The Italian place was quieter on a Wednesday.
Same red checkered tablecloths. Same low ceilings. Same smell of garlic and something baking that made the cold outside feel further away than it was. They took the same corner table without discussing it — the one that had become, without ceremony, theirs.
Ethan was already there.
He stood when she came in. She'd stopped being surprised by that. She'd started being glad of it.
They sat. Ordered without the menus. The waiter — the same one as last time, Aria noticed — didn't ask questions.
"You look lighter," Ethan said.
"Three days of telling the truth will do that," she said.
He looked at her steadily. "How was the last session?"
"Torres asked if I'd do it differently." She broke a piece of bread. "Knowing what I know now."
"What did
