At the bottom of my screen, two thumbnails catch my eye. Pics I didn’t take.
I tap the first one. It’s me and my mom, fighting in the kitchen. Taken forty minutes ago from outside my kitchen window.
My arms grow clammy. Numb. I swipe right.
The second picture. A close-up of the grill on our back porch. And written in the thin layer of dust covering it are the words, “Back off.”
CHAPTER 6
I don’t know when I finally fall asleep, but at 3:33 a.m., a loud noise I can’t define jolts me awake. I lie in bed, paralyzed, sweating profusely, heart racing.
Something scrapes against the office window downstairs. The sound is slow. Taunting. Then there’s rattling. Someone trying to pry open the window just below my room.
I breathe deeply, unable to afford another asthma attack, and ground myself in the plausibility of a murderer breaking in to kill me.
The office window is easily thirteen feet up. Someone would need a ladder, and there are likely still news crews out front. Whatever I’m hearing, it’s not a threat, I try to rationalize.
I strain my ears, hypersensitive to every creak and rustle around my house. A car starts. Its door opens and shuts—a heavy one from the sound of it. The car doesn’t move. It idles. A news van camping out front.
My room is pitch black except for the tiny halo of blue light hovering around my clock.
The scraping comes again, this time accompanied by a low drone—the wind.
A branch from our magnolia tree must be brushing against the side of our house. That’s the scraping. No need to be neurotic. But just as I think it, my mind is back on Navy Pier . . . Dopney moans from inside the Swarm. His bones crumble as they beat his face, kick his ribs. Waves crash against the concrete.
I dig my palms into my eyes, trying to block it. I kick off the covers and sit up. I need to get a grip. Grabbing my inhaler from the side of my bed, I tiptoe to the window—to prove that there are no monsters or murderers stalking around my yard, waiting to kill me.
Despite tonight’s warning.
Pulling back the curtain, I peek through the wooden blinds and make out at least two news vans below. The windows are dark, with scum reporters likely sleeping inside. Across the street, the tree in my neighbor’s front yard rustles, but other than that, the night is still. My yard clear.
I check the parked cars lining the street, making sure they’re empty and normal and recognizable—my neighbors’ cars, the ones always parked outside.
Two houses down, I notice a black Escalade I’ve never seen before, its windows suspiciously tinted.
The biker from the article. The dead blogger. He was sideswiped by a dark Escalade.
I lean forward and squint, unable to tell whether I see a hand resting on the steering wheel through the windshield. I try to make out what’s inside the car, if anything. As I do, a figure in the driver’s seat jerks forward.
I jump back. The blinds clang against the glass as I run to my bed. I yank the covers over my head and try to shake the burning image of two eyes glowing beneath the streetlights, glaring back at me.
CHAPTER 7
I massage my temples, trying to stop the throbbing, like it’s possible in a lunchroom packed with five hundred juniors.
If my mom had any idea my head hurt this badly, she’d insist I go home. But after spending two days tethered to my neb under her scrutiny, this is a welcome relief. Between her hovering and the reporters surrounding our house, I was itching to escape. Without distractions, I was too easily consumed by everything that happened on the pier, including the fact I had nothing to show for it. No evidence to put Lip Spikes behind bars and stop the Swarm from striking again.
My mom must have recognized my restlessness. When I told her I wanted to go to school today, she didn’t exactly approve. But she didn’t argue either. Doubtless it’s because of what happened two years ago, how bad things got when my catastrophic thinking turned into hallucinations. Instead of anticipating the worst-case scenarios wherever I went, scenes would play out in my head so vividly that they felt real—especially my dad’s attack. I couldn’t stop imagining it as if it were happening to me. Dr. What’s-His-Name convinced my mom that I belonged at Compass Health Center. He said I’d continue to plummet without more support. But before she could register me for their Intensive Therapeutic Outpatient Program, I started getting better on my own. Proving Dr. What’s-His-Name wrong became all the motivation I needed to control my spiraling. I became stronger. Empowered. Smart enough to figure out how to keep it all in check. Even now, with the Swarm threatening to stab me, sideswipe me, or toss me into the Chicago River, I’m not crippled by fear like I might have once been. If they expected to scare me into submission, they failed—an epiphany that came to me late last night after I figured out my next possible lead.
