The Alchemy of Forever

He’d lived for six hundred years. He was a survivor. He must have taken a new body. And yet . . . an inkling of doubt, one I don’t dare to encourage, takes root in my heart.
    Multiple eyewitnesses. It was possible that he had been mugged. Random crimes like this occur all the time. I pull out the phone and reread the article. “Multiple eyewitnesses.” The phrase echoes in my brain. Witnesses who saw him get shot, who saw him die. The more I consider it, the more plausible it seems. It feels morbid to think it, but could I be so lucky?
    “Miss, I don’t mean to pry”—the cabbie makes eye contact with me through the rearview mirror—“but you seem troubled. You sure you want to go to the bus stop?”
    His deeply lined face radiates kindness. “No,” I admit. “I’m not sure.”
    “Take your time,” he says.
    I pause, considering. There are only two ways to go. And if I leave, send the suicide note, I know I can never go back. But if Cyrus is dead, I don’t have to. I tap the phone to life and reread the article. I think back to when I was hell-bent on killing myself, how every action I took toward that end was thwarted. Now I sense that invisible hand again, steering me to the correct path.
    But if he didn’t die, if it’s all a setup, he could be at the Morgans’ right now.
    “You know what?” I say. The cabbie looks up. “I changed my mind. Will you take me to Berkeley?”
    “Of course.” He executes a screeching U-turn.
    We get off the freeway in Berkeley, and I direct him to the Morgans’ house, tapping my foot impatiently the whole time. If anything happens to the Morgans, I will never forgive myself. We pull up in front of the driveway, I pay the fare, and rush inside.
    Relief courses through me as I see the whole family is curled up on the couch, sleeping. A movie plays, unwatched, on the TV screen. Mrs. Morgan is snoring loudly. “I’m home,” I say softly. Bryan mumbles something and shifts, pulling a blanket up over his face. I turn off the TV and walk softly into Kailey’s room.
    I lie on the bed, pulling the coverlet over me, my mind whirling. Does the fact that Cyrus isn’t here mean he really, truly is dead? Did he get so arrogant that he forgot how dangerous the world is? As I stare up at the stars on Kailey’s ceiling, I dare to believe it’s true.
    I find Kailey’s phone and delete the message I composed earlier on the bridge. It seems so long ago, like another life. Even though sand still fills my sneakers, even though I’m still cold and damp from the fog. I send a text to Noah:
    home safe & sound. see u tomorrow. <3
     
    Could it be, I think as I drift off to sleep, that this is the life I was meant to have?

thirty-six
     
    It’s the same nightmare that I used to have, back when I lived with the coven. An endless walk up the gallows steps, a scratchy rope looped around my neck. Don’t I have wings? I think, frantic. Someone told me I could fly. If I could only remember who said that, I could run away. At the top of the structure stands the police officer who arrested me for truancy. He’s holding a stack of printed e-mails, shaking his head. But I tried to save her! I try to scream, to explain what happened, but no sounds come out. I try again and again, my mouth open in a desperate, silent cry. The force of effort finally wakes me up, and I gasp, choking, my hand to my throat.
    A small clock on Kailey’s nightstand illuminates the room: 2:13 AM I sink back onto the pillow, so glad to be awake. I turn over and close my eyes again, when I have a terrible realization: Cyrus’s room is filled with evidence. The article about my crash, the e-mails, the photos. The bracelet. The police may have decreed his death a textbook robbery-homicide, but how long before some intrepid detective decides to take a closer look? The evidence may not lead directly to me, not yet, but it will raise questions.
    I need to go down there and remove it. I swing my legs out of the warm bed and throw on jeans, a long-sleeved undershirt, and a heavy wool sweater. Moving softly, I slip out of the house. Kailey’s bike is still chained up downtown, so I grab Bryan’s instead, wheeling it slowly out to the street, stepping as lightly as possible.
    The night’s fog is still thick as I ride down the street, mist clinging to my eyelashes and hair. I pedal quickly and fly through stop signs and red lights. I race through Berkeley’s deserted downtown, all shuttered windows and locked