“Whatever.” I shrug and slouch away from the door. I feel like I’m walking through fog. The words from the letter keep replaying themselves in my mind. I keep trying to remind myself that the letter could be a fake. The reporter could just be trying to get a reaction out of me. But there’s something about the smug, triumphant way she smiled at me that makes my blood run cold. Somehow, I know she’s not lying.

And if the letter is real, I don’t even know where to begin.

“Star,” Mariska starts again, following me into the suite. I sit down on the couch and she sits tentatively across from me. There’s a moment of silence. I feel numb. “Star,” she finally starts again. “About the letter . . .”

“Is it real?” I ask. I finally look at her. She hesitates. Just long enough for me to know the answer. After a moment, she nods.

“Yes.”

“How did that reporter get it?” I pick up the letter, which I’ve put back in its envelope, and look at it. Again, Mariska hesitates.

“An intern,” she finally says. I just look at her. She continues, her voice heavy. “As you can see, it was sent to you in care of your management company. Every summer, they have college interns working, and apparently this summer, one of the interns stole the letter and gave it to Dial.”

“This can’t be happening,” I mumble.

“Don’t worry,” Mariska says quickly. “I’m doing damage control. We’re slapping them with a lawsuit, and we’re even trying to get the federal government involved since it includes tampering with mail that was addressed to you.”

“But that isn’t going to stop them, is it?” I ask. Mariska hesitates, then shakes her head.

“Honestly?” she says. “Probably not. This is a big story for them, you know.”

I’m silent for a moment. It feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

“Mariska,” I say slowly. I look her right in the eye. “Do you know anything about my dad?”

I can’t even believe I’m asking, after thirteen years of being silenced every time I bring him up to my mom. Is it possible Mariska has had some real answers all along?

She pauses.

“Yes,” she says finally. “Your mother asked a private detective to look into him last year.”

“What?” I ask. Mariska nods slowly.

“It was after . . . one of his letters,” she says haltingly.

“One of his letters?” I repeat, feeling sick again. Mariska looks away.

“He lives in St. Petersburg, Florida,” Mariska says flatly. “He owns a music store called Mecham’s Music. He had just filed for bankruptcy at the time.”