"Gianna, you look the same—still hiding that half-smile," Reed said as he took off his coat.
I didn't answer. I pushed my camera strap farther into my shoulder and let them fight over the booth like this was a small victory party instead of a landing strip between two worlds.
"You're being dramatic," Cameron said, tugging her hat back into place. "If fans saw you like this, they'd riot. You two are hoarding nostalgia."
"She brought actual mud on her boots," Reed said, grinning. He lifted one sleeve to show a smudge that matched mine. He smelled like whiskey and studio floor polish.
"That mud is earned," I said. My voice felt dry. I put my fingers on the camera body. It was warm from being under my coat.
Reed's grin softened. "Legend, then. Come on, tell us one thing. Did you get any good shots?"
"You tell them," I said.
Cameron leaned forward, her pregnancy catching the low light like a private joke. "You can't make me choose. What I want is the truth. Did she shoot someone who mattered?"
"She shoots what matters," Reed said. "And she doesn't broadcast it unless it counts."
A waiter hovered with a tablet. The lounge kept its voices soft, but the room was full of people who traded secrets for covers. I watched a couple framed like magazine ads through the partition. I watched my reflection in a dark window. That reflection had a
