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 line on my wrist from where the bracelet had lain. It must have fallen off during the accident, and when Cyrus went to investigate the intersection where a car was stolen and a girl got into a car accident, he found it there, in the crabgrass along the side of the street. A little white line, a road on a map, leading Cyrus straight to me.
No, not quite. I pick up the yearbook and thumb through it. In thick black marker, some of the faces are crossed out. Piper, Chantal, and Madison are all crossed out, along with plenty of other girls whose names I can’t recall. Nicole’s is also crossed out. I touch the line—the ink seems fresh. But over Kailey’s face is a garish question mark. The sight of it makes my blood feel thick and cold. But even worse is the second question mark, over another girl’s face. Leyla’s.
He’s going through every female student of driving age until he figures out who was in that crash. I’m not surprised that he’s suspicious of me. As clever as I think I’ve been, a small part of him must have recognized me. But Leyla? She has no idea of the danger she’s in.
I snap my head up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They grow louder. Cyrus. He’s home. The jangling sound of keys being pulled from a pocket fills me with terror. Hastily, I put the yearbook and bracelet back on the nightstand, hoping he won’t notice if they’re slightly out of place. I roughly rub my eyes, trying to clear away my tears so I can see clearly.
I look around the room wildly, hearing more rustling sounds from outside the door. The bathroom. It’s my only way out. I run into the small, mildewed room, trying to step softly. The window is shut firmly but I wrench it open, cringing at how loud it is. It will only open halfway, but it’s enough. Barely. The sound of a key sliding into its lock spurs me on. I push myself through the window, feeling a rip of pain as a loose nail rakes my thigh.
I land hard on the concrete walkway below, but scramble quickly to my feet and take off running. I don’t look back and don’t stop till I’m back to the spot where I parked Kailey’s bike.
It’s only now—legs pumping furiously, unsure if my vision is blurred by tears or rain—that the implication of my findings sinks in. I pull the bike over and take shelter under a storefront awning. I sink down on my heels and lean back on the window, holding my head in my hands, sobs wracking my body.
It’s clear to me now. I need to leave. Cyrus is so close to figuring out who I am. But I’m not the only one at risk. He’s suspicious of Leyla and he’s trying to gain Noah’s loyalty. I led him here—if I go, he’ll follow.
thirty-one
I don’t go home, but stay huddled there against the storefront, using Kailey’s iPhone to research the logistics of buying a new ID. I’ve never had to worry about these practical details before; Cyrus always took care of them for me. At first I thought it was kind, thoughtful. But really, it was just another way of controlling me. But it can’t be that difficult—kids do it all the time to buy beer for parties.
There are a few places in East Oakland that look promising. It’s too far to bike, so I leave it locked up outside the store, then head to the nearest BART station. When I get off at Fruitvale, the rain is coming down harder, and there aren’t many people out and about. I’m thankful for this. The few people that I do pass shoot me curious glances. I catch sight of my blond curls in the rippled reflection of a lavanderia window and understand why: Kailey looks a bit out of place in this neighborhood.
I finally find the place I read about and go inside. The market is small and jumbled, tall metal shelves leaning unsteadily over the aisles, and no customers in sight. I’m overwhelmed with the smells of cooking meat and cilantro emanating from the rear of the store. I look around uncertainly, then notice a counter near the front.
“Yes?” says the man sitting behind it, idly thumbing through a magazine. He sets it down on the counter, and I’m surprised to see he’s reading Vogue.
I take a deep breath. “I’m looking for Lucia?”
The man smiles, deep creases showing around his eyes. “Of course you are.” He hops off his stool and comes around the counter to lead me to the back of the store.
Lucia comes out from the kitchen—she’s younger than I expected, maybe midtwenties. Her lips are very red, and her hair is pulled up in a severe bun.
“What you need, sweetie? Mica? No . . . a license?” She nods to the man, and he walks away.
“Yes,” I say. “My favorite bands are always playing twenty-one-plus shows. Can you help?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She raises her eyebrows. “You got cash?”
“How much?”
“Seventy-five. But it’s legit. You can scan it and everything.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I nod okay.
“Right, let’s go for a walk.” She pulls a raincoat off a peg on the wall, and we head out to the street. We walk a few blocks, and she offers to share her umbrella, but I shake my head no. “Come on, now,” she says, looking at me ruefully. “You’re like a drowned bird. You want to look pretty for your picture.”
We stop in front of a photo studio, its display windows full of glamour shots in elaborate gold frames, all soft focus and dreamy expressions. The inside of the studio is dim and smells faintly of mildew. There are an assortment of backdrops and a rack of frilly dresses. I run my fingers over them, but Lucia heads straight to a door and leads me into another room, with a plain blue screen. I recognize the hue as the background for the California driver’s license headshot.
