“Are you always this suspicious?”

Her smile is winsome. This is her version of psychological warfare. “It’s up to you. My exposé is good to go. We can skip this if it’s going to be a charade.” My pulse quickens but I do my best to hide that this is a massive bluff.

Sylvie steps onto the train. “All aboard, Doubting Thomas,” she says over her shoulder.

I follow her through a narrow corridor. Private compartments are tiny, with two seats facing each other divided by slim tables. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Someone skipped Sunday school,” she admonishes.

“Proud atheist.”

“Doubting Thomas was one of the apostles. He missed the first time Jesus appeared after his crucifixion and wouldn’t believe the other apostles until he saw the Son of God for himself. Jesus reappeared and Thomas became a believer. To which Jesus said, ‘Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.’ ”

“I’ve read about your impressive memory.”

“Is that a compliment?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Sure. So, are you comparing yourself to Jesus?”

She chuckles. “Not a chance. I’m just pointing out that, like the apostle Thomas, you don’t have the ability to believe anything you can’t touch. It’s sad, really.”

“Save your pity for the people you con,” I mutter, uncertain why a crack about my lack of imagination rankles, annoyed that I let it show.

We reach Sylvie’s compartment. Thankfully, the sleepers are larger, but with her giant dog, two adults, and a cat, it’ll be plenty tight. There’s a blue vinyl couch along one wall divided from a chair on the opposite wall by a rectangular table, a minuscule bathroom that converts into a shower wedged in a corner. At six-four, there’s no way I’d fit into that shower. The long window between the couch and the seat is table height and rises to wrap a few feet over the top of the sleeping compartment so passengers can see the sky.

Sylvie closes the door, slides her bag under the couch, then sits. Moose hops onto the couch beside her. Seated, he still towers. I set Chris’s carrier on the table, wedge my bag into the small spot left under the couch, fill her litter box, slide it beside the toilet, then take the chair across from Sylvie. She makes a face at the litter box. “What? It’s not like Moose won’t need to relieve himself at some point.”

“And when he does, he’ll let me know and wait for the next station stop.” Sylvie folds her hands over one knee. “So. Here we are. Let’s start with an easy question to crack the ice. Why Christopher Robin?”

I play along. “Obviously, Winnie the Pooh.”

“ ‘Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.’ ”

I’m not surprised Sylvie can quote a popular children’s book. Still, there’s a wistful look on her face. My guess is that most con artists who’ve been caught probably wish they could return to simpler times. What about that wonderland quote? I dismiss it. That’s what these people do—throw out cultural touchstones to hook their prey.