So, was Bruce wrong? Cassidy felt a tingling kind of pull, a desire to find answers, the way a tempting, complex puzzle could sometimes captivate her—it happened often enough in her work and was one of the reasons she became a scientist.
Cassidy went to the box on the floor containing the rest of her office things. She pulled out books and files until she found a box of loose items. Inside she found pens and pencils, a small metal ruler, a pack of gum, lip balm, and the thumb drive containing all of Pete’s files.
Cassidy sat at her desk, flipping the tiny thing between her fingers.
But try as she might, the thumb drive stayed tucked in her palm. She put it back where it belonged and backed away. Pete’s entire life would open up before her the minute she opened the files: pictures, notes, stories.
Everything.
Later, after removing her contact lenses and taking a long shower, she slid beneath her cold sheets. Then, she remembered that her alarm was still set so slid her glasses back on and peered at her screen. A cold weight dropped through her—she had another ten missed calls. But before she swiped them away, one number stood out.
Dr. Richard Gorman, head of the geology department at the University of Oregon, had called twice.
Cassidy sat up and noted the times: just after six p.m. and again at 7:12. She tapped his message and listened to his deep voice:
“Cassidy, please call me right away. We have a . . . situation. Thank you.”
Cassidy played it again, then noticed another message, this one from Martin. Panic seeped into her pores. Had the geology van crashed? Had someone been hurt?
“Dr. Kincaid, fuck, call me,” Martin’s panicked voice rang in her ear. “I don’t know when it happened. She was in the van, I swear. We got back and she wasn’t there. Fuck.”
Cassidy waited for more, but the recording ended.
Five
Cassidy’s heart flew into high gear, fluttering wildly against her ribs. It was past midnight by now, but Cassidy hit “reply.”
Martin answered on the second ring.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he yelped.
Cassidy sucked in a gasp.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, Dr. Kincaid,” Martin said, his voice desperate. “What am I going to do?”
“Slow down, okay?” Cassidy said, inhaling a slow breath. “What is going on?”
“We drove home. Everything was totally fine. We stopped for gas, we stopped at a rest area, we got back at around three o’clock.” Martin paused. “But Izzy wasn’t in the van when we got there.”
“What?” Cassidy cried. “What do you mean she ‘wasn’t in the van’?” she asked, her mind racing. “Where else could she be?”
“Well, not in the van, that’s all I know.”
Cassidy tried to imagine herself as Martin, driving the van home. The students would have been tired, hungover. The drive should have been easy. “When you guys drove off, Izzy was in the back with Alice.”
“Alice was getting carsick so she moved to the front row.”
“Did you talk to Alice?” Cassidy asked. “Does she know where Izzy went?”
“No.”
“Wait,” Cassidy said before she continued. “So, you’re saying that at some point during the drive, Izzy just vanished?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Cassidy cried. “Martin! How could this happen?”
“I don’t know! She was there at the rest area. I know because she was so deeply engrossed in texting someone in the pet exercise zone that I had to yell at her that it was time to go. That was about two hours into the drive. So, she must have got out after that. We stopped for gas in Biggs. That was about four hours in.” Martin paused, and Cassidy could hear movement, like he was pacing. “At that point she was asleep in the back! I assumed she was still there when we returned to the van. I mean, I hadn’t seen her get out.”
“Have you called the police?” Cassidy asked.
Martin sighed heavily. “Gorman says we can’t.”
Cassidy blinked. “Whoa, Martin, why would he say that?”
“Because Izzy’s father is Preston Ford.”
Cassidy tried to make sense of this, but her thoughts were too jumbled. “I still don’t understand.”
“The media tycoon? Owns Ford Media and a professional soccer team and probably his own private island in the Bahamas and is on a first-name basis with several politicians?”
Cassidy had heard rumors that Izzy’s dad was someone famous but stuff like this usually sailed right over her head. “Oh,” Cassidy replied.
“Yeah.”
“But this still doesn’t make sense,” Cassidy said. “I don’t care who her father is. Why shouldn’t the police look for her?”
“I guess Gorman and Preston Ford had a pact in place. If anything happened to Izzy, he was to be informed right away and not the police.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. “This is getting weird.”
“Yeah,” Martin said.
“Did you know about this little pact?” Cassidy asked.
Martin paused. “Not directly. I mean, before field camp, he did bring me in to his office. But I just thought he was being overcautious. Saying things like ‘the students are your responsibility’ and ‘if you need support, don’t hesitate to call me,’ stuff like that.” Martin groaned. “He even gave me his cell number.”
Cassidy rubbed her forehead. “I mean, I can imagine somebody like Preston Ford being a little overprotective, but it’s still weird.”
“Remember Dominique Gilardi?” Martin asked.
Cassidy sifted through her memories until Dominique’s face popped up. “Oh,” she said as a thick dread crowded into her thoughts. Dominique was a junior who went missing during the spring term last year. Cassidy didn’t know her—she was an art student—but she remembered the crusade to find her and the way the campus practically shut down. It was rumored that Dominique had a drug problem she’d kept hidden.
“But Izzy’s sharp . . . ” Cassidy couldn’t put her finger on it. “ . . . I can’t imagine her just wandering off.”
“But she’s not exactly your model student,” Martin said.
“No,” Cassidy replied, picturing Izzy in her typical attire: high-tops, short shorts, and midriff tops or thin-strapped tank
