Three little girls in Central Park recognized the tattoo on my arm—when they said their last name, a seven-year secret I was never meant to uncover came to light

what’s inconvenient.”

At the time, I had no idea what she meant.

A few hours later, I woke up alone in a cheap motel room. Savannah was gone. No note. No number. Nothing but the faint trace of her perfume on the pillow and the fresh bandage wrapped around my arm.

For years I told myself she just wanted that night to stay a secret.

I respected that.

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