Almost there.
I nod at the woman’s book, desperate for a distraction. “The history of the Latin Church. I take it you enjoy light reading?”
She laughs and it settles my nerves by a fraction. “I like learning about the saints.”
“Ah. And which ones are you learning about right now?”
She flips through the tattered pages. “Saint Thomas Aquinas. Saint John Bosco. Oh, and Saint Ambrose.”
My body goes rigid.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, blowing out a breath. “I just knew, know, somebody by that name, that’s all.”
“Really?” She smiles. “Which one?”
My tongue works itself around the name I’ve refused to speak in seven years, his name, and when I’m finally able to say it, something deep within me stirs.
I look the woman straight in the eye.
“Ambrose,” I say, expelling a breath. “Ambrose King.”