“I don’t know what Scofield promised you, but I’m not a call girl, I’m not a pro at all. I owe him money, but I’m not going to give my body away to pay him back, and I came here to let you know that.”
He stares at me searchingly for several long, unnerving seconds, saying nothing.
“I understand,” he says flatly.
“Well, good then,” I return. “I can go.”
“Don’t you want to know who I am?”
“I suppose you’re Mr. Ells.”
“I am. But you wouldn’t know me by that name, and Mr. Scofield probably doesn’t know that.”
“You have another name?”
“Devon.”
Devon. Devon. The name calls up memories—rollarcoasters, Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds. Cotton Candy, carnival glass, and the laughing clown looming over the fun house. Slowly the recognition begins to dawn on me.
“Oh, my God, you’ve changed
