Ellie had not forgiven me.
She might not.
But she had told me the truth and given me permission to contact her again.
I had built entire songs from less.
Seventeen
Savannah
Sophie had prepared six acceptable answers to the same question.
They were printed on cream paper, clipped inside a navy folder, and arranged fromwarm but privatetofirm but gracious.
None sounded like a person.
I sat in the back of a black SUV outside a television studio in New York, reading the first one aloud.
“‘Savannah was enjoying a well-earned break with friends and appreciates everyone respecting her privacy.’”
Rachel looked up from her tablet.
“You sound like a hotel website.”
“I feel like a hotel website.”
Sophie sat across from us with one phone in her hand and another beside her thigh.
“It is neutral.”
“It contains nothing.”
“That is the purpose of neutral.”
I turned to the second answer.
“‘The woman photographed with Savannah is a local acquaintance, and speculation regarding their relationship is unfounded.’”
“No.”
“We already removed that one,” Rachel said.
“I restored it as an emergency option,” Sophie replied.
“It calls Ellie an acquaintance.”
“You knew her for four days.”
“That doesn’t make it accurate.”
Sophie studied me.
“What would you call her?”
I closed the folder.
“Not on television.”
