Ross scratched his elbow and looked away. “Apparently your father received an email today from someone purporting to be a school official. He forwarded it to us, and we saw right away that it was from a spoof email account. There’s no way to know who sent it, unfortunately. It was probably someone trying to play a prank.”

“What exactly did this email say?” Mateo already had a guess.

“It looked really convincing,” Ross said. “I’m not surprised your father thought it was real. The email attached a document on official school letterhead asking your father to sign a consent form for you to receive grief counseling.”

“Grief counseling for Brandon,” Mateo said.

Ross nodded. “The email also said that Brandon was—”

“My boyfriend,” Mateo finished for him.

Ross nodded again, his face a mixture of nerves and pity.

The pieces started to fall into place.

It would’ve been easy enough for Maria to set up a fake email address. And she’d have been smart enough to figure out that sending his dad an email about Mateo’s dead boyfriend would’ve been basically the same thing for him that getting pushed out a window was for Delilah.

“Where exactly am I supposed to go?” Mateo said. “Back home?”

“Your father, ah . . .” Ross cleared his throat. With every word of this conversation the faint lines in his forehead were getting deeper. “Maybe?”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“The dean said your father wasn’t clear about that part. But that’s got to be what he meant, for you to come home. He’s your dad, right?”

Mateo wondered what Ross’s father was like, to make him so sure of that.

Mateo’s father wasn’t a monster, but he valued his pride more than anything. Having a maricón for a son wasn’t anything to be proud of.

“There are only a few months left until graduation.” Mateo tried not to sound like he was begging. “My scholarship’s still good, right? Just let me stay until then. My dad can’t revoke it just because I’m gay.”

Ross coughed and looked away. “No, he can’t. But you’re under eighteen, and that means if your parents want to cancel your enrollment, they can. The dean has the number for a social worker you can call, when you get home, in case things aren’t—”

“Right.” Mateo turned back toward the football field. Ross caught his arm. Mateo wrenched it away.

Three and a half years he’d been at this school. Convinced his parents to let him come here. Worked to keep his grades up so he wouldn’t lose his scholarship.

Four league championships he’d won for Acheron. Now he couldn’t even stay long enough to graduate.

“When do I have to go?” Mateo asked.

“Uh.” Ross looked at his feet again. “Tomorrow.”

“Right.”

This time when he turned to go, Ross didn’t stop him.