“Sylvie asked me to.”

“Why?”

Lucas fiddles with his chunky stainless steel watch then meets my gaze. “Not sure. She keeps the personal stuff to herself these days.” He hesitates. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can, but I’m not sure I’ll answer it.”

“Why didn’t you run the exposé? You had enough, and if you’d included everything you’d learned about her past, the cover-up and lies? It would’ve sold a lot of papers.”

I shift my backpack to the other shoulder. “It’s Sylvie’s story to tell. Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you still her agent when you don’t believe she has a gift?”

“I believe in her, always have; that what she does helps people, gives desperately needed closure. When she walked out of her show in Portland, I was worried that she was done for good. We had to refund all the ticket holders and compensate the venue, but it was a small price to pay for Sylvie’s peace of mind. For a minute I thought she might fire me, but Sylvie knows that I’ll always have her back.” This time when Lucas smiles, it’s genuine. “Sylvie’s TV show comes out this spring. Done her way. We’re already filming. It’s fantastic. Will you watch?”

“Probably not,” I say. It would be too hard. Lucas holds out his hand. We shake. We’ll never see eye to eye, but we agree on one thing, protecting Sylvie. When he’s gone, I find my seat and dig a snow globe from my backpack. It was in the window display of a tiny jewelry shop on Sunset. At first the owner wouldn’t sell it, but eventually I convinced him. I might’ve used the word love.

Inside the snow globe stands a woman in the center of a wheat field. Golden stalks sway in an imaginary wind. When the globe is shaken, orange and red wildflowers swirl, catch in the long brown hair and the folds of a white dress. I don’t know if that woman waits for someone or has chosen to walk alone. I’ve written an address on the bottom of the globe, a restaurant a few blocks away. I have no idea if Sylvie will come after the show. Whatever she chooses, I hope she’s happy.

The lights go down. The audience’s excitement mutes to murmurs as they await the complex light show, inspirational symphony, and atmospheric smoke that start Sylvie’s show. Instead, a single spotlight appears on the stage.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Sylvie . . .

Sylvie walks out, Moose at her side, the fuzzy bone he loves drooping from both sides of his mouth. The crowd ahhs when they see her, and then oohs at Moose, the adorable monster. I’ve never seen Sylvie wear anything on stage but a sleeveless black jumpsuit, but tonight she’s in a simple crème-colored short-sleeved turtleneck and jeans paired with the Converse sneaks she wore on the train. There’s little makeup besides a pale gloss on her lips. Gone is the sophisticated chignon. Her hair is swept into a low ponytail.