A man wearing dark sunglasses comes in, his bald head gleaming under the studio lights. He murmurs to Lucia in Spanish: “You sure she’s cool?” I can’t hear Lucia’s response, but he seems reassured.
She brings me a towel to dry my hair. “Gracias,” I whisper. I give her my money, and the man takes my photo, then leaves.
“It will be about an hour,” she tells me. “You can meet me at the taqueria.”
“Can I stay with you?” I ask her. I’m hungry.
“You’re pretty new at this, eh?” She laughs at me, but agrees.
As we walk back to the market, I’m lost in thought. Kailey’s hospital records are a problem. Every hour will count when I make my escape, and I can’t risk him finding out who I am before I’m well out of town.
At the taqueria I order two carnitas tacos and s
it at the counter on a stool. Lucia cracks open a mango Jarritos soda and slides it over to me. “On the house, sweetie.”
I take a grateful sip. “Hey, Lucia,” I begin. “I have another . . . request. Do you know anyone with computer skills?”
“What, you need help buying concert tickets?”
I smile. “I need to make some information disappear. There’s a hospital visit and a police report that I don’t need my parents finding. They’ll kill me.” I feel my face grow hot and take a bite of the taco, spilling onions onto the paper plate.
“Ah, I see. I do have a friend who’s a total genius with this stuff. I can ask him for you.”
She pulls out a cell phone and disappears into the kitchen. I strain to overhear, but can’t make anything out. After a few minutes she comes back.
“You probably won’t want to pay. He can do it, but he wants a thousand. And he says he can’t make anything on the Internet disappear.” She leans against a refrigerated case of beer and clicks her nails, waiting for my response.
My face falls. “I only have three hundred.”
Lucia studies me for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she returns. “Okay. Just this once he’ll do it for three hundred.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! How did you do that?” I breathe. It will wipe out my cash, but there have to be other ways to replenish it. Perhaps Bryan has money, or I suppose I could find something in the Morgans’ house to sell. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I am desperate.
Lucia shrugs. “He owes me.”
I pull out my wad of cash and count out three hundred dollars, then hand it over to her. She gives me a piece of paper, and I write down the details of Kailey’s accident: date, location, and the name of the hospital she was taken to.
Just then the bald man from the photo studio appears and hands me an envelope. I open it and am staring at Kailey’s face on the new ID. My new name is Jane Smith. I look at the man questioningly, and he shrugs, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You didn’t tell me what name you wanted, so I picked it out.”
I thank them both, resisting the urge to hug Lucia. I tell her she’s a fairy godmother, and she laughs and waves me out.
thirty-two
“Good morning,” I say brightly to Mrs. Morgan on Tuesday as I glide into the kitchen, punctuating my greeting with a kiss on her cheek.
Mr. Morgan looks up from his newspaper. “Uh-oh. Last time you were this happy, Noah came to the door acting suspiciously like your boyfriend. What’s next? Are you two engaged?”
“Ha-ha.” I swoop down and kiss his cheek as well. “I’m just in a good mood. It’s a beautiful day.” I hope I don’t sound as fake as I feel. Come tonight, their lives will change irrevocably. They will know there was a before—a time when they had two happy children—and an after, when they are left with only one. They will look back to before and wonder how they failed to savor every moment. They will wonder why they ever let petty problems bother them, why they didn’t realize how good things were. I can’t spare them the grief they’ll feel, but I can try to leave them with good memories.
“I’ve got to go,” says Mrs. Morgan, finishing her coffee in one big gulp. “I promised I’d be in the office early.”
“I’ll leave with you,” says Mr. Morgan, pushing back his chair.
They’re halfway to the door when I clear my throat. “Mom and Dad?”
They turn, expectant. “I just want you to know that I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.” My voice quavers.
They look surprised, but touched. Mrs. Morgan opens her arms, and I fly into them. “Not as much as we love you,” she tells me.
When they leave, I return to Kailey’s room. After this morning, I won’t be back here again. I pull Kailey’s backpack from its hiding place under the bed, then sit on the lime-green bedspread.
I look around the room, taking in Kailey’s things: her paintings, the photos of her and her friends, her clothes, her perfume. I want to thank her for letting me stay here, for letting me live her life, if only for a short time. This room, the color of peacock feathers, is quiet. It’s listening to me. It’s Kailey. What would I say to her, if I could?
