The campus is huge, with square lawns separating the sprawling yellow-brick buildings. There’s no one around, maybe because there’s nowhere to shelter from the cold wind, and only a few cars in the parking lot when we pull in at eight forty-five.

‘What kind of car did Biggs drive?’ I ask.

‘A blue Prius. Security footage shows it leaving this parking lot at six pm on the day he went missing.’

I look around, noting the position of the cameras. They don’t cover the road, so we can’t tell which way he turned. The missing car wouldn’t be odd if he skipped town—but I know he didn’t. So where is it?

I stick my numb hands in my pockets. ‘Who did you talk to last time you were here?’

‘All his students, and all the staff in his department.’

‘Including cleaners?’

‘Correct.’ Thistle points. ‘Math department’s this way.’

‘Let’s go to the cafeteria first.’

‘I’m not buying you breakfast.’

A shame. ‘It seems likely that our victim spent time there. I just want to get a look at it.’

‘Whatever.’ Thistle follows me into one of the buildings.

There are three food shops inside—a sandwich place for those who like to eat healthy, a fried food place for those who don’t, plus a coffee shop. Not many students around. Most are probably studying for exams, or they’ve gone home for the winter break. A few young people are at tables, eating waffles or eggs one-handed while they scroll through their phones. A couple of others lounge on beanbags in the corner.

‘No teachers,’ Thistle observes. ‘Seems unlikely that our victim ate here.’

I grunt, and approach the sandwich place. From Biggs’s build, I’m guessing he ate mostly healthy stuff.

As I pass the students, I get a flash of the relationships in each group. A girl is talking about her accomplishments in a video game she’s been playing, while the kids around her pretend to care. Five other teens are sitting in a circle, close enough that they must know each other, but they’re all looking at their iPads, so they must not like each other that much. A chisel-jawed guy who looks like he’s here on a football scholarship is talking to three wide-eyed girls who could be freshmen. He’s trying to impress them, and it’s working on two of them.

When I reach the sandwich place, the woman behind the counter—blonde hair under a white hairnet, latex gloves, pitted skin—watches me like a TV show she’s not interested in.

‘My name’s Timothy Blake, and I’m a civilian consultant for the FBI,’ I say. ‘This is Agent Reese Thistle. Have you seen this man?’

I pull out the picture of Biggs from the file.

The woman looks at it and blinks slowly, like a sloth.