I pull a piece of paper out of my back pocket.
“The Swarm uses Twitter.”
He reaches for the note I’ve pushed toward him. “It’s so old school.”
Scrawled in my own handwriting is the tweet I’d discovered: #13.9.1.1300.41.891466N.87.599709W
I suppress my smile. Despite his lecture, Adam shows interest like he does with any challenge.
He catches on right away. “Coordinates?”
Katie waves her pencil-smudged fingertips. “I’m still sitting here.”
“It’s a tweet I found that led me to the attack. The thirteenth one. Hashtag thirteen was one of the searches Adam’s program had been running.”
“I wrote an algorithm, though not my best one.” He smirks. “But still impressive. I basically set it up for social media mining so that it would extract keywords, patterns, phrases—whatever Lia was looking for from a dozen or so different sites. Didn’t filter very well.” He turns to me. “Which means you’ve spent more time than I can possibly imagine sifting through that raw data.”
I hold my poker face, concealing just how many hours were consumed every night for the last couple years.
“But, unlike Lia’s haphazard approach, it was carefully planned and well-hidden.”
“Nine one is the date.” I address the paper. “Followed by time, latitude, and longitude of Navy Pier.”
I think of how vindicated I was when I found it. Then I think of the way the CPD hotline receptionist thanked me for my call and said she’d pass it along to a detective, like I was some delusional little kid.
“I called the police. I tried to warn them.” I glance at Katie, wondering if she dismissed my warnings as obsessed and unhinged like they did. What does she think of me now?
“Please,” I say to Adam. “Will you figure out where it came from?” I hold my breath, waiting for his response as Adam examines the tweet like there’s more to it.
Sophomore year, he hacked our school’s emergency system and 64 sent texts to all the parents saying school was cancelled. Even more impressive, he was never caught. He called it white hat work, justified because we should’ve had the day off. The roads were ridiculous. As far as I know, I’m the only one he ever told.
“Lia—” he starts in his lecture tone.
I cut him off. “The IP address could lead to the guy who sent the tweet or maybe the guy organizing the whole Swarm.” I can’t look him in the eye. “I’ll turn it over to a detective. I just need to know what it is first. They had leads in my dad’s case and never arrested anyone.”
Adam’s face remains hard.
I think of Jeremiah Dopney in ICU across the city. Fighting to stay alive. My voice breaks. “This can’t all be for nothing.”
While I wring my hands beneath the table, I focus on Adam’s black hair, perfectly molded into several peaks atop his head.
His eyes narrow. “I will do this for you on two conditions.”
My lips flicker, and I try not to smile.
“Don’t use the program again. Clear it from your device.”
“You said it was untraceable.”
“It’s rerouted pretty well.” Adam smirks again. “Really well, actually. But now you’ve raised attention. Ditch it.”
“Those are your conditions?” I can’t imagine deleting it completely.
“That’s one. My second—every news station and half the city is questioning why you were at Navy Pier during the attack. People are suspicious. Convince them it was a coincidence. Get them off your back. As soon as you do, I’ll figure this out for you.”
I squirm in my seat. “What do you want me to do? Join Cullen out there talking to the cameras and make some dramatic statement?”
“You need to protect yourself,” Adam says. I’m not used to his serious side lasting so long. “One small slip could get you killed.”
Like my dad.
“Don’t give that half-wit any more attention, but talking to the media might be worth it. The cameras suck—I get that—though at some point, your life needs to be more important than your pride.”
I nod reluctantly before turning toward the cafeteria windows. Just outside of them Cullen is giving some kind of statement, his face drawn to imitate concern. I can only imagine what lies he’s feeding them so he can play boy hero.
I can only imagine what lies I’m going to have to create myself.
