We follow the arrow and walk through another set of double doors. Right into a crowd of students.

This crowd isn’t loud like the protesters. They’re quiet and serious. The carpet mutes their hushed voices as they say things like qualitative study and sociocultural evolution and methodological approach.

“Excuse me,” I say, tapping a long-haired girl on the shoulder, “do you know where Frank Gómez’s class is?”

She turns and then pulls out her earbuds. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Frank—Francisco Gómez.”

“His class just ended. I was in it. Great lecture.” She puts one earbud back in.

I tug on her purple Northern Madrone sweatshirt. “But do you know where he is?” I feel desperate. We can’t have missed him again.

“He usually heads out the other way.” She points vaguely and then taps another student on the shoulder. “Hey, Aiden. Did you see which way Professor Gómez went?”

The student stops. “Oh, hi, Kelly.”

“They’re looking for Professor Gómez,” the woman says. “Did you see which way he went?”

Aiden glances at Mattie. “I just talked to him after class and he said he was heading home. If you hurry, maybe you can catch him in the parking lot. He drives a little green Prius,” he says to Kelly.

“That fits him so perfectly,” Kelly says cheerfully. She does not seem to understand that our life’s purpose is about to be ruined.

“The parking lot?” Mattie repeats, looking like someone just threw a bucket of cold water on her. “What’s a Prius?”

I feel twitchy all over. “Let’s go!”

We run again. Out the door, around the Science and Engineering Building, through the eucalyptus grove, past Miss Whitman’s bench. When we reach the parking lot, we watch, panting, as a small car the color of the madrone leaves takes a right. We stand glued to the black asphalt and watch the Prius follow the road through the trees. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that after all the searching and the chasing, the only sight we get of Frank Gómez is the tailpipe of his car.

CHAPTER 33 Mattie

I sit on the curb and burst into tears. Nothing and no one—not even Mercedes—is going to stop me from crying. Francisco Gómez is gone. Our chance—probably our only chance ever—to meet our father is gone. Disappeared. I think of the lies—stories, as Mercedes called them—I told my mom and the students and the librarian and the security guard. I think of skipping out of the field trip and missing the green Prius. I think of the stolen book weighing against my back. And for what?