Nobody spoke. Over several seconds, Steph felt the air thicken, becoming heavy at her neck. An overhead heating duct knocked, probably had been knocking. The sound was like thunder now.

"He taught Wednesday classes as usual," Becky explained, "and Principal Mancini's secretary saw him leave the parking lot. Then nothing. Nobody has reached him since."

Steph asked whether anyone had talked to the police.

"Briefly. Because it's only been thirty-six hours, the dispatcher I talked to—"

"Dispatcher?" Steph said. "No, no—we need somebody important. A detective."

"Yes, but as we all know, Mr. Fiske has a history of going AWOL. Remember junior year?"

Eric jumped in. "Yeah, but that was different—Fiske's dad had died, he wasn't himself." His body squared reflexively to match Steph's pose. "Did he talk to anybody about a trip or planned absence?"

Becky said no, not that she knew of.

"Then Steph is right, we go cops." Eric's pinkie slicked the tabletop frenetically. "Now, today. Quicker than a bubble sort on Tianhe-2."

He got back only blank looks.

"World's fastest computer, theoretically capable of 54.9 petaflops? No?"

Becky's full lips curled inward. "I agree we may need to involve the authorities in a bigger way at some point. But maybe we should limit this to a small group at first—a core of people who care deeply about Mr. Fiske—and make sure we have a cohesive plan."

Steph didn't understand. A plan? They needed flyers and press and squad cars. Why was Becky wasting time on FedExes and secret tree-house-clique meetings?

And why this particular clique? She, Doug, and Eric made sense—they were Becky's classmates and known Fiske favorites—but Lydia was out of left field. Steph knew Lydia primarily as the little sister of Nora Brockert, a fun-loving member of their class who had drowned senior year at prom. While it was said Fiske thought of Lydia like a daughter, having taken her under his wing after Nora's death, her extreme shyness made her an odd choice for a search committee.

"What's tricky is that Principal Mancini...has not been super sympathetic." Becky squished her palms together. "He told one of the other counselors this is Fiske's second unexplained absence of the calendar year, which constitutes grounds for termination."

"Garbage," Eric said. "He's been looking for an excuse to can Fiske for thirty years."

"I know. And I'm kinda scared that if we go to the police and this becomes some big, like, investigation? Then Mancini will have his excuse."

Steph's phone buzzed in her purse. She ignored it. "Was Fiske depressed?"

"We don't know," Becky said. "He has no real confidants among the faculty. That's one reason I wanted to convene this group, to see if anyone had spoken with him recently."

Eric said he had, just Wednesday, in fact. "I didn't hear depression. We talked about water on Mars, and what answer you'd get crowdsourcing the odds of extraterrestrial life in the Virgo Supercluster."

"Did he mention the Sears incident?"

"Never said a word about Sears. Didn't the school board exonerate him?"

"Completely," Becky said, though Steph had read different in the newspaper. The board had concluded that Fiske bore no direct responsibility for the death of Jesse Weams, who had plunged sixty stories onto the roof of the west antenna tower (actually passing by Doug's office; his firm occupied the ninety-seventh floor) after his magnets disengaged, but said Fiske's "culture of glory seeking, epitomized by his unofficial motto, 'Live Big,'" had created a "fertile environment" for Jesse's ill-fated stunt.

Steph asked, "Had he made any enemies lately? Was he mixed up in some controversy?"

"When wasn't he involved in controversy?" Eric began pacing. "This is what happens when you live by principles. When you refuse to back down."

Doug exhaled at length. "I hate to be the one to say this, but look. If we're being honest, we have to acknowledge that Fiske was impossible at times. Remember how he hung on to A Clockwork Orange? Took him years to stop showing that movie."

"So what're you saying, Doug?" Eric asked. "He deserves whatever he gets? We should just forget about him? Let whatever bad stuff might be happening to him right now go ahead and happen?"

"I didn't say that. Any of that." Doug fixed Eric with the same look Ella got for speaking disrespectfully, then addressed the others. "I'm saying we should keep an open mind. There might be some mysterious enemy at play, but it could also be something of his own doing."

Eric: "Your theory's what? Fiske is holed up somewhere in his tighty-whities having a personal Stanley Kubrick film festival, refusing to answer his phone or doorbell?"

"I'll leave the theorizing about his underwear choices to you, Pinkersby."

