Every Stolen Breath

by Kimberly Gabriel

  Dr. Marshall catches my shoulder and gently pushes me upright. “Steady there. We’ll call you an ambulance and get you to a hospital.” He pockets his flashlight and wraps the stethoscope around his neck. “You have a mild concussion. You could use oxygen as well.”

  Richard leans closer. “Shortly.” His narrow shoulders hunch over. “How did you end up on the mayor’s dock, Amelia?”

  “Lia,” I say, with a cough.

  His eyebrows arch like I’ve disclosed a secret. “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Lia.”

  Dr. Marshall lifts a glass toward my face. “Water?”

  I take a sip and notice Cullen Henking slumped in a leather wing chair, staring at his phone and smirking like I’ve said something amusing, and I feel myself scowl. Girls at our school usually fawn over this guy.

  “Lia, I’m Richard,” he says, drawing my attention. Richard’s short hair is gelled to one side. Sandy brown—like my dad’s, and the thought of him diffuses my irritation. My dad wore his hair the same too, except Richard’s sticks up a little in the back. “I’m the mayor’s chief of staff.” He gestures toward Dr. Marshall. “We called a doctor when we found you on the dock after the attack at Navy Pier. We think you climbed out of the water and rang the dock bell before you passed out. Can you tell us what happened leading up to that?”

  The lines on Richard’s forehead scrunch as he waits for me to piece it together. But I can’t. I don’t remember ringing the bell, or climbing out of the water, or swimming to the dock after falling in. The last thing I remember is the guy charging me, grabbing me, yelling at me to jump off the pier. A guy who knew my name.

  Richard licks his lips. “Lia, were you involved in the attack?”

  His questions skip around, making them hard to follow. Several seconds pass until I realize he’s asking if I’m part of the Death Mob. “No.” I jerk away.

  “Sorry. I had to ask. But you were there?”

  A stinging sensation forms behind the bridge of my nose. I think of the man screaming from inside the Swarm. “Yes.”

  “What can you remember?” Richard says.

  Nothing, I want to tell him, but the pain and the images from deep inside begin to snake their way up to the forefront of my thoughts. The crowd so thick that people brushed against each other as they moved. And then the Initiators. Five guys—massive, destructive, led by Lip Spikes—sliced the crowd in two. Scattered blue orbs punctured the mass like firecrackers as dozens of teenagers seemed to emerge out of nowhere. Energized to fight, they pivoted and spun toward the same direction like some choreographed dance. How had I missed them? They all fit the profile. They all wore hats, glasses, scarves, and gloves to conceal their identities. And somehow, they remained camouflaged among the tourists. I didn’t see them until the attack broke out.

  “They came out of nowhere.” The words are tight. I can barely get them out. “I was trapped.”

  After the first hit, screaming erupted. The pier became frenzied chaos as everyone began running, trying to escape. Except me. My feet didn’t work.

  “I jumped into the water.”

  I picture the attackers. I hear them cackle as they beat a man clinging to his life in the middle of their pit.

  “There was nothing else I could do,” I say, which isn’t true. I could have done more to help—caused a diversion, gone in after him. I stood forty feet away while he was beaten to death, and did nothing.

  I should’ve prevented this. I knew about the attack before it happened—I should’ve tried harder. Tracked down Detective Irving. Forced him to listen to me. I was so focused on “tangible evidence” indicting my dad’s killers. Why didn’t I think more about the victim who could be dead already?

  “I have to go.” Get out. Find a computer. Check the cloud. Everything will be there, and somehow it will redeem every stupid mistake I made today. I stand, but Richard holds out his hand.

  “Do you remember any details, Lia? Faces? Anyone you could identify?”

  Lip Spikes. Copperhead. The guy with the gray eyes. His face was the only one not covered. His expression was so serious right before I fell.

  Dr. Marshall taps Richard on the shoulder. “I’m sure the police will question her thoroughly when she’s ready.”

  “One more.” Richard’s phone buzzes. He drops it while trying to pull it from his pocket, grabs it, and gives it a quick glance before tucking it away. “Why were you on the pier, Lia?”

