18

Provide evidence from Butler’s 2010 experiments demonstrating that repeated testing (a) increases retention of facts and (b) is more effective than simple studying in increasing transfer of knowledge to new concepts.

My cell phone rings at 7:30 a.m., unknown number. “Good morning,” a voice says smoothly. “Laura Crowell here. What time works for you today? I’d like to discuss how I can help you sell your home.”

“Thanks, but I’m not ready to sell—”

“No time like the present! The month following the announcement of the test scores is the hottest sellers’ market of the year. We have many interested buyers, foreign and domestic.”

“We?”

“The Davenport Team! When you sell with us, you sell with the best. I can have the stagers, landscapers, and photographers out today. We could do a showing on Sunday, and I guarantee we’ll have a bidding war with at least twelve extremely favorable offers by end of day.”

“Now isn’t a good time.” I hit End Call. The whole thing puts a bad taste in my mouth.

Later, as I’m exiting the school drop-off line, I see Kyle sitting in his cruiser at the curb. I pull up next to him. “Any new leads?”

“No, Captain’s got me on school duty and department outreach all week.”

A car pulls up behind me, and I inch forward. “Come see me on Friday?”

“I’ll be there.”

The disappointment I feel on Friday when Kyle doesn’t show makes me realize how much this case has sucked me in. I want to ask more questions, dig deeper. My mind is stuck on Nicole, her story about the day she found Gray Stafford on the beach. I need to pay her another visit.

On Saturday, there’s a parade to celebrate the Wonder Test scores. Since the announcement, I’ve received letters from three real estate firms asking if I want to sell. Harris Ojai even sent a balloon bouquet—eight helium monstrosities shaped like dollar signs, anchored by a catalog of Ojai’s recent sales.

In the house, I’m making steady progress. Each week ends with two trips, one to the Goodwill and another to the Mussel Rock dumps in Pacifica. Each journey leaves me with a feeling of accomplishment and a corresponding sense of dread. Though I’m still thirteen rooms from completion, every week leads me one step closer to facing the prospect of the future. I can’t put it off forever, but as long as there are rooms to clear, I can avoid making decisions. I never thought I’d say it, but I have begun to see some positives in this town. Maybe it’s the quiet and the clean air, the guilty pleasure of Greenfield-Neighbors.org, or the fact that much to my surprise I belong to a group of moms for the first time in my life—coffee at Philz every other Wednesday and occasional walks with Brenda at the beautiful Sawyer Camp Trail.

Although I feel myself relaxing into life here, returning to California has done nothing to cure my insomnia. Most nights, sleep comes easily at first, but my internal clock wakes me at precisely 3:57 a.m. I wander downstairs and lurk around the house, checking the driveway for Mister Fancy. He never disappoints. We have an unspoken nightly rendezvous.

“This is a strange town,” I remember him saying that first night. “Seems normal, but it isn’t.”

Around 4:30 a.m., I usually get on my bike and roll down the driveway. The neighborhood suits me better before sunrise—empty streets, tall eucalyptus trees creaking in the wind, the hiss of sprinklers turning off and on. No one around, just me and the little blue cameras, continuously in motion.

And then one night, I’m not alone.

When I get to the intersection of Eucalyptus and Newtown, I see someone running—a thin guy, bushy haired, wearing only running shorts and a red T-shirt despite the chill in the air. Out of curiosity, I turn in his direction. It takes me longer to catch up than I expect. He must be doing a sub-six-minute mile. Lean legs, long stride. As I pedal up behind him, I realize he’s not from around here. The dated Asics are a giveaway.

“Morning,” I call out as I roll by. He doesn’t notice me at first. He’s got his earbuds in, the music loud. Then he sees me out of the corner of his eye. He seems startled, jolted from a state of nirvana. He nods but never slows from his brisk pace.

He seems so familiar. Do I know him? He resembles the actor Edward Norton but older, taller, and more aerodynamic. I want to linger, to get a few words out of him—maybe the voice will sound familiar—but he wants none of it. Past Floribunda, the runner’s face stays with me, but I still can’t place him. Later, at the breakfast table, Rory remarks, “Doughnuts three days straight.”

“And eggs,” I say, pointing to the pile of scrambled eggs on his plate.

“What’s up? Can’t sleep?” He’s got a chocolate cruller in one hand, Martin in Space in the other. I’m not sure how he does that, reading and talking simultaneously. Perhaps it’s a new technique he picked up from the school’s “reading technician.”

“Hey, I saw a runner this morning, older, red bushy hair, flying. He may have even been running a five-minute mile,” I say incredulously, “in these worn-out Asics.”

“That’s Mr. Beach,” Rory says, his eyes still moving over the text.

“Who?”

“He teaches honors trig. He also runs the Bitcoin mining club and, of course, he coaches track.”

Why does the name sound familiar? I can’t place it. “What’s his first name?”

Rory shrugs. “How would I know? He’s a teacher.”

Mr. Beach. And then I remember: that’s the name my dad wrote on the sticky note attached to his computer monitor. He’s the person I was supposed to call if I had Wi-Fi issues. “Good guy,” my dad’s note said. But I’m certain that’s not where I know him from.

My first Bureau supervisor called me borderline OCD, said I couldn’t stop pulling on every little thread. He claimed that was why he gave me the tougher cases. Of course, I hated him for it. I always wanted one of those dull, open-and-shut securities-fraud cases, all wrapped up with a nice bow, the ones where you could write the opening, closing, and stat all in one. Then again, if I’d been stuck riding those kinds of cases, I would have quit long ago.

On the drive to school, I turn the question over and over in my mind. Who, exactly, is Mr. Beach?