The limo takes me back to the Regency, where my whole entourage will stay tonight before taking a noon flight back to Los Angeles tomorrow. We came east by tour bus, slowly hitting all the major cities in the West and Midwest, but it would take days to retrace the same route home. Instead, the two tour bus drivers and the equipment truck driver will drive back on their own and meet us in L.A.

During my concert tonight, I managed to push aside most of my feelings, but now they all come flooding back. I’m so upset by the time we arrive at the Regency that I don’t even stop and sign autographs in the lobby. I feel bad about it as the fans gaze after me with crushed expressions, but I can’t handle it tonight.

I take the elevator straight up to the suite, looking forward to a little privacy. Even though I know I need to have it out with her, I kind of hope Mom’s not in the room. I need time to think. I tell Mike and Tiny Joe to call it a night—and since they look as worn out as I feel, they listen.

“Hello?” I call as I turn the knob, slipping the key card in my pocket.

“Star?”

It’s Mom. I can feel my blood pressure climb. I know I have to confront her. I hate confrontations.

She rounds the corner and blinks at me a few times. She’s dressed in tight jeans, a white shirt so sheer I can see her bra, and spiky red heels. Her hair is tousled in a professional-looking way. I can’t believe it; she’s obviously dressed to go somewhere.

“You’re going out?” I ask. I can hear my voice climb an octave with anger. Mom looks a little flustered.

“I didn’t expect you home so soon, Star,” she says, avoiding my glance. I stare at her for a moment.

“Are you serious?” I demand. My hands seem to have clenched into angry fists on their own. “I know you know about the Dial interview today. And you were going to go out and keep avoiding me?”

Mom looks temporarily speechless. “Well,” she says finally, “I don’t know what you want me to say. I thought I’d give you some time to cool down so we could have a rational conversation.”

My jaw drops. She looks so smug, I feel like throwing something at her.

“You wanted me to cool down?” I ask loudly. “So we could be rational? Are you for real? You’ve kept my father hidden from me for most of my life and you expect that I’m going to be calm about it?”

Mom shrugs dismissively. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says.

“Try me.” My voice is as cold as ice. She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs again.