Katie takes her seat at our usual lunch table. Her dark eyes have a haunted expression behind them. She opens her lips and pauses like she doesn’t know what to say. But before the words come out, her attention shifts. She quickly nudges her iPad to cover her sketchbook, where I swear I glimpse a drawing of me—an isolated girl, surrounded by people whispering. I avert my eyes, thankful the speech bubbles are too small to read, and pretend not to see it. It’s not like she’s mocking me. It’s just her observation of what the day’s been like. And she isn’t wrong.
Katie paws her dark, silky hair and collects herself. “When I told you I was going to Navy Pier and you told me not to go, I thought you were . . .”
“Crazy?” I act like it doesn’t hurt. When she texted me her plans Saturday morning and I wrote a million times back, begging her not to go, I could tell, even then, she thought I was irrational—her responses made that clear.
Katie drops her eyes. “You weren’t making sense. You didn’t say why.”
Not that it would have mattered. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe me. It just stung a little more coming from her. “I’m glad you weren’t there,” I say. Maybe I should sound more reassuring, but I don’t have it in me. The entire student body has treated me like some social leper with bad-luck disease, watching me from a distance, whispering behind my back. All of them. Like they passed around a morning memo titled How to Handle Lia Finch and they refuse to waver from what everyone else is doing.
I’d still take this over home lockdown.
Katie grabs a black, hexagon-shaped pencil from her backpack decorated with buttons: Save the Parks, Hate Free Zone, Keep Calm and Be Creative. She shades the anime avatar on the cover of her assignment notebook—the one of a girl holding a picket sign, who bears a striking resemblance to her. Katie glances at me. “I was supposed to collect signatures for Save the Parks.”
I think of Pixie Girl. Where was she when the attack broke out? Did her short, skinny legs run fast enough, sparing her from everything I witnessed?
Adam walks up, completing our trio. “You look so much worse than everyone’s been saying.”
If there wasn’t so much awkward tension between Katie and me already, I’d consider smiling. Adam mocking me for looking too boring or pale or tired feels normal. And right now, more than ever, I need normalcy.
“You should have seen me this weekend,” I say.
“Oh, we did. The whole world saw you wretched and waterlogged with seaweed in your hair. Thank God someone had enough sense to give you that coat we all know wasn’t yours.”
Katie balances her pencil on her stack of books before spreading a napkin to serve as her placemat. She opens her bento box with separate containers for fruit, celery, beans and rice, and rolled sandwiches. As she arranges a bag of chips on the left and a bottled water on the right, I notice tear tracks on her cheeks. I should say something. Ease her guilt. She is, after all, one of the only two friends I have. Instead I pinch the bridge of my nose like it might relieve the tension pressing against my eyes.
Adam cuts his white asparagus pizza with plastic utensils. “How’s the head?” he asks, like he�
�s talking about math class.
“Kills.”
From our corner in the cafeteria, Adam glowers at the students behind me. “Because of the concussion, or our charming compatriots who have no problem with their lack of discretion?” Adam throws his right hand toward the surrounding tables. “No one is even trying to hide the fact they are gossiping about you.” He looks almost vicious wearing a vintage heavy metal T-shirt from a band I’ve never heard of and black liner around his eyes. “Your pettiness never fails to disappoint,” he shouts.
A high-pitched cackle erupts from somewhere behind me. It pisses me off that I recognize Cullen Henking’s laugh. The way that self-righteous sociopath mocked my dad’s death still grates my nerves.
“And somehow,” Adam says, “he’s the hero of the story. Lia, how could you let that happen?”