CHAPTER 8
During advisory at the end of the day, while Mr. Mater drones on about a student council food drive and tryouts for the upcoming musical, I count three news teams on the school’s front lawn, waiting to ambush me the second I walk out the doors. When my dad died, they were more discreet. Aside from Emi Vega, who nagged me for an exclusive, cameras filmed me from a distance. They wanted nothing more than a shot of the fatherless girl walking around looking sad and pathetic.
They weren’t as lenient with my father. Every local station slandered his name. They made him out to be a narcissist and called his case against Morrell erroneous and self-serving.
This time, I can tell they’re out for blood. They check their watches beyond the school property lines, ready to swoop in and pick at my wounds like starving vultures.
Like the Swarm.
I grab my phone and key in Jeremiah Dopney. It takes two links before I find an update. “Northwestern Hospital spokesperson said Dopney is still in the ICU in critical condition . . .”
He has to pull through. I can’t handle spending my life knowing I should have tried harder to save his.
I tap the home button to check the time. Two news banners pop up. The Tribune: “Was Lia Finch the Real Target?” and the Sun-Times: “Does Lia Finch Know More than She’s Letting On?” I toss my cell back into my bag and shove it near the bottom.
Adam was right. News feeds have been speculating all day about whether I knew about the attack. As if that’s more important than the Swarm’s resurgence. They want to discredit me like they did my dad, dissect me until there’s nothing left, without caring what their implications could mean for me.
The bell rings. Chairs and desks screech across the floor as everyone scrambles. Mr. Mater shouts over the chaos—something about Science Olympiad—but no one listens.
I don’t move.
The news teams outside inch toward the front door. I’d love to think they’re looking for Cullen, someone who relishes his media attention. But they’re not.
Kids spill into the courtyard two stories below. Hundreds of teenagers dressed in hoodies, sunglasses, and scarves start filling the space until the courtyard itself becomes a patchwork of unidentifiable milling high school students. The scene is too familiar, the suddenness too reminiscent of yesterday.
Any one of them down there might be a part of the Swarm. They survive on their ability to remain concealed, anonymous. They thrive on people’s fear that they could be anyone, anywhere. Because of it, they’re never caught. My classmates flood the lawn, and my insides twist like the tight coil of a spring. One—or more—of my classmates buzzing below might have been there Saturday. Or worse. They might have been there the day my dad was murdered.
I grip the edge of my desk. I should look away. Escape out back. But I’m locked in place. Any second, little blue orbs might perforate the brimming mass. Starting the attack. Denoting someone’s murder.
And then suddenly, I see him. Broad shoulders. Hooded sweatshirt. The gray-eyed attacker. His back is to me, but I’m sure it’s him. Even from where I sit, immobilized in my desk, I recognize his shape. He leans against the school’s stairs, his head bent, shoulders hunched, watching people leave, waiting for me.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
I shut my eyes. Picture Hana. The purple sky.
My throat clenches, restricting the thickening air. I force an inhale, tighten my focus: the black rock beach. Salt water foams and swirls around boulders. Swishing. Fizzing.
Mr. Mater startles me. “Lia?”
It takes several moments
to register his presence. He stands behind his desk, waiting for my answer as I remind myself I’m still in his classroom.
I spin back toward the window. By the time I look outside, the boy with the hood is gone. As if he’d never been there.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Mater asks.
I stand—an awkward, jerky motion—and stack my books. “Yeah, I was just . . .”
Momentarily hallucinating? Flipping out because I watched someone practically murdered three days ago? Wondering where and when someone’s going to kill me? There is no way for me to finish the sentence.
Mr. Mater slides his hands into his pockets and steps out from behind his desk. “If you give me a couple minutes, I can walk you out.”
I jam my notebooks into my canvas bag. “No, I’m fine.”
“Lia,” he says quietly. “You’ve been through quite a bit. It’s okay if you’re not fine.”
I wrap my thin beige cardigan around my torso. I should be used to it—adults always walking on eggshells, asking if I’m all right, like I’m a helpless, injured little bird, too weak to function. Mr. Mater has always been one of the few to treat me like everyone else—not the freak with the tragic backstory.