"Fine, great, hit me with a gay joke. Clearly having never wrestled around with men in pads and colorful uniforms, I must be the homosexual..."

As the two men glared at one another, Steph bristled beside her husband, who generally eschewed locker-room crudeness. Apparently, Eric bought it out in him.

"Let's stay constructive," she said. "Fiske needs us. Bickering won't help."

They brainstormed ten minutes on what needed doing. As Lydia Brockert—who had said nothing since "hello"—fingered her overcoat buttons, the others called out ideas. Did anybody know Fiske's adult children? Becky thought the daughter was at Urbana and volunteered to try the campus directory. Doug said he would search online for car accidents in the West and Southwest, two geographies Fiske had admired. Eric trumped this by setting up, using a flurry of taps and swipes, a Google News alert that would tell them instantly if Fiske's name crossed the newswire.

Doug rolled his eyes.

"And I can talk to Mancini," Steph said. "We can't let him use this as a pretext for firing Fiske."

"Yeah, me too." Eric pivoted for the door. "Go now, catch him in his office?"

Steph glanced at the wall clock. Quarter 'til two. Rich Hauser and the other partners would be setting down notebooks in the conference room, greeting Nike. Wondering where in the world she was.

#

Principal Mancini could be seen through his office window, the oiled-back bullet o' hair bobbing up and down as he dictated to his secretary. A towering six six, he wore a pinstriped suit and cuff links, and stalked about with seeming agitation, palming his neck.

"Union trouble," Eric cracked, adjusting glasses up his nose. "The Tattaglias must be making a move with the cafeteria workers."

Steph didn't smile. Mancini had been rumored to be "connected" during their time at ETHS, which she figured for a cheap stereotype.

Urging herself up on tiptoes to catch the principal's eye, she felt pulled by competing dreads. The Fiske news was alarming, but the idea of missing Nike—jeopardizing eight months' legwork, destroying her credibility with the partners—was heartbreaking. Chad had texted as they were leaving Becky's office: About to start, u coming!? She had quickly called to reassure him she'd be there as soon as possible, that he would be fine, just project authority and focus on decision-makers...

She had not meant to commit to seeing Mancini immediately. Once Eric had suggested it, though, what could she say? She had felt transported back to high school (of course they were physically at high school), those competitive classroom melees that Fiske himself had encouraged, slugging it out over Daisy's true nature in The Great Gatsby or whether The Aeneid merited reading in the twenty-first century. "Argue like your very fate is on the line—your happiness, your station in life. And when it is, you'll be prepared."

She hated to admit it, but the relative success of Eric—and to an extent, Doug, who shuttled around $50 million on any given day—had egged her on too. At ETHS, she had been the chosen one. Transcending the achievers' mishmash of GPA, test scores, and extracurriculars, Steph had had what Fiske once called "an inarticulable providence." People signed her senior yearbook, Mills for prez, 2028! and Pardon me when you make the Supreme Court, okay?

And she was doing great. The youngest account manager in her firm, successful mother of two. Seated around Becky's table of Winners, though, she had felt that familiar dissatisfaction—the urge to do more, to lead.

So she had.

Principal Mancini looked up now and saw them waiting. He ushered them in.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked in his gruff but not unfriendly way.

Steph wasted no time. "We're here about Fiske. I understand he's disappeared?"

"Not sure I would use that word."

Eric said, "Hasn't been seen or heard from in two days. Seems worthy of the OED definition."

Mancini looked them over with spent eyes. He had always had a mixed rapport with the achievers of Evanston Township High. Naturally he took pride in the students around whose necks he draped ribbons, understood the importance of having a healthy number of Illinois State Scholars, but his daily work revolved around the others: troublemakers, average Joes and Janes who needed nudging.

"Bob Fiske is no longer my concern." Mancini nodded past them to his secretary. "I just dictated his termination notice."

Steph and Eric whirled. Miriam, an elderly woman with ball-chain glasses, was entering information into her computer off a form.

"You can't! Fiske has been here four decades—he's devoted his life to this school."

"I can. I did." The principal stood and snapped his lapels as if to go.

"What if it turns out he's been harmed?" Steph said. "Or kidnapped? You'll be forced to reinstate him."

"I'll chance it."

Eric asked what his theory was.

"My theory," Mancini said, "is I don't like theories. Union contract says two unexplained absences in a twelve-month period is cause. End of story."