“I was a little busy trying not to die.”
Katie smooths the hair falling in front of her shoulder and wrinkles her nose. “I had a Cullen Henking groupie ask me what the inside of his house looks like.” Her eyes flit toward mine, like she’s gauging my reaction, wondering if we’ve moved past it. “As if I’d ever associate with him or his dad.”
“It’s gaudy,” I say. “You’d hate it.”
Katie’s smile is weak, but appreciative. As a Save the Parks supporter, she’s compelled to hate the mayor. She slides her bag of chips toward me. “Eat something.”
“She’s right,” Adam says. “You look . . .”
“If you say ‘wretched’ again, I’ll smack you.”
“Grayish.”
“They’d let you go home,” Katie says. Her dark eyes taking on the pitying stare every adult in this school has given me today.
I pull my sweater sleeve over my palm and start wrapping the fabric around my thumb. “I needed to get out.”
Shifting in my seat, I grab the chips and pretend to read the nutritional information. Even though I’ve bumped into them both a couple times today, it’s the most we’ve talked about what happened.
Adam drops his usual roguish expression. “Touchy-feely is not my thing. But today I’d make an exception.”
I try opening the bag, but no matter how hard I tug, it won’t budge. I envision the huddled masses behind me mocking my ineptitude and throw the chips across the table.
Katie opens them easily and passes them back my way.
I lower my voice. “I took videos at the pier.” I address Adam. “I got the Initiators. Shots of the Swarm.” Lip Spikes. His dark brow. His pointed chin. The guy with gray eyes. Glaring at me when the attack broke, his face captured by the lens. “I caught enough to give Detective Irving, so he could build an actual case.”
Adam freezes. His fork and knife hover over his plate. Both elbows jut out like chicken wings. Katie’s jaw hangs slack.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, sure that everyone behind me is trying to eavesdrop and one-up the gossip mill.
Katie fumbles for a swig of water.
“Took pictures with what?” Adam says.
“My phone.”
Adam sets his plastic utensils down on either side of his plate. “Ditch them. Now. They’re easy to access, and if the wrong people find those . . .”
“The images are gone. Pictures, videos, everything.”
“Good. For a second, I didn’t think you were capable of acting sensibly.”
“I left my phone on the pier,” I say, shocked he thinks I’d erase them myself. I risked everything for them. “It was returned inside my bag, but the footage was gone.”
“Define ‘returned,’” Adam says.
“I jumped into the lake without my bag. Last night, it was left on my back porch.”
Katie squeezes her water bottle so hard the plastic crackles.
Adam splays his hands against the table. He closes his eyes, his thick, perfectly sculpted eyebrows adding drama to his frustration.
Everyone in the cafeteria must be watching us by now. I thought Adam of all people would understand. He’s the only one who knows how much I’ve investigated the Death Mob. He’s even been as obsessed as me at times when I’ve needed him for tech support. But I guess I don’t need him to get it. I just need him to help me with the last piece of tangible evidence I have to go on.
Katie turns to Adam. “Someone erased them?”
“Of course someone did. Lia can’t think anything through for the life of her.”
“My phone was locked,” I say defensively. “They hacked it.”
Adam snorts. “They probably guessed your password.”
“Just because you knock down firewalls every night doesn’t make me incompetent.”
“It’s bypass firewalls—not the point. There are ways to hack a phone, but any idiot can figure out your password.”
He acts like I’m technologically impaired. “That’s not true.”
“Katie, guess her code.”
“The date of her dad’s death?”
Adam nods, and Katie’s face glows with pride.
They’re the two people who know me best. That doesn’t make it obvious.
“What did your mom say?” Katie asks.
I grab my pendant and twist the chain around my index finger. “I didn’t tell her.”
“Tell me you at least called the police!”
“Keep your voice down,” I say through clenched teeth, certain that by the end of lunch, everyone behind us will have their own interpretation of what we’re talking about. It’s the side effect of attending a pretentious private school, where people treat Everybody’s Business like it’s a class they can ace and add to their transcripts.
