“How dare you?” I yell at her. “How dare you say something like that? You hide his letters from me and make me think I basically don’t even have a father, and then when I finally find him and have a chance at a normal life, you come in with all these lies and try to screw it up! How do you even live with yourself?”

There are tears in Mom’s eyes now too, but I don’t feel bad.

She looks at me for a moment and then turns away. She paces the room a few times while I stand near the door, watching her suspiciously. Then she sits down on the corner of the bed, reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out a big manila envelope.

“Here,” she says. She thrusts the bulging envelope toward me. “All the letters your father has ever written to you. Read them yourself, Star. They’re almost all asking you for money.”

I stare at the envelope, but I make no move to take it.

“You’re lying,” I say in a low voice. “It’s not true. The letter the Dial reporter gave me just says he loves me and misses me.”

I know this because I’ve memorized every word of it.

“She happened to get her hands on one of the few that aren’t like that,” Mom says softly. “But most of them are. Read them yourself.”

I stare at the envelope for another moment. Then I turn away.

Her sad, imploring, guilty face, the letter from the law firm, the manila envelope . . . I can’t take it anymore. She obviously wants to destroy any chance I have at happiness. “Get out,” I say in a low, firm voice. “Get out now. I don’t want to listen to any more of your lies.”

“Star!” my mother exclaims. She stands up from the bed and looks at me. “Think about this. Think about what you are doing.”

“Just leave, Mom,” I say. “For once, listen to what I am saying.”

She opens her mouth as if to say something else, but then closes it and makes her way toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She places the big manila envelope full of letters on the bed. “I’ll be at the Hilton downtown if you need me.” Then she walks out of the room without looking back.

I shut the door behind her. Then I slide down the wall to the floor, tears flowing so fast I can barely breathe.

Being the smart pop star that he is, Jesse had no choice but to help me when I called in a favor. I don’t feel an ounce of pity for him as he whines to me about fielding questions from the press outside his fancy hotel—where, supposedly, the two of us are going to hold a press conference later this morning.