My dad’s not in his office, though, so I push his door open and help myself. I love this room. My father has one of those oversized wooden power desks—glass-topped and studded down the legs. A brass bar stocked with fancy man bottles—bourbon and gin and even tequila—stands in one corner, and a bookcase full of leather-bound classics that only Isla reads stands in the other. An original of the Baby Hope photo hangs on the wall, though why he’d want to see that every day, no matter how much money it’s worth, I don’t understand. The sofa faces the desk, and when I was little and Mom was on set, Isla and I would sit tucked into its corner and draw. We preferred to be with my dad, even when he was too busy to pay attention to us, instead of in the playroom with our toys and the weekend nanny. He’d yell into the phone and scowl at his computer screen and mutter curses to himself, and it felt a lot like watching my mother on television—a glimpse at their strange alter egos, the people they morphed into when we were not around.

I rummage around in his top drawer and find only orange Tic Tacs, which my mom would say are more candy than breath mint, but beggars can’t be choosers. I steal a handful, throw them in my mouth, and enjoy their sweet crunch. A red file sits loose in the drawer, and before I realize what I’m doing, I lean down to read the label.

It’s neatly typed, innocuous: Chloe College Apps.

Isla always claims to have a sixth sense, and for the first time, I understand what she means. There’s a physicality to what’s happening, a cellular expectation deeper than my consciousness. Opening this folder will change everything, I realize; there’ll be no going back. Still, I feel the moment’s inevitability, no different from anything else inevitable—leaving home, growing up, dying.

I open the file carefully, slowly, as if how I open it will alter what’s inside. At first, I can’t make sense of what I see. A photograph is clipped to the top.

It’s me and it’s not me.