I consider saying, “It’s okay if you don’t force an unnecessary conversation.” But I find that kind of response invites adults to talk and pry more. Instead, with my books tight against my chest, I cast him a sideways glance and mutter an obligatory “bye” on my way out the door.
Mr. Mater gives me that familiar look of pity I’ve seen all day. I pick up my pace toward the main staircase, eager to get home and scrub away each of those looks with a long shower.
I head to the ground floor, trying to convince myself the guy who tried to kill me or save me or scare me—whatever he did or didn’t do—is not outside. More than once I’ve considered that he delivered my bag. So, what’s he doing now? Checking up on me? Does he know about the IP address?
I race down the stairs, trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter. Because the more I think about it, the more I’m certain I didn’t see him. He was a figment of my imagination. Not a hallucination. Just my eyes and my mind playing tricks on me.
I grip the rail, steadying myself, and pause on the last step. Relaxing my shoulders, I take three deep, meditative breaths until my heart rate steadies. I fumble for my inhaler, shoot the medicated mist into my lungs, relieving the tension in my chest. Then, I turn the corner.
When I hit the school’s main corridor, the hallway is near empty. I rehearse my statement and my saddened, comatose expression. But as I approach the front doors and peer out the window, I second-guess my game plan. Maybe I should call Katie to meet me around back with her car. I could sneak out, lose the cameras, escape.
Except Adam won’t find that IP address for me until I shut the media up. And if I wait too long, he might become preachy and decide that helping is somehow bad for me. Besides, if anyone is out to kill me—like the guy I didn’t see waiting for me in the courtyard—no one will do it on camera.
I’m about to burst through the doors when someone grabs my elbow. I spin around, ready to punch, and find Cullen Henking.
He flashes a one-dimpled smile, clearly amused by my reaction. “Easy, there. You don’t want them to catch you looking jumpy and spastic on camera.” He clucks his tongue. “Somewhat suspicious—like you’ve done something wrong. Bad for the image.”
I straighten my sweater, my bag. “I almost died Saturday,” I say, angry with myself for sounding too defensive.
Cullen’s smile deepens. “Good thing my dad pulled you from the lake when he did,” he says in a sarcastic way, like we both know it’s a lie.
I turn toward the window. At least Emi isn’t out there.
Cullen steps beside me. “You know, my car is on the other side of the fence.” He gestures to his black Lexus parked in front of a fire hydrant, two steps past the courtyard’s exit. “We could walk right past the cameras,” Cullen says. “I’ll take you home.”
I snort. “You can’t be serious.”
He leans against the doorframe. “I’m willing to bet you’d do just about anything to avoid those reporters, which includes accepting a ride with me as much as you’d despise it.”
I scrutinize his expression, trying to figure out his angle. Either I’ve grossly underestimated Cullen’s narcissism or there’s something more to his charade.
“In seventh grade, you posted a picture of me yawning on Instagram and called me the ugliest girl in school.”
Cullen breaks out laughing. “Oh God, I forgot about that.” He bends over like he can’t control himself. “I’m sorry, but have you ever seen the face you make when you yawn?” He puts his hand on my shoulder. Composes himself. “Would it help if I told you you’re pretty, Lia?”
I jerk away. “I hate you more than I do those cameras.” I lift my chin. “I’m actually about to give my statement.”
Instead of looking surprised, Cullen opens the door and stands aside. “Fair enough. Your funeral.” He winks, still snickering. “Too insensitive for the girl who ‘almost died’?”
I grab the straps of my bag slung across my torso and brush past Cullen through the second set of doors. Before I hit the third step, the news teams rush toward me. Three cameras crowd my personal space. Their black lenses and tiny red lights. I’m caught halfway down the school’s front steps, worried if I keep walking, I’ll miss a step and fall down the concrete stairs.
