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Evie Davis is back!

That's what the chyron on the bottom of the television screen reads, the one that sits just above the well-lit mirror in front of me. It's the teaser text that viewers at home will see before this interview—the first one I've given since returning to the public eye with a bang, a book deal. A million secrets to tell or sell, depending on who you ask. It's not a particularly creative set of four words, but it works, I guess. It makes people ask: Where did she go? And why did she leave? And why should I care? The questions that sell books.

A stranger fluffs my hair as I check the giant digital clock on the wall, just to the left of the mirror in front of me. Hair and makeup now, and in an hour, it'll be time to go live. To tell everyone why they should care that I left, that I'm back, that they can read about all of it. I text Hazel: "Almost here?"

I don't blame everyone for thinking the book was a money grab at first, a way to double down on an already successful career, a cushy bank account. It made it that much more satisfying when everyone learned that the money was actually gone, that my mother had whittled it away over the years, bringing her bank accounts and mine down to almost nothing. People felt bad then—that they had assumed I was in control of it all. As if any child, any teenager, can ever really be in control of anything. I had assumed the money was safe, that I was safe, because that's what you do when you're growing up, living in your parent's house. You trust them. At least I had my sister, right?

My phone lights up. A text from Hazel: "Car's about to pull up! Kind of freaking out!!!" I smile. "I'm excited, too," I write. I snap a photo of my hair in rollers and send it to her with a text.

"Does this or does this not make me look like George Washington?"

An instant reply: "It definitely does, but to be honest you're pulling it off and I hate you for it."

I've missed this. Talking with my sister. Joking. It was six months after she showed up at ReBrand that I got my phone back, my first-ever flip phone, which I was shocked to find do still exist. All new contacts. No social media. Simple. By then, Hazel had gone back to Charlie's and found the rest of my journals—the real ones, the ones that I had poured every dark thought into, every way my mom had failed me, every detail of manipulation, and started outlining chapters. Six months after that, she had a first draft.

It was a perfect plan, really. She put everything she learned in journalism school into the structure of the draft, polishing the flow of the chapters, the narrative, thoughtfully interviewing me over the phone to fill in the gaps. There were parts of the book when I wanted more details from Hazel, more about her perspective, her choices. More vulnerability and honesty. "You're sure there's not anything else you want to include?" I'd push, but she'd say no, that this wasn't about her. Obviously.

It wasn't until we got to the chapters about ReBrand that I realized I couldn't stay in Joshua Tree any longer—that I didn't need them to hold my hand anymore. I had known for a long time that what Natalie was trying to build wasn't as pure as she claimed, that maybe it never was, but I didn't care. It had given me everything I needed. I would have never been able to find the balance I know now if I hadn't started from scratch. Of course, there was also the fact that the docuseries was still rolling around in my brain. I had taken the ultimate step that Gavin and I discussed: I was in it. They trusted me. I knew the ins and outs of how the program worked, how the money flowed. Maybe the docuseries wouldn't work anymore. But a whole chapter of the book dedicated to the ways they had failed me, too…well, that had potential. Plus, I had my suspicions about the finances at ReBrand. The spending versus the income. The way houses were always half finished, construction projects halted. The advance for the book had been significant, enough money for Hazel and me to be set for a decade if we lived modestly. Simply. And once Natalie (Dani now, again) left, too, exposing even more about them than Hazel and I did—well, that was the end of that.

"I'm here, I'm here," Hazel says as she rushes into the room, sweat coating her brow. She settles into the chair next to me, a makeup artist already plastering her face with foundation. "So. This is happening, huh?"

"It is," I say. "You ready?"

"Absolutely not." She laughs. "Still completely open to you excluding me from this whole thing."

I insisted that Hazel join for the interview, that I would explain to the interviewer how amazing she was at her job. How I couldn't have written the book without her. All true, of course, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

"No way," I say. "We did the book together, and we're doing this, too."

She nods, and she can't help herself; she's beaming. Her eyes travel to the screen, where the book is being shown in another preview, the cover plastered with the now-infamous photo of the cactus with a balloon attached to it. I do love that cover. I watch her eyes travel over the text, the authors' names: mine in giant, stacked type, and hers in smaller text just below. That had been agreed upon in the book contract, too, that her name would be on the cover in addition to mine. I had to fight the publishers on that, and I had to fight Hazel when it came to the profits. It was important that she made more than me—sixty-five percent compared to my thirty-five, to be exact, even though she pushed for fifty-fifty, for a while anyway.

An intern pops their head into the makeup room after a few minutes. "Hazel, Evie—almost ready to head to the studio?"

Hazel turns white instantly, but I take the lead. This is like riding a bike.

"Ready to go!" I announce, hopping out of the chair and grabbing Hazel's hand.

We follow the intern to the studio, which is all bright lights and clean, smooth surfaces. Producers buzz around the room while makeup artists touch-up anchors.

"Five minutes, and then you'll go there," the intern says to us, pointing toward a couch up ahead. "Any questions?"

"Where are the nearest exits?" Hazel quips, and the producer shoots me a brief panicked look.

"We're fine, thank you," I cut in.

I squeeze Hazel's hand, reminding her that everything will be fine. Why wouldn't it be?

A producer waves us over a few minutes later and we settle into the couch easily, though Hazel keeps talking through her teeth.

"Oh, yeah, okay. I remember exactly why I hated this as a kid," she mumbles. "It's all coming back to me."

"You'll be great," I assure her, adjusting my posture, my skirt. I ask the makeup artist for a mirror, quickly check my teeth for the remains of my breakfast, dab an oil-blotting sheet on my T-zone. Mom taught me well.

