“Sorry, phew, traffic was insane.” I practically throw myself and my things on the tabletop beside him, paperback and notebook in hand. “You took a cab?” That would probably make more sense, yes. “Yep. My driver’s name was Fiona. She really liked Alanis Morissette.” “Fiona?” Fletcher repeats, like the name has never existed until this moment. “Fiona Apple,” I confirm. “Like…the singer?” That was a singer? “Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?” The joke goes right over his head, apparently, because he just pushes this little engine of a conversation right on through. “You took a cab for a
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