  I blink several times, stalling for time, knowing it’s crucial I get this right. CPD has always been so dismissive of anything I’ve given them. Detective Irving clearly didn’t follow up on today’s lead. But this guy is the mayor’s assistant. If I told him about the tweet, the pictures, the video, he could use what I captured to isolate the attackers’ identities and start building a case. I’m on the edge of sharing it all when somewhere inside of me, a warning light flickers. I have to check out the footage first, before everyone dismisses me as a crazed conspiracy theorist. And I need to lie until I do.

  Cullen snickers. “I’m sorry, but I can’t handle the suspense. Ask her what her last name is.”

  Richard and the doctor look at Cullen. Then back at me.

  “Finch,” I whisper, and wait for them to connect the dots.

  Richard’s brow pinches together like he’s spinning through a Rolodex of names and faces.

  Cullen, of course, can’t wait that long.

  “As in Steven Finch,” he says. He scoots to the end of his chair like he’s watching a show.

  I stare at my water and take another sip, clinging to my father’s name like an anchor.

  Richard stands. I can feel him studying me as if looking for the family resemblance. He folds his arms across his chest and tucks his palms into his armpits. “Your father was really—”

  “The Swarm’s last victim,” Cullen says, cutting him off. “Well,” he adds, “unless you count the one today.”

  And just like that, my life is reduced to some sick joke.

  I consider charging Cullen. Smacking that condescending smile off his face. Screaming at him for mocking the fifteen victims the Swarm has attacked in the last eleven years. And I might, if my head wasn’t spinning.

  Richard leans over, putting his hands on his knees. His movement is constant, dizzying. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He smiles as if to reassure me. It’s awkward and draws attention to the gentle slope of his puffy neck. “The mayor and I are committed to doing whatever we can to help you through what must have been a horrifying experience.”

  “You’re a strong young lady,” Dr. Marshall says as he helps me stand. “That’s a little over a mile you swam after you fell and hit your head. Right now, you need rest and probably a change of clothes.” He clutches my bicep, assisting my first few steps. “Should I call your mother and let her know which hospital you’ll be at?”

  I nod.

  “If I may—” Cullen begins.

  “That’s enough from you,” Richard interrupts.

  “Someone might want to tell her about the news cameras outside, in case she wants to shower or something. She’s about to be the most famous girl in Chicago. A first impression is a lasting one. Just saying.”

  I wipe my face free of emotion, denying him the reaction he’s looking for. Both Cullen and the media can go to hell.

  Dr. Marshall leads me away, and I let him. As much as I despise Cullen Henking for deliberately humiliating me, my thoughts are preoccupied. We walk through the foyer, past some weird, ostentatious sculpture, and up a wide staircase, as I fixate on one alarming certainty: I’ve never been a good swimmer. Even without a head injury, there’s no way I could’ve swum a mile by myself.

  CHAPTER 4

  My left eye twitches. I press my palm against it. Closing it stops the throbbing tics, but every time I do, I hear the man’s screams as the Swarm pummels him. His echoes rip through me, shredding my stability.

  I clutch a fistful of blanket from my lap and ground myself in its
plush fabric. I concentrate on the steady buzzing of my nebulizer, the cool mist of meds billowing around my face, brushing my cheeks. I inhale deeply and release, over and over and over again, until the sounds of Navy Pier are stifled.

  After my dad’s attack, nightmares of his death haunted me wherever I went. In the rare, worthwhile moments of therapy, Dr. What’s-His-Name showed me how to self-monitor my recurring dreams and catastrophic thinking. He taught me about mindful meditation and how to rein in my panic attacks, so I could appear like a sane person in public. I got plenty good at it when I was around people. Being alone was harder. That’s when my defenses crumbled. Eventually I figured out that if I spent my evenings at the coffee shop down the street, the constant commotion would distract me from imagining every graphic detail of my dad’s final moments.

