The Alchemy of Forever

climb into the car. In the sunlight they are a warm turquoise, the same color as Cyrus’s had been two bodies ago. I pull the seat belt across my lap. The boys thankfully fill the silence and ignore me, though I catch Noah glancing back at me in the rearview mirror now and then. I place my forehead against the cool window, letting Noah and Bryan’s conversation wash over me as I pray over and over again that my bag is still on the crane.
    We pass a line of small houses—Craftsman, A-frame, and a squat shingled one that would have been more at home in Cape Cod. Wildflowers grow chaotically all around it, Queen Anne’s lace mixing with bright yellow goldenrod and purple sage. My mother would have loved it. My father allowed her a small patch of garden that the servants weren’t allowed to touch. She spent hours out there, teaching me the Latin names of each seed: lilium , rosa , cosmos , and orchis . She would weave me halos of daisies and belladonna, always warning me how dangerous flowers could be. “Never put these in your mouth, my little angel. But atop your pretty hair they do no harm.”
    Soon we pull into the parking lot, joining a stream of beat-up cars jockeying for spots close to the front entrance. The school looms large, all glass and curved walls. I wonder if Kailey liked it here, if she looked forward to gossiping with her friends between classes or if she spent her time staring out of windows, counting the hours until she was free again. I have never been to school. My parents had hired tutors for me when I was young; everything else I know I’d learned from Cyrus.
    Noah comes to a stop next to a green Volvo with a BERKELEY HIGH WOMEN’S SWIM TEAM bumper sticker and turns off the sputtering engine. Bryan pushes his seat down to let me out, and I stand up in the dim sunlight.
    “See you in bio,” Noah says, and departs, holding a book over his head as he dashes toward the school.
    Bryan looks at me expectantly, and I follow him across the parking lot. “See ya,” he says when we reach a covered walkway.
    I watch as he walks away, nodding and high-fiving friends as he passes. He has the same easy smile as Kailey, the same buoyancy and happiness I saw in her pictures. No doubt his sister’s death will change that.
    This is it. I swear my hammering heart must be audible to those milling around me.
    “Good-bye, Bryan,” I whisper, then, making sure no one’s looking at me, I dart back across the parking lot against the wave of arriving students. I try to appear casual yet purposeful, and avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. When I turn the corner and am out of sight of the school, I break into a flat-out sprint for the BART train that will take me close to Jack London Square, where I will have to decide what—if anything—comes next.

thirteen
     
    I get off the train in downtown Oakland, and the scent of fetid water and rotting produce surrounds me as I walk toward Jack London Square. The area is much busier during the day—trucks parked in front of loading docks, men hoisting boxes of melons, tourists gingerly making their way down to the waterfront. The sun has broken through the clouds and warms the top of my head, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling—it has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than cold.
    My pace quickens as I near the docks. In the distance I see the bar where I’d met Taryn; it looks even more dilapidated during the day. Paint is peeling off the storefront in long strips and the sunlight catches on windows covered in a film of dust. Just beyond that is the side street where I parked my car and the crane where I so stupidly left my bag.
    Just as I reach the intersection, I realize with a start that a police car is parked at the curb about fifty feet in front of me. I freeze, blood draining from my face. Rationally, there’s no reason for the police to be looking for me—for Kailey—but still. In my mind there is a giant sign over my head proclaiming MURDERER .
    You were trying to save her! I remind myself, pleading with my feet to take casual strides. I feel a prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t turn around, even though I’m certain the officer is following me. Instead, I walk faster, just short of a run. A glance in the side mirror of a parked car confirms my fear: The police car is trailing behind me.
    I duck into an alleyway and hide in the doorway of an industrial garage. I hold my breath and cross