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  67. 3:46 a.m.

To my credit, when I saw Sullivan leave the house across the street a year earlier, having thought him responsible for Jessie Kallomatix’s murder, I looked him up on Wikipedia. I only spent a couple minutes scanning the article, more concerned with his picture matching the face I saw under the streetlight.

My dad reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a half gallon of milk. “So I was thinking about what you said,” he says, “about my giving up all the time. And you know what? I’m gonna see this Jennifer Nubers thing through.”

“Good for you,” I say mechanically, though my thoughts are centered on David Sullivan and the fact he’s dead. That I’ll never be able to question him about my mom.

I look at the clock in the lower right corner of the computer.

3:56 a.m.

Where did my hour go?

There is a scraping noise and I turn.

In my haste to get back inside, I forgot about Lassie.

I slide open the glass door and Lassie saunters through.

“So,” I ask, “what is your furry friend’s relationship status?”

Meow.

I find myself letting out a long needed laugh.

It’s complicated.

:11

A Beautiful Mind.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

The scene when Jennifer Connelly walks into Russell Crowe’s office and sees all the papers stuck to the wall connected by a thousand pieces of string. That’s what the long wall opposite the kitchen table looks like when I walk in.

“Uh, excuse me,” I say to my dad who is tacking another piece of paper to the wall.

He turns.

His face is flush, in excitement or shame, I’m not sure.

“What in the world?” I ask.

“I know,” he says with a big smile. “Isn’t it great?”

Not exactly the word I had in mind.

More like crazy.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Since I last saw you.”

“You haven’t slept?”

“No,” he says, picking up a big mug and taking a drink.

“How many cups of coffee have you had?”

“Way, way too many,” he says wiping a hairy forearm across his mouth. “But I have to keep going. I made a couple big discoveries.”

He ushers me to sit.

I tell him to give me a couple minutes and I grab one of Isabel’s premade burritos and toss it in the microwave. I do push-ups and sit-ups for the minute and a half it heats — the only exercise I expect to get — then join my dad at the table.

“You ready for this?” he asks, his entire body shaking like a hummingbird.

“Yep.”

“How long do I get?”

I think this over. I was at a dead end with the search for my mother and the flash drive. Sidney Ewen wasn’t returning my messages, and David Sullivan was dead. I didn’t have any other avenues at the moment that I could pursue.