  If I survived that, I can survive this too—despite whatever Dr. What’s-His-Name would think. He used to overanalyze triggers. Knowing him, he’d insist that today’s attack would set me off and require intense therapeutic intervention. That there’d be no way I could handle this on my own. But he never understood my resolve, and I refuse to be that girl again—unable to function—which of course I vow while sitting on the living room couch, chained to a nebulizer pumping a cocktail of Prednisone and Albuterol mist into my nose.

  My mom hovers in the kitchen, cleaning the inside of our refrigerator. She hasn’t spoken more than a few barked commands since we left the hospital. Not that I’m surprised. She freaks out over anything that might jeopardize my health—mental or physical. Last year she almost had me homeschooled after I was hospitalized for pneumonia. When she found out it had been going around our class, she interviewed a dozen tutors. She became an expert on state standards and testing and how homeschooling might affect my chances of getting into an Ivy League school.

  I can only imagine what she’d do if she knew I went to the pier expecting the attack. I pinch my four-leaf clover pendant and cling to the hope that the footage I got will redeem me for my reckless mistakes. It has to. I captured the Death Mob. Lip Spikes. Copperhead. Parts of their faces were exposed. Enough to incriminate them, I’m sure of it. And I captured the breakout fights along the edge. I got Black Hat when his sunglasses fell off. The girl with cropped hair, the guy with bright gray eyes.

  It’ll be enough to arrest some of them. They’ll rat out their leaders. The Swarm’s whole infrastructure will collapse. Whoever has organized the attacks for the past nine years will rot away in prison for the rest of his life. And my dad will be vindicated.

  Even if my phone fell into the water, the images will have uploaded to the cloud—something I double-checked before heading to the pier.

  I glance across the room at my computer, which can confirm the reason for everything that happened today with just a couple clicks. Any other night, my mom might be heading up to bed by now, and I’d be sifting through everything I’d captured, backing up data, and preparing to call Detective Irving. But until she decides I won’t die in our living room, there is nothing I can do but wait her out one excruciating minute at a time. My head falls against the couch cushion as I inhale the medicated mist, forcing my lungs to open and expand like they’re supposed to.

  My mom sets water and pain pills on the glass table in front of me. She pauses, casting a disapproving look at WGN’s investigative reporter, Emi Vega, who’s yapping away with the pretense of concern.

  I shove pillows over the neb machine to suffocate its insufferable buzzing and crank the volume on the remote. Emi’s eyes bore into the camera. She furrows her brow as if to emphasize the seriousness of her words.

  “We are standing outside Amelia Finch’s home right now, where she lives with her mother, Maggie Finch. Earlier today Amelia witnessed the Death Mob’s attack on Navy Pier, and narrowly escaped by jumping into Lake Michigan. As you might remember, Amelia’s father, Steven Finch, was the last victim to be brutally attacked and killed a little over two years ago.”

  My stomach knots. Where is she taking this?

  WGN flashes to an overly tan news anchor trying to seduce the camera. “Emi, the Death Mob, which many locals call the Swarm, usually goes after tourists. At the time of Steve Finch’s death, didn’t sources speculate he could have been targeted?”

  “Exactly, Brian. Finch was the lead prosecuting attorney building a case against real estate tycoon Bill Morrell for allegedly organizing the Death Mob murders. Three weeks before the case went to trial, Finch was killed and the case was dropped. Because of it, many people speculated his attack was intentional.”

  Overly Tan News Anchor leans forward. “Now Finch’s daughter is almost mobbed. That seems like an unlikely coincidence. Emi, do we know why she was at Navy Pier?”

  Emi blinks twice before responding. “Amelia gave her official statement to police at the hospital earlier this evening. Authorities are not sharing that statement yet.” She dips her chin. “Certainly, tonight and the days that follow will be difficult for the Finch family.”

  My mom walks away without commenting.

  If I didn’t find the cameras so intolerable, I’d march outside and smack Emi Vega in the middle of her broadcast. Of all Chicago’s superficial reporters, I despise her most. After my dad died, she basically said it was his own fault for creating “an enemy list a mile long” with his high-profile cases. She diminished his life’s achievements, implying he took cases for name recognition only, including his case against Morrell. Slandering a dead guy unable to defend his legacy is a cheap and dirty gimmick. Which apparently wasn’t beneath her, or any other media desperate for airtime.

