“I’m not going to change my mind,” Annie says, all business.

“Sylvie called.”

“And?”

“I’m waiting for her at the train station.”

“You lovebirds running away together?”

“Funny. If the journalism thing doesn’t work out, you should be a stand-up comic. We’re heading to her parents’ home in High River, then on to Portland to spend some time before her next show.”

Annie whistles. “You’re serious. Unlimited access?”

“We’ll see.”

She laughs. “I guess you did lay on the charm. Go get your story.”

“Will do. Talk soon.” I spy Sylvie walking toward me, gargantuan dog by her side.

“You brought your cat?” she asks.

I slide the carrier off my knees then stand. “You brought your dog?”

She pointedly looks at the green and yellow service jacket on Moose then at Chris’s pink carrier. When her beast steps close, Chris hisses. “Call him back,” I say. Sylvie snaps her fingers and the dog returns to her side like a witch’s minion. They’re an arresting pair. Despite my very real fears, I recognize that Moose is a handsome creature. Gleaming black fur with a white patch on his broad chest, perked ears, perfect posture. Sylvie, dark hair in a low ponytail, dressed down in jeans, a white T-shirt, blue blazer, and Converse sneakers, still draws every eye.

Brakes squeal as the Amtrak Coast Starlight pulls into the station. “Have you spoken to your parents?”

“No. Surprise is the best tactic.”

Sylvie’s expression is impossible to read. “Care to elaborate?”

“Nope.”

“All aboard,” an Amtrak employee shouts.

“What’s your seat number?” I ask. “The sleeper cars were sold out.”

Sylvie chuckles. “I got the last one. Come by after you find your seat.”

I hold out my hand. “Your computer, tablet if you brought one, and phone.”

“Pardon?”

“Rules of engagement.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Is this a war?”

“If you want to prove you’re the real deal, then your agent and the Internet are off the table.” From a contact at TixMix, whom I gifted a case of wine, I know they send out the names of ticket holders to Sylvie’s agent two days before her shows. I couldn’t crack the other ticket vendors, but my guess is they follow a similar schedule. It’s my turn to smile. She slides a laptop and iPad from her suitcase, gives them to me along with the phone from her purse.

Hands on her slim hips, Sylvie asks, “Satisfied?”

“No.” I go through the suitcase, try to ignore underwear and bras (they’re black and lacy), check her purse, too. She has about a dozen rolls of antacids between the two bags. Maybe all the lies she tells to her audiences have gotten to her.

“Want to frisk me next?”

I match her light tone. “No thanks. Anything in your pockets?”

She pats them down. “We good?”

“How big is your sleeping compartment?”

There’s genuine shock on her face. “You want to share my room?”

“If I leave you alone, you’ll find a way to contact your agent, production team, or parents.”