The Alchemy of Forever

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    Scrambling up the concrete staircase, I nearly fall, but just bang my knee. His door is locked, as I knew it would be. Luckily, I know how to pick locks, and the motel is old enough that there’s no electronic key-card system to contend with.
    I grab a hairpin from my pocket and coax the lock open in less than a minute. I slip inside and close the door quickly behind me. The cloying scent of pine air freshener assaults my nostrils, and the room is dingy and dark. Nothing here is to Cyrus’s extravagant taste; nothing is as he would have chosen.
    But nonetheless, I sense his presence strongly. I can smell the soap he uses, vetiver and cedar, underneath the mustiness emanating from the polyester curtains. I can almost believe in ghosts, the ghosts of the living, as I imagine him here, coming home to this room night after night, fueled by his desire for revenge.
    I hear what sounds like a gunshot outside, and instinctively fall to my knees. But it’s only a car backfiring. In the eerie echo that follows, I ache for the normalcy of traffic sounds. But I am caught in silence, its thick, cottony web, only barely able to make out the clatter of rain on the roof. I turn around and silence trails after me, curling up my arms like a living thing.
    In front of me is a bulletin board, covered with paper, hastily nailed to the wall, cracking the plaster in miniature canyons. I approach through the gloom to get a better look, my knees going rubbery as I realize what I’m seeing.
    It’s a collage of mistakes. The mistakes I made on a foggy night, three weeks ago.
    There are two parking ticket notices, dated October 15, the night I ran away, from Minna Street in San Francisco. The place I had parked my car while I was at the party at Emerald City. Photos taken from a distance of a man who looks familiar—it takes me a moment to place him. It’s the man who sold me the car. There’s a newspaper clipping of the police blotter article that mentions the crash, the date highlighted. I pull down a stack of stapled e-mail printouts and sit on the saggy bed, my face crumpling.
    There are e-mails that I wrote—the correspondence I had with the Craigslist seller, under an account I created just for that purpose. Cyrus must have hired a hacker to trace all the activity on our IP address. Of course I never thought to use a public computer instead of my own. . . . In my original plan, it wouldn’t have mattered. There would have been nothing left of me to find. I can only assume that Cyrus found out the police were looking for the car because I reported it stolen, and maybe was even able to trace the call to a pay phone outside Berkeley High.
    I return the e-mails to the board, taking in the rest. It doesn’t seem as if he knows about Taryn yet, or the book. But there’s a request for hospital records that came up empty. Thank you, patient confidentially , I think. At least Cyrus didn’t get Kailey’s name. But everyone has a price, and Cyrus will find the right person to bribe. . . .
    There’s one more newspaper clipping, this one yellowed with age. I peer closely—it’s a group shot, with many girls I don’t know. But Kailey’s in it, standing between Nicole and Leyla, an exhausted smile on her face and a number taped to her chest. The caption reads: “Berkeley High School Annual Breast Cancer Walk.” They’re all holding their hands up in the air, wearing identical silver bracelets. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end—the image chills me for some reason I cannot explain.
    Sinking back on the bed, I try to think and suddenly feel exhausted. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light in the dim room. I examine the bedside table. There’s a copy of the Berkeley High yearbook. And tucked halfway underneath it is something shiny. Something silver.
    A young girl, maybe sixteen, with tangled blond hair and a silver bracelet around her tanned wrist.
    A tug, then a metallic snap as I pull Kailey from the car. I hope I’ve not broken any more of her bones.
    Cyrus, staring at my hands.
    No one wears watches anymore. Although it seems that you usually do?
    I pick up the bracelet, the same one that Kailey’s friends wear. It has a small circular charm on it, one side engraved with an image of a ribbon. And on the back, the engraving 2010 BERKELEY HIGH SCHOOL ANNUAL BREAST CANCER WALK . Gooseflesh covers my arms as I realize where I first saw it: Kailey was wearing it when she died. I examine the pale