I’m glad I didn’t mention the Escalade. The articles. The warning etched in the dust on my grill. “I figured out another lead. I just need to check into it before I . . .”
“You realize it was a threat.” Adam stares at me with a seriousness I’ve never seen on him before.
“Sure, but . . .”
“Lia.” His voice is low and severe. Adam, my overly sarcastic, in-your-face friend, adapts an Armageddon-type air of gravity I didn’t know he was capable of. “I wasn’t planning on giving you this lecture today, but clearly time is of the essence. Whatever you found, whatever you’re onto, drop it. At least let things settle down.”
It was stupid of me to bring this up here, today, with every gossip mongrel in this cafeteria dying for a scene so they have more to say about the spastic girl and her freaky near-death experience. I throw my bag over my shoulder. “You sound like Maggie Finch,” I say, ready to ditch as the entire cafeteria behind us hushes.
Adam and Katie look up.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, my face flushing.
“I don’t know about you, but today’s been exhausting.” Cullen Henking sits beside me, facing the cafeteria. He props his elbows behind him on our table and leans back. “All everyone wants to talk about is what happened between us this past weekend.”
Cullen grabs a chip from the bag in my hands. He flashes a fake, polished smile and pops the chip into his mouth. “But there’s beauty in that.” He brushes his hands together, wiping away the salty residue.
I feel blotches crawl up my neck and face as I ineptly search for something to say, assuring he will never ever smile at me that way again.
Cullen swings a leg over to straddle the bench. He moves closer, brushing a chunk of knotted hair behind my shoulder with his finger.
This is my chance to humiliate him in front of everyone at this school. Or at least put him in his place. But my lips won’t move and my thoughts are traffic jammed inside my head in a horn-blaring, road-raging mess.
“Here’s what I’m proposing. I don’t know if you’ve looked outside yet, but there’s a camera crew just past those doors dying for an exclusive. I’m heading out to give them a few words. Wanna join me?”
Again, the smile.
Behind me, no one moves. I imagine five hundred pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head, necks craning for a b
etter look to watch the spectacle in the corner of the cafeteria. His request is so absurd. Surely there are a million different comebacks I can sling at him, and yet I can’t think of anything to say.
Not a single word.
“Look, I get that Saturday sucked for you, but you’re missing out on a prime marketing opportunity. I, for example, am about to go out there and take advantage of an otherwise unfortunate situation.”
“I’d rather stab myself in the eye.”
Cullen chuckles like I’ve said something charming. He turns to Adam. “Better keep that knife away from her.” He brushes the underside of my chin with his index finger.
I jerk my head away.
“If you need me, you know where to find me.”
Adam chokes on his Diet Coke, nearly spitting it out across the table.
I ball my hands into little white fists. Of course he’d be all about the cameras. No doubt it’s why he’s wearing another collared shirt to school today.
Adam shouts after Cullen, now swaggering out of the cafeteria. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed. Hopefully your performance issue that night was just a one-time thing!”
I’d laugh if I weren’t so irritated. And with my head pounding, I can barely think. I would love nothing more than to stomp off and spend the rest of lunch locked in some bathroom stall.
But I need Adam’s help.
I’m the closest I’ve ever been to proving the attacks are organized and the victims targeted. If I can do that, then hopefully someone competent can figure out who’s behind them. I just need to make sure my other lead is legit before I hand it over.
Adam cuts a bite of pizza and stabs it with his fork.
I lean in. “Your program found it.”
Adam drops his fork and knife. “Seriously?”
“What program?” Katie asks.
“The Search Alligator.”
“You make it sound like kids’ play,” Adam says. He never approved of the nickname I gave it. “It’s a search aggregator,” he tells Katie, trying to sound annoyed, but his eyes ignite. “You’re still running it?”
Every Stolen Breath Page 5
