“Why?” The very last thing we need is for my half brother to show up high out of his mind and to put on a show for the paparazzi. Even worse, depending on whether my dad is still giving him money—he was supposed to have cut him off because a therapist told him it was enabling—Hudson might be desperate enough to sell a story. I feel sorry for my brother—his mom, Sage, my dad’s first wife, was an addict too, years ago, so he’s genetically predisposed—but my empathy for him doesn’t mean I want him anywhere near here. Not to mention, my dad does not have the bandwidth to deal with Hudson. None of us does.

“Hud says he wants to give moral support. I told Dad to tell him we moved,” Isla says.

“Did Dad laugh?”

“Nope,” she says. “But in all fairness, I wasn’t totally joking.”

Isla leaves, probably to go do homework or, you know, find the legal loophole that will save my mother. Before I lose my courage, I dial the first number on the list. Carrie decided yesterday that it was too complicated to change our chips, so instead she bought both Isla and me brand-new iPhones. Normally, I’d be excited by this—I’ll wipe my old one and give it to Cesar’s mom—but every time I look at the shiny new cell, which is empty of all contacts and texts and photos, I feel lonely. Nothing has carried over. Not even my apps.

“Jaberowski, Lowe, and Stein,” a receptionist answers. “Mr. Lowe’s office.”

“Hi, may I speak to Mr. Lowe, please?” I ask this in as confident a tone as I can muster. My voice comes out tinny and young, a child asking for permission. I hate talking on the phone. If I could manage to hire a lawyer over text or email, I totally would.

“I’ll see if Mr. Lowe is available. Who may I say is calling?”

“Umm, Chloe Berringer? Umm, Joy Fields’s daughter.”

I hear an audible gasp from the secretary, followed by an: “One moment, please.” Apparently, she too must get the New York Times news alerts.

“Chloe,” a man says warmly, less than twenty seconds later. “I’m so glad you reached out. I’ve been worried about you.”

“Hi,” I say, because I’m not sure what to say to this. I’ve never met Mr. Lowe. I don’t even know how he found his way onto Isla’s list, or why she put him at the top. I have no idea why it would have occurred to him to worry about me.

“I assume you’re calling because you’ve found yourself in a little spot of bother.” That’s one way to put it, I think. Spot of bother.