  How convenient of her to omit from her broadcast that Morrell killed himself a week after my dad’s murder, proving my dad was onto something.

  Light from the news trucks outside seeps through the sides of every drawn curtain in the room. I want to staple the fabric to the wall. The incessant flashing feels like an alien invasion with a giant spacecraft landing in my front yard. Not something I really care to deal with tonight.

  WGN shows their ten-second clip of me ducking into a black town car in front of the mayor’s house. I’m wearing a brand-new Tory Burch coat. My wet, ratted hair adorned with seaweed looks darker. Sandy instead of whiteish blonde. Following it, they have a clip of Richard outside the mayor’s house telling reporters I’ve requested privacy as my mom and I “deal with these traumatizing events.” His shoulders bend forward like he’s hiding his height. He claims the mayor found me on the dock and carried me into his home. Sure, I was passed out when it happened, but I didn’t see the mayor the entire time I was in his house, making me wonder whether he was there at all.

  “The mayor,” Richard continues, “is doing everything he can to help Miss Finch deal with what she’s experienced.”

  I pull my hair back, wet from showering, and twist it at the nape of my neck so it falls down my back as one slick ponytail.

  A giant thud comes from the kitchen, startling me. My mom stands over the spilled leftovers of tonight’s dinner, which neither of us ate. Taco meat, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, and cheese fan out across our tile floor while she stares at the mess like it’s the worst thing to have happened to her today. My eyes flit back to the TV screen.

  Emi Vega flashes a bright, insincere smile. “. . . our hearts go out to the Finch family and the victim’s family tonight.”

  Outside, the lights dim as WGN cuts their live feed. I turn down the TV volume and shut the nebulizer off, even though my liquid cocktail isn’t fully evaporated. I test my freshly pampered lungs with a deep inhale before gathering the neb pieces and walking from our impeccable living room to our impeccable kitchen—aside from the scattered taco fillings.

  I try not to stare, but my mom’s immobility unnerves me. Setting the neb parts on the counter, I grab the broom from the utility closet, just as clean and organized as the rest of the house. Clutter is inexcusable—even behind closed doors.

  It isn’t until I start sweeping our ruined meal that my mom t
urns away and washes her hands in the sink.

  This is how it’s been since she met me at the hospital. She ran into the ER, frightened and disheveled, in rare Maggie Finch form, to give me the longest, tightest hug we’ve ever had. Then she excused herself, no doubt to fix misplaced strands of fallen hair and reapply her lipstick. When she returned, she didn’t say a word. Didn’t even make eye contact. I gave my statement to the questioning officers while she stood in the doorway, lifting her chin away from my bed as if she didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.

  I dump the first dustpan of food into the trash and resume sweeping.

  My mom turns off the water and grips the lip of our sink. “Detective Irving said someone left an anonymous voice mail warning him about the attack.”

  Two messages. I’m tempted to correct her. “He didn’t exactly listen.”

  She turns and glares. “He said the same girl has left him eighteen messages in the last two years.” Tiny strands of hair stick out from her head as if full of static electricity. For a woman who prides herself on perfection, she looks so unkempt, I’m taken aback. “What exactly have you been doing?”

  It’s practically an admission of her denial. Every night since my dad’s death, I’ve scoured social media. Hunted for any hint that the Swarm still exists. “I read the news,” I say, enabling the lies she must have told herself about how I spent that time on my computer.

  “I told him you didn’t know anything. I begged him to drop it.”

  Of course she would. Of course she would thwart any contribution I might be able to make.

  “CPD is full of corruption. If the wrong people find out you knew anything about this, they’ll come after you.”

  “I was careful.”

  “Really?” my mom snaps. “You almost got killed. On top of that, your face is plastered all over the news. Reporters are trying to figure out what you were doing there in the first place. How is that being careful?”