I know it’s going to sound bitchy, but right now, I don’t care about your spoiled rich kid problems,” Poppy says, rolling her hand expectantly. “Get to the art heist part.”
“I’m getting there, trust me. After I got those connections, I had a corner I’d hang out on, pickpocket the tourists. One day, I overheard this guy in a suit talking on his phone about a gallery showing. He said he was prepared to pay $10,000 for this painting if he could get his hands on it. I don’t know why I did it, but I followed him, saw where he worked and the name on the door.”
I think back, shaking my head at my stupid luck at my first art job. “The next day, I went to the gallery he mentioned and looked at the art. I’d been to museums on field trips, but that was the extent of my art knowledge then. But I had balls bigger than my brains and figured I could swipe it. So, I watched, waited, and in the end, it was easy.”
“Easy?”
I shrug. “You have no idea how slack security can be at galleries. They don’t even realize it because most of the customers are law-abiding, good people who aren’t going to swipe things. In the end, I literally slipped it right under my sweatshirt and walked out. Later that day, I showed up at that guy’s office, told him I had something for him.”
“You should’ve seen his eyes,” I continue with a shake of my head. “They were big as fucking saucers. He was so excited, didn’t even care that I’d obviously stolen it. He gave me ten grand cash right on the spot like it was chump change, and I walked out feeling like a god.”
“That had to be a high,” Poppy murmurs, and I hum in agreement.
“Some, but when it faded, I didn’t feel like a god. I felt like . . . like a devil. I was exactly what my mom and dad thought I was. So I decided to revel in it, stupidly thinking that by rebelling against them, I could lessen the impact of disappointing them.”
“Then what?”
“Well, I started chasing that high. I did it again, and again. But I was smarter than most. I learned about art, moved from pickpocketing to breaking and entering, and then to more complex methods. I got good. So fucking good. Word spread, and I got hired on for jobs. It would’ve been fine, except . . .”
I swallow thickly, running my hands through my hair as memories of my high-flying days turn sour.
“My grandfather died unexpectedly. I was out of town on a job, and Mom and Dad couldn’t reach me. I didn’t know, so I missed the service completely. My dad was furious, and he’s never forgiven me.” I haven’t forgiven myself either, but this is not about my absolution.
“Dad hasn’t been the same since my grandfather’s death. He . . . retreated, became what you’ve seen of him. Maybe if I’d been here, I could’ve helped somehow. We’ll never know.”
I sigh, leaving behind the pain of those dark days, the solitary visit I made to the gravesite of the man who’d taught me magic tricks as a kid by pulling quarters from behind my ears. Those sleight of hand tricks came in useful in ways he never imagined. In a twisted way, I feel like my stealing is an homage to him, using the things he taught me, though not exactly in the way he’d intended. I wonder sometimes if he’d be ashamed of me or proud of me.