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“What’s going on, Shanta?”

“That’s what I want to know. How did you meet Natalie?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Humor me.”

Once again she was asking all the questions, and I was giving all the answers. I told her how we met at the retreats in Vermont six years ago.

“What did she tell you about her father?”

“Just that he was dead.”

Shanta kept her eyes on mine. “Nothing else?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know”—she took a deep sip and shrugged theatrically—“that he used to be a professor here.”

My eyes widened. “Her father?”

“Yep.”

“Her father was a professor at Lanford?”

“No, at Judie’s Restaurant,” Shanta said with an eye roll. “Of course at Lanford.”

I was still trying to clear my head. “When?”

“He started about thirty years ago. He taught here for seven years. In the political science department.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Yes, that’s why I called you here. Because I’m such a top-notch kidder.”

I did the math. Natalie would have been very young when her father started teaching here—and still a kid when he left. Maybe she didn’t remember being here. Maybe that was why she didn’t say anything. But wouldn’t Natalie have at least known about it? Wouldn’t she have said, “Hey, my father taught here too. Same department as you.”

I thought about how she came to campus with those sunglasses and hat on, how she wanted to see so much of it, how she had grown pensive during the walks on the commons.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” I asked out loud.

“I don’t know.”

“Was he fired? Where did they go afterward?”

She shrugged. “A better question might be, why did Natalie’s mom start using her maiden name?”

“What?”

“Her father’s name was Aaron Kleiner. Natalie’s mother’s maiden name was Avery. She changed it back. And she changed Natalie and Julie’s name to her maiden name too.”

“Wait, when did her father die?”

“So Natalie never told you?”

“I just got the impression it was a long time ago. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he died and that’s why they left campus.”

Shanta smiled. “I don’t think so, Jake.”

“Why?”

“Because here’s where it gets really interesting. Here’s where Daddy is just like his little girl.”

I said nothing.

“There is no report he ever died.”

I swallowed. “So where is he?”

“Like father, like daughter, Jake.”

“What the hell does that mean?” But maybe I already knew.

“I looked into where Professor Aaron Kleiner is now,” Shanta said. “Guess what I found?”

I waited.

“That’s right—zippo, nada, zilch, nothing. Since he left Lanford a quarter century ago, there has been absolutely no sign of Professor Aaron Kleiner.”

Chapter 19

I found old yearbooks in the school library.

They were in the basement. The books smelled of mold. The glossy pages stuck together as I tried to flip through them. But there he was. Professor Aaron Kleiner. The picture was fairly unremarkable. He was a nice-enough-looking man with the usual posed smile, aiming for happiness but landing somewhere closer to awkward. I stared at his face to see if I could spot any resemblance to Natalie. There might have been. Hard to say. The mind can play tricks, as we all know.

We have a tendency to see what we want to see.

I stared at his face as though it would give me some kind of answer. It didn’t. I checked through the other yearbooks. There was nothing more to learn. I scanned through the political science pages and stopped at a group picture taken in front of Clark House. All of the professors and support staff were there. Professor Kleiner stood right next to department chair Malcolm Hume. The smiles in this photograph were more relaxed, more natural. Mrs. Dinsmore still looked to be about a hundred years old.

Wait. Mrs. Dinsmore . . .

I tucked one of the yearbooks under my arm and hurried toward Clark House. It was after hours, but Mrs. Dinsmore lived at the office. Yes, I had been suspended and was supposed to be off campus, but I doubted that campus police would open fire. So I walked across the quad where the students roamed, with a book I hadn’t checked out of the library. Look at me, living on the edge.

I remembered walking here that day six years ago with Natalie. Why hadn’t she said anything? Had there been any sign? Did she grow quiet or slow her step? I didn’t remember. I just remember yapping happily away about the campus like some freshman tour guide after too many Red Bulls.

Mrs. Dinsmore looked up at me over her half-moon reading glasses. “I thought you were out of here.”

“Maybe in body,” I said, “but am I ever far from your heart?”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”

I put the yearbook down in front of her. It was open to the group picture. I pointed at Natalie’s father. “Do you remember a professor named Aaron Kleiner?”

Mrs. Dinsmore took her time. The reading glasses were mounted to a chain around her neck. She removed them, cleaned them with quaking hands, and put them back on again. Her face was still as stone.

“I remember him,” she said softly. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you know why he was fired?”

She looked up at me. “Who said he was fired?”