The office was the size of a closet and contained a metal desk, three mismatched chairs, a filing cabinet, and a framed photograph of Hank holding a fish he claimed had insulted him.
Ellie entered first.
I followed.
Hank closed the door behind us.
The noise from outside disappeared.
So did the crowd.
So did Savannah’s smile.
For one moment, I stood there without knowing what to do with my own face.
Ellie leaned against the desk.
“Annie Miller?”
“My real name.”
“And Savannah Brooks?”
“My stage name.”
She nodded, filing it away.
“Rachel Donovan is your manager.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Grant is your publicist.”
“Yes.”
“You sing the songs you kept pretending you’d only heard a few times.”
“Yes.”
“And when you said you were successful…”
“I was trying to tell you something true.”
“Without telling me the truth.”
There it was.
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Ellie exhaled slowly.
“I didn’t Google you.”
“I know.”
“You asked me not to, and I didn’t.”