The anchor sits and smiles at us politely, though I know we're just two of a dozen people she'll talk to today. No need for small talk before we do this.

They count us in, a light goes on, and just like that, we're live.

I smile during our intro, though not too big. I laugh, though not too loud.

The anchor gives the perfunctory pitch of the book to the camera, and as expected, she turns to pepper me with questions first.

"Evie, I think that most of us were quite shocked by the contents of this book, the ways your mother…well, violated your privacy, to put it lightly. Can you tell us what it's been like to share all of that?"

I tone done my smile a degree or two. "Yes, well," I start. "It wasn't easy, of course. To go through all of that, to relive it all in detail, even with my sister's support."

The anchor turns toward Hazel, who is shifting awkwardly on the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs even though I told her not to. But then her eyes are on me again.

"And how are things with your mom now?" the anchor asks. "I know many people are calling for her to be arrested and charged with something…child pornography, even, given the cameras that you outline in the book. That was incredibly hard for me to read, I have to admit."

I've practiced this answer before, of course. Disappointed, but not angry. Sad, but not angry. Seeking justice, but not angry. Never angry.

"I don't speak to my mother now," I say. "But I do forgive her. And I'll always love her, in spite of everything. I do think, though, that there need to be consequences for the ways that people take advantage of the children of influencers. There are protections in place for child actors, after all, who are often managed by their parents in much of the same ways. So why shouldn't the same apply to people who grew up like I did?"

"I totally agree," the anchor says. "Absolutely."

I think of how I had seen the anchor's face on my screen yesterday, interviewing a twelve-year-old who had gone viral for starting a dog-walking business, how she looked at the girl at the end of the interview and said, "So, do you have a boyfriend?" and then caught herself and added, "Or a girlfriend?" as if that was the problem with her first question.

"I also know," the anchor continues, "that it was important to you to have your older sister, Hazel—your ghostwriter—here today. Is that right?"

"Absolutely," I say. "I wouldn't be here without Hazel. And the book definitely wouldn't be here."

Hazel laughs nervously.

"Tell us a little about that," the anchor says. "What made you think that Hazel would be a good fit for this project?"

"Well, she is an incredible reporter. A great journalist. She was the person who really pushed me to do things outside of my comfort zone, outside of Instagram," I say. "And then there was the fact that I had already seen how creative she could be when it came to writing about the world of influencing, and influencers."

I feel Hazel flinch next to me, just slightly, but I keep my eyes on the anchor.

"I'm sure Hazel would be embarrassed that I'm getting into this here, but she deserves the credit, really. Hazel actually started an extremely popular, very lucrative newsletter all about influencers a few years ago. I think it had—what was it, Hazel? Like, 20,000 paid subscribers at its height?" I turn to Hazel for her response and she's the color of a paper napkin. "I mean, people loved it. It was hilarious. And so much about this stuff, when it isn't dark, is kind of funny, you know? You have to laugh at it all sometimes."

The anchor is sensing something is off now, her eyes darting between Hazel and me.

"Oh," she says. "That's…well that's very cool."

"It really was," I add. "She even wrote about me, choices I had made. My friends, my boyfriend at the time. She saw it all. And anytime I told her about something going on in the industry, a faux pas someone had made—and, God, there are so many, you know?—she found a really creative, intelligent way to write about it. Anyway, I just thought she would be perfect for this."

"Right," the anchor says, gazing between us, and then her eyes shoot toward her notes. "That's why you wanted Hazel to earn most of the money for this book, right? You said that was important to you."

"Well, I mean, of course," I say, adding a slight hint of confusion to my face as if to say: Why wouldn't I want that, lady? "I didn't know how all that stuff worked then, but once Hazel explained it, it made perfect sense."

A sound comes out of Hazel's mouth like she's about to talk, to protest, but the second I turn to her, her mouth snaps shut. Like she doesn't dare say anything.

"That's really generous of you, Evie," the anchor says. "Especially after everything you went through with your mom…the money…"

I fix my eyes downward, looking embarrassed, uncertain, sheepish. This part is important.

"Oh, it's nothing," I say. "It's what's right. She's my sister, after all. Family."

The anchor's eyes narrow. "But so was your mother, right?"

"Of course." I nod, confident, measured, like of course I don't miss the similarities here. Of course I thought through them. "But Hazel and I…we've been through so much together. We understand each other. We trust each other."

I don't have a smartphone anymore, but I can practically hear updates from Reddit pinging in my head: Wait, is Hazel Davis…SABI? Holy shit. And now she's making even more money off of her sister's story…this is sooo fucked-up.

I never could stop people from theorizing. From talking. People can't help themselves, you know?

"Hazel knows what I mean." I turn to her, my smile wide and generous. Expectant. "Right?"

She looks terrified, truly frozen in fear, and then something in her snaps. A reminder to act normal. Human. "One hundred percent."

"That's…that's really special," the anchor says, a little cautiously.

"Besides," I add, "if there's one thing you should know about Hazel—the thing she's always reminded me herself—it's that she's nothing like my mother."

Hazel swallows so loudly then that I wonder if the mic picks it up. Couldn't hurt.

And then there's that sound again, the imaginary pinging.

Hazel Davis is a monster. Jesus.

Ping, ping.

Are you honestly telling me that Hazel Davis monetized her sister's secrets?

Ping, ping.

And we thought Erin was bad…

Ping, ping.

God, poor Evie. Poor, poor Evie.