I can’t breathe. “Listen, that’s enough,” I say, trying to sound confident. “This interview is over!”

Karen continues like I haven’t said anything at all. “When all along it was your mother who took you away from him?”

“That’s not what happened!” I retort. My heart is racing. “You’ve been seriously misinformed.”

I start to stand up, fully intending to walk away. But the reporter just smiles calmly.

“That’s hard for you to say when I have proof right here,” she says, holding up an envelope. I stop in my tracks for a moment, unable to tear my eyes away from it. Then I lean forward, despite myself, and stare. It’s addressed to me but under my real name, Amanda Star Beckendale-Mecham.

And in the upper left corner, above an unfamiliar address in St. Petersburg, Florida, is a very familiar name.

Peter Mecham.

My dad.

I take the letter from her. Just then, Mariska reenters the room. Her face registers surprise the moment she sees me standing there looking like I’ve seen a ghost.

“Star? You okay?” she asks.

But I’m already breezing past her and the smirking reporter, on my way out the door, shaking so hard I feel like I’m in the middle of an earthquake.

I slam the door to my hotel suite behind me and sit down on the floor right there to tear the letter open.

Dear Amanda,

Maybe it’s crazy that I’m still writing to you after all this time. But I just want you to know that I’ve never forgotten about you. You must have a good reason for not wanting to talk with me, but I would give the world to speak with you again. You are—and always will be—my little girl.

Love,
Daddy

I read the letter over twice. Then a sudden wave of nausea hits me. I make it into the bathroom just in time to throw up.

I can’t find Mom anywhere. She’s not in our suite. She’s not in the hotel spa. Her cell goes straight to voice mail.

Mariska is at my door within five minutes.

“Star?” She pounds on the door loudly. “Star? I know you’re in there. Open up.”

“Go away!” I finally yell. I wipe my mouth on a towel in the bathroom, swish some water around in my mouth, spit and wipe again.

“Star, open the door!” she insists. I ignore her, but she keeps pounding.

Finally, I cross the room and yank open the door.

“What?” I demand.

“Star,” she begins. She pauses, like she doesn’t know what to say next. She stands there for a moment and takes me in. I know I must look like a wreck. Red-rimmed eyes. Pale, lifeless skin. I probably smell a little like vomit.

“What do you want?”

“I . . .” Her voice trails off. “Can I come in?”