Kailey, I never met you, not really, but I know you. I slept in your bed, I wore your white dress. I hope you are free and happy, that you are the color of water—turquoise water, like the walls of your room. That the wind is warm and you are part of it. That you finish your paintings—the sky is your canvas—and you show them to the other ghost girls. That you make more wind chimes, but this time you use the silvery starlight for your bells, that you string them up on soft green vines that never stop flowering. I wish you peace.
I pick up the bottle of jasmine perfume, turning it over in my hands. It feels warm. I hold it to my nose and inhale its sweetness. I add the bottle of perfume to my bag—Kailey would understand.
I stand and leave, closing the door softly. I walk down the hall.
Bryan’s at his computer. He rips off his headphones when I poke my head in.
“Hey,” he greets me. “Is it time to go?”
“No, not yet.” I pause, then simply say: “You should ask out Leyla.”
He blushes. “Yeah? I thought I wasn’t allowed to date your friends.”
I walk over to him and ruffle his hair. “Life is short,” I tell him. “Live a little.”
thirty-three
By late afternoon the fog lies thick over Berkeley, covering everything with its white fingers. But the colors I am able to see are so vivid against its blank backdrop. The light wanes quickly, and by 5:30 it is completely dark. The lamplight inside the antiques shop spills out onto the street like gold. I don’t want to leave. I know what lies ahead of me: cold, swirling mist, the avoidance of well-lit places, the fugitive’s need to keep to the dark. I need this fog; it makes it much easier to disappear.
Noah texts me to let me know he’s on his way to pick me up. I turn off all the lights, all but one—a stained-glass lamp in the window—and lock up the shop. The cash I took from the register—close to five hundred dollars—weighs heavily in my pocket. I promise to send the owner the amount in the mail as soon as I find a new job.
I wait outside, letting the lamp cast its blue-green shadows on my face. The VW’s headlights reach through the fog to me like a path or a hand I could take hold of. Inside the car, Noah is blasting the heater.
“I missed you,” he says.
His words hit me hard, but I force a laugh. “It’s been, what? Three hours?”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks. “We could have a nice dinner.”
“I want to go to San Francisco. Let’s get takeout and sit on the beach.” I never expected to set foot in that city again, but there’s nothing more for me to fear there, now that Cyrus is in Oakland.
“The beach? It’s freezing, Kailey.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” I tell him boldly, arching an eyebrow.
We head into the city, taking it slow across the Bay Bridge. It’s oddly free of traffic, but the fog is even thicker as we drive over the bay. The lights from downtown are smudged and diffuse, and I’m reminded of fireworks, how July in San Francisco is no guarantee against an overcast evening. Revelers on the Fourth, wrapped in warm jackets, with nothing to cheer except muffled booms and the brief suggestion of color in the misty sky. Cyrus hated that. He loved fireworks, but to me, they were too loud, too much like real explosions.
In Richmond, we get dinner from a Thai restaurant and walk toward the beach. The closer we get to the water, the more deserted it feels, like we’re in some sleepy tourist town in winter. The pedestrian traffic and honking horns of downtown feel very far away. We pass apartment buildings and motels that were built in the 1960s, with cheesy names like the Beachcomber and Mermaid’s Cove. The sidewalks grow gritty with sand.
At Ocean Beach, we find the remains of a bonfire that some optimistic person must have built, hoping for a nice evening. Noah disappears for a few minutes and retur
ns with an armful of driftwood.
“I have triumphed,” he informs me. “You shall be warm.” He hunkers down next to me, and we eat coconut rice and stir-fried chicken with spicy chiles and basil, then lean back on one of the logs, bellies satisfied and warm.
I watch his profile in the orange light from the fire. His dark hair grazes his chin, wavy in the damp air and salt. He pushes it back to reveal his strong jaw, his thick brows. My sea prince, I think, remembering those hours I spent on the ship from Barbados to New Amsterdam. How close I came to jumping overboard, to chasing a fickle sunbeam down into the deep.
I don’t plan on going into the water. But everyone will need to think I did.
I shiver, and Noah puts his arm around me. “What’s the matter? Someone walked over your grave?”
Yes, I think. I did.
A thought occurs to me, a question I need to ask. “Noah, would you still like me if I looked like someone else?”
He sits up and looks me in the eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know—like if I had a completely different body. If I looked like Leyla, maybe. Or Nicole. But I was still me.”
He cups my jaw. “This is a really weird conversation. But okay.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m trying to imagine you with a different face.”
I gaze at him serenely, but he starts laughing. “I can’t do it, Kailey.”
“Okay, fine.” I pretend to pout.
“You want me to be serious? I’m going to be serious. I’ve known you almost my entire life. I probably know your face better then my own. But you have a spark that I’d know anywhere.” He pauses. “So yes, even if you looked different, I’d still love—”
The Alchemy of Forever Page 14