Steph, experienced in talking peeved clients off cliffs, steered him onto less emotional ground. When had Fiske's first absence been? Last spring, really? And how had that been resolved? Mancini's thick brow relaxed as he answered her tactical queries.

"Missed a solid week. Never apologized to me, never explained."

It wouldn't have been the first time Fiske and Mancini had struggled with communication. Fiske was known to schedule impromptu field trips to the Art Institute, to Hemingway's birthplace out in Oak Park. "At times, wanderlust beckons and neglects bothering with paperwork," Steph recalled him saying during one excursion.

She glanced to Eric to see if he wanted a turn. As debate partners, they had favored a two-barreled approach on tough judges.

He was staring at his lap.

She said, "Fiske has a lot of support in the community. Sports writers. Evanston City Council. Salesforce, Deloitte—I can hardly schedule a meeting in Chicago without running into another Winner. You'll have an uproar on your hands."

"Maybe." The principal reached into a desk drawer for a sheaf of papers. "Maybe not."

He laid the papers before them. A petition. Hundreds of signatures below the heading, We the undersigned believe Bob Fiske, on the basis of his callous and blatantly elitist worldview, should be removed immediately from his position as teacher and head football coach at Evanston Township High School.

Eric said, "I read about this. Started by some friend of Jesse Weams, right?"

"Of course people are reacting emotionally," Steph said. "A kid died—it's awful."

Mancini sniffed. "Ground's been shifting under Bob's feet for a while. Last three years, we've had protests after the Winners list came out. This year somebody egged his car."

Steph asked whether it was possible somebody took their beef too far.

The principal tilted his hand, causing a gold watch to glisten. "Bob's style invited confrontation. Every week it was a new headache."

Steph noted the use of past tense. "Had he made any enemies lately?"

"Oh yeah. Just finished up fighting this gang—this sort of gang we have—over the Solar System."

Steph reared back. The Solar System was a six-foot square section of hallway floor that depicted the sun and planets. "It's carpet. How do you fight over carpet?"

Mancini raised his eyebrows in weary assent. The group called itself Northside Ill; there was debate about whether they were an actual gang or only wanted to be one. Their leader, a senior named Bix, had declared the Solar System off-limits to all non-Ill foot traffic. After a few ugly confrontations, students and teachers had acquiesced and began walking around the colorful illustrations. Not Fiske. When Fiske heard, he reworked all his intra-class walks to include the Solar System, strolling over Mars with his nose in a dog-eared paperback. If an Ill member challenged him, he either ignored them or, if bad language was used, dragged the kid to Mancini. The conflicts grew heated. Fiske fanned the flames, setting up a lawn chair across Saturn's rings during his plan period.

Steph could imagine it perfectly, right down to Fiske's lazy whistles as he paged through his book. "Did you tell the police?"

"Evanston PD has enough on their plate. I didn't figure they needed to waste time filing my detention slips."

Steph frowned. She would have liked to ask more—about this Bix, and Fiske's first unexplained absence, and how much traction the petition had gained—but it was nearly two thirty. If she was going to eke out even an appearance with Nike, she needed to go.

"I respect that Mr. Fiske can be a difficult employee," she said. "But he moved the needle for a lot of students. Certainly for me, and I know for Eric. Give us a few days to track him down."

The principal scratched his well-thatched neck. "Union contract is clear. All he had to do was shoot Miriam an e-mail. As it is, I'm stuck with no sub. Miss Robertson was filling in, but she left." He checked his watch. "Now I gotta walk down, stand there in front of twenty smart alecks, hassle 'em to read instead of play on their phones."

Steph brightened. "Eric can teach it! Sixth hour is still senior English, right?"

As Mancini confirmed it was, Eric's mouth hung open as though propped by a small apple.

"I can?"

Steph felt guilty foisting this on him, but she couldn't go herself. Besides, if he had dropped everything to fly here from San Francisco, what else was he going to do, hang out at the Marriott?

"It'll be a great opportunity for them. To meet one of Fiske's former students, somebody who's having all this success in the real world."

Eric blushed at the praise, causing Steph to feel guiltier still.

She turned to Mancini. "How about it? Three days. If we haven't found Fiske in three days, you take whatever action you deem appropriate."

"One." Principal Mancini raised a single finger—gnarled, broad. "I'll give you twenty-four hours to bring him in. Then he's gone."