Three reporters talk over each other.
“Amelia, how do you feel today?”
“Why were you at Navy Pier on Saturday?”
“Did you know there would be an attack?”
The questions jar me. I’d expected them, but not so abruptly.
I mask my face. Sullen. Lifeless.
“My father,” my voice squeaks. “My father,” I say again, sounding somber, “loved Navy Pier. He started his career in the Navy.” Not what I’d rehearsed. “He was an attorney for the Navy.” I can sense red blotches creeping up my neck. “He loved to go there on weekends.”
All three camera lenses swell. “I wanted to spend a holiday meant to celebrate working men and women honoring his memory. My father worked hard for this city.”
A burning sensation ignites behind the bridge of my nose. I clench my gut. “That’s all I have to say.”
I try to sidestep them, but they inch closer.
“Can you tell us what you saw, Lia?”
“What was it like watching what happened to your father?”
“What’s your reaction to alleged gang affiliate Rafael Nuñez being brought in for questioning?”
I step back, nearly tripping over the stair as I climb it. I don’t know who they’re talking about. “What?”
“What did the Death Mob members look like?”
“What did you share with police that implicated the Latin Royals?”
I search for my next sentence, my next move. “I didn’t.” I sound too weak, uncertain.
The cameras move closer, as if to swallow my head with their little black mouths.
Cullen steps in front of me, forcing them back. “As I told you earlier today, Lia has been through a traumatizing ordeal. She’s answered everyone’s burning question, but now, understandably, needs time to mourn the loss of her father and pray for Dopney and his fight for life.”
His response sounds calm, rehearsed, like something his dad might say. How didn’t I come up with something so simple?
“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Cullen says.
Maybe I should shove him away. Proclaim I want nothing to do with him in front of the cameras. It’s not like he actually cares about me or my father or Dopney. But the courtyard is thick and claustrophobic, and my inadequacy handling the media is glaring. Cullen guides us away from the reporters shredding me with their questions, and I let him.
He loops his arm around my shoulder in a way-too-intimate gesture. I imagine viewers watching at home, fawning over his chivalry,
speculating about a relationship between us, and I jerk my shoulder.
He chuckles under his breath. His hand slips away as I focus on placing one foot in front of the other, desperate to escape this moment I’m sure will be broadcast a million times over tonight.
Cullen pulls his keys from his pocket. His Lexus beeps twice. The engine starts.
“No way,” I say, refusing to get in a car with him.
I backpedal, eager to walk home and put this all behind me, when a WGN news van passes. It parks a few cars down, and Emi Vega jumps out in four-inch heels.
This can’t be happening.
Cullen opens the passenger door. “The lesser of two evils?”
Emi snaps at her cameraman and darts into the street toward us.
I’ve loathed Cullen Henking since middle school, which is all I can think about as I bite the inside of my cheek and duck inside his car. Sinking into the leather seat, I hide behind the tinted windows. The reporters yap at their cameras in the courtyard while Emi Vega picks up speed, trying to block us.
Cullen climbs in. The car revs and peels off in the other direction, making a dramatic escape.
Adam’s not going to let me hear the end of it.
“Where to?” Cullen asks, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I brace my feet against the vacuumed floor mat and fumble for the seat belt. There’s no way he cleans his own car.
“You love this, don’t you?”
His grin widens. “Love what?”
“Acting like you’re rescuing me.” I’m so angry for letting it happen, I stutter.
“Is that how you see me?” He squeezes my knee. “Lia, I’m touched.”
I slap his hand away.
Cullen chuckles and turns left, away from the school.
“It’s a game, Lia. They’re so hungry to tell a story that sucks people in. Why not create that story for them? The one you want to tell. In my story, I get to rescue you.” He flashes his irritating one-dimpled smile. “In your story, you get to hang out on Navy Pier for no other reason than to celebrate your late, hard-working father.”
Every Stolen Breath Page 6