So shadows of Mama are trapped inside Mina, too. The Carer. My face must mold itself into a look of greater disgust, because Tai crushes my hand. Mama wasn’t her roles. I have to be honest: There absolutely was a time when I thought I could mine necessary information about Mama from her films, from her red-carpet interviews, from professional photo stills themselves. But it was actually Tai growing up and creating this bubble of faux adoration for herself that disabused me of that notion. I can’t know that this is the case for everyone, but the things I love most about my sister—the pure vulnerability with which she hopes, the wellspring of kindness and optimism inside her—are hardly ever on full view to the public, because she’s afraid they’ll be taken from her, used against her, by people who can never truly know her and love her. So she shields herself behind her shallowness, her materialism, her bubbly vapidity.

Her brand of self-protective lies.

“You haven’t been completely honest with us, Teddy,” Tai says, her hand gripping mine like an iron vise. But her voice, her voice is all compassion and clemency.

Teddy maintains his fragile smile. “You girls are so young. There’s only so much truth you can give a person without hurting them beyond repair.”

“I disagree,” I say. “I think that’s what some liars say to rationalize their lying.”

And instead of elbowing me, like I thought she might, Tai just nods.

But Teddy is unfazed. “You’re probably right. But truth is subjective, right, Noni?”

I ignore him and steel myself. “Since you wrote Mina’s script, did you tell her to feed Tai that old recording between Dad and Nítuchí? It wasn’t a glitch. It was too much of a coincidence to be a glitch.”

His eyes gleam inside a cold face. “No one ever gives you enough credit, Noni. You know I gave you a Pocket Best Friend prototype to play with when you were just a kid, don’t you? Before your mother went away. You loved it. And you gave me better feedback than most of the qualified beta testers. You told me she shouldn’t have a set name—that users should be able to pick her name. Because then it makes her feel more like she’s only your friend. Only yours.”

His wheedling, singsong tone frightens me. I never liked the Pocket Girlfriend … Pocket Best Friend, whatever it is. I swear I didn’t. And I don’t like being distracted by an old story I don’t remember. It confuses the truth.