“Whatever you thought you guys were doing, Wylie—whatever you were trying to do . . .” And she is sad, too, completely and totally heartbroken. Which I don’t like because it doesn’t fit with anything else I’m thinking. “It was—it’s not going to happen now. I’m sorry. Please come out. Otherwise, I won’t get a chance to explain anything before they come.”

Hiding is pointless if she knows where I am. And I have never in my life wanted an explanation for something more than I do at this moment. Even one that I will not believe. Finally, I slide out from under the bed.

“Wylie, honey,” Rachel says, rushing toward me with her arms outstretched.

I lean clear of her reach. “What are you doing here?” I snap. “Where is Ramona?”

“It’s okay, Wylie,” Rachel says, but she does not think anything is okay. Not in the least. “I am going to keep on being here. We’ll get through this together.”

Through what? My stomach tightens. As much as I want it to be rage that I am feeling—for my mom and whatever Rachel’s lies might be—all I feel is afraid.

“Where is Ramona?” My voice is quaking now. I am quaking.

“Home. They are all back home. They let them go,” she says, trying to sound hopeful now. “All of them.”

“Let them go home?” I know better than to believe her. She does not believe it herself. I’m just not sure which part is the lie. “Why would they let them go?”

“I ended up calling that friend of your mom’s from the New York Times. And she called that friend of mine at the Justice Department after he started dodging me. And he, in turn, finally agreed to do his job and follow up with the NIH. Apparently what they were doing here didn’t exactly go through the proper channels. If you ask me, the NIH isn’t even involved, and what about the CDC? If this was official, they would be here, too. Anyway, my Justice Department contact got real vague, real fast. And then poof, two hours later they are letting everybody go.”

“That’s it? They haven’t explained anything? What about the girls’ parents?”

“From what I can tell, they are not the demanding types. Seems like they chose the right girls to pick on.”

“Have you found my dad?” I ask.

“No, honey, not yet,” she says, trying to keep her face so calm and still. But I can feel the tears she is holding back like they are coming out of my own eyes.

“He wouldn’t leave the airport, not when he knew I needed him to come back.”

She holds up her hands. “I know,” she says. “Believe me. And I told them that. We’ll find him, Wylie. He is going to be okay.”

“He has to be,” I say, my voice catching.