29

From the perspective of Adam Smith, construct an argument for restoring the gold standard. Restrict you answer to 114 words or fewer.

We drive back to the school and search the campus. Rounding a corner, we nearly bump into Kobayashi. “It’s our very own Wonder Test whisperer!” he exclaims, resting a hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I don’t know if your son has told you, but his scores on the practice tests have been off the charts. We’re lucky to have this young man.”

“We’re looking for Caroline Donadieu,” Rory blurts. “I was supposed to see her after the practice test today.”

Kobayashi lets his hand fall from Rory’s shoulder. “She’s probably home resting up for tomorrow, as you should be.”

“Did you see her on campus today?” I ask.

“I was in the city all day. I just stopped by to make sure all systems are go for tomorrow.” Kobayashi reaches up to scratch his left temple. Is he nervous? Hard to tell. Sometimes touching one’s face is a sign of deception, but just as often it’s the natural response to an itch.

“Speaking of tomorrow, I notice you haven’t been opening my emails, Lina. Rory needs a minimum of ten hours of sleep to be ready for the test. Complex carbs tonight, we recommend sweet potatoes, and equal ratios of fat and protein in the morning, along with a half cup of oatmeal. Don’t forget the cinnamon! And a cup of coffee each morning. We’ll have a Philz cart on campus to provide the students with free coffee at lunch.”

“Rory will be ready tomorrow,” I assure him.

“Great! Prepared for the test, prepared for life, every student counts!” He turns to Rory. “Now go home and get some sleep. We’re counting on you.”

Our next stop is Laney Park. Empty. We cruise through the golf course, then up to Crocker Lake. I park in front of the closed gate, open the glove compartment, and take out my flashlight. I don’t tell Rory about the young woman who disappeared from South City in 1987 and was found dead beneath a pile of leaves at this very lake.

The park has changed a lot since my high school days. Beside the gate, a wooden sign says, “Crocker Lake is proudly maintained by the Greenfield Beautification Committee.” A few yards down the path, two wooden benches sit side by side, and a bed of flowers has been planted within stone borders. The well-tended path curves toward the lake. Beyond the path, the vegetation remains wild and dense.

“Watch out for mountain lions,” I tell Rory.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding. One of them killed a deer on Robinwood Lane right after we moved in. You’re not in New York City anymore, kiddo.”

“Caroline?” I call, as we make our way along the two-mile loop.

Rory joins in. “Caroline?” It’s eerie, the sound of our voices cutting through the silence as twigs snap beneath our feet. By the time we get back to the Jeep, we have a few bug bites but no answers.

We drive around for another half hour. It’s just past eleven when we finally give up. At home, Rory is jittery. Realizing we never had dinner, I make him a tuna melt, a bowl of strawberries and cream, and a glass of milk. I slide the sandwich across the counter. “Here, omega-3.”

He eats the sandwich with one hand, typing on his phone with the other. At 11:29, his phone pings with a text.

“Caroline!” His face lights up with joy and relief as he reads aloud, “I’m fine. Something came up. Talk soon.” His shoulders relax, his face softens, and he is himself again.

Where have you been? he texts back. Can we talk?

Ping. Don’t worry, Friend. All is well.

He sets his phone on the counter, Caroline’s text still visible on the glowing screen.

“I guess I overreacted,” Rory says. “God, the Rekowskis must think you’re insane.” He takes his dishes to the sink. On his way out of the kitchen, he stops and turns around. “Thank you, though, for helping me stalk my girlfriend.”

“Anytime.”