She looked at me.
Her fingers were still closed around the bracelet.
“Savannah Brooks.”
There was no accusation in the words.
That was worse.
“Yes.”
“You’re Savannah Brooks.”
“Yes.”
“The Savannah Brooks.”
“I don’t know how many there are.”
Her expression did not change.
The joke landed between us and expired quietly.
I looked down.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
Ellie glanced around the market.
“Apparently privacy’s flexible.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question was soft.
Not cruel.
Still, it landed.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“For which part?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing useful arrived.
The name?
The omission?
The fact that she had asked what I did and I had made her assemble the answer from professionally coordinated toothpaste and suspiciously expensive shirts?
A shout came from behind us.
