The Alchemy of Forever

life. But now, as I’ve tried to leave it, I feel as if I’m brushing up against an invisible hand that is steering my course.
    And though the body I’m in now is completely different from any other I’ve ever occupied, its heart beats as surely as any other’s, reminding me with each thud that I am very much alive. Maybe , the voice whispers, you should stay that way.
    I shift in my seat, the seat belt scraping my neck, and train my eyes out the window. I pull Kailey’s hat down over my ears and close my eyes, letting the sun wash over my eyelids. I don’t know the specifics of my plan, but I’ve come to a decision.
    I’m not going to end my life. Not right away. I am not this family’s daughter, but I owe them a debt. I will stay here, pretend to be Kailey, and figure how I can bring the Morgans peace. I will try to track down Taryn so I can find and destroy the book. And I will work on my plan of escape. Today’s events tell me it won’t be easy—My car is missing, I have no money, and I have no idea if Cyrus is on my trail, but thanks to Kailey’s healthy body, I have some time to figure it all out.
    After a stone-silent family dinner, I return to Kailey’s room, close the door behind me, and immediately boot up her laptop. I try every possible search for Taryn—Facebook, MySpace. I Google “Taryn + Berkeley,” “Taryn + Saloon,” “Taryn + black hair,” but my attempts yield nothing. I next turn my attention to the saloon, finding a phone number listed on Yelp.
    It rings twice. “Hi, is Taryn there tonight?”
    “Who?” the man on the other end barks.
    “Taryn. She’s a patron—she was there two nights ago,” I say, wondering if I’m speaking to the man who had studied my ID before begrudgingly serving me.
    “Taryn?”
    “Yes! She has black hair—”
    “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the man interrupts, then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, disappointment mingling with frustration. Now that I’m grounded, it will be difficult to get back to the bar to ask more questions in person.
    But Taryn’s not the only person I have to find. I need to learn every detail of Kailey’s life if I’m going to pull off living as her. I look around the room, pondering the best way to prepare myself.
    Considering her artistic skill, I am betting there is a diary around here somewhere. I approach the bed and reach between the mattress and the box spring, but come up empty.
    My eyes are drawn to a framed print to the right of the vanity. It’s of a young girl wearing a wreath of flowers, a silvery crescent moon rising behind her. She holds one hand to her mouth as though she’s afraid to speak.
    I gently lift the frame off the wall, feeling its uneven heft. Turning it around, I see that a sketchbook has been tucked into the gap between the frame and the wall. Bingo.
    Sitting at her desk, I thumb through the pages. I feel guilty, like I’m spying, but looking at her artwork, I can almost sense her presence. It comes through so strongly. I feel like she’d want me to look at these, that she’d want me to recognize what she lost.
    They are mostly portraits: a drawing of her mother in their garden, of Bryan tying his shoes, a wry expression on his face. She had a remarkable ability to capture the essence of their personalities with the smallest of details. This was her language, I realize. This was her way of interacting with, and chronicling, the world.
    Several of the portraits look like Kailey herself, but they’re fantastical. In one she is kneeling next to a fire hydrant, a pile of broken glass in front of her, wings erupting from her shoulders. In another she has her hand outstretched, one finger pointing down a deserted street to a dragon who stands next to a parked car. They are gritty, realistic, but always with one detail that tells me this is a girl who believed in magic.
    It reminds of Cyrus’s book, the carefully painted manuscript where he recorded his research. My stomach twists at the thought of Taryn poring through it just as I’m scouring Kailey’s journal now.
    Flipping to the inside back cover of the sketchbook, I find a cryptic message: “FB—fairy510, EM—same.” I immediately grasp what it is: her Facebook and e-mail passwords. Score, I think, and settle in for some research.
    Her e-mail doesn’t provide much personal information, though I do find an attachment with her class schedule. I pull up the website for Berkeley