In the thirteen years we’ve gone to school together, it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever heard him say, and I wonder if I did enough to silence the media’s speculations. My dad was so good at spinning stories, controlling what the media reported. Why didn’t I inherit that?
We pass beneath the “L” track. “Head toward Division and State.”
“Gold Coast? Interesting. Didn’t expect that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cullen looks me over and shrugs. “Didn’t peg you for a rich girl.”
I cross my arms. Of course, the entire Henking family would snub anything without a designer label. “You’re a jerk.” I try not to squirm in my tight jeans, T-shirt, and cardigan sweater.
“And you’re quite the actress. Quit changing the subject. I don’t believe for two seconds that you knew nothing about the attack before it happened. And I certainly don’t believe you couldn’t identify anyone there.”
I cast him a dirty sideways glance. “I don’t care what you think.”
My phone chimes in my bag. Twice. I dig through it to find texts from Adam.
you let CH help you?!?
your story was pathetic BTW. Somehow I think it worked.
Nice to know they didn’t waste time broadcasting.
“Go ahead, Lia. Tell me your little secret. How did you know there’d be an attack?”
My phone chimes again, but I’m too caught up wondering if this has been Cullen’s motive all along. Today’s teasing, his fake comradery, helping me with the cameras, taking me home—I can’t help but think he orchestrated it so he could ask me my secrets in a moment like this. And for what? So he can spill them to reporters, monopolize the attention?
We pass Second City and hang a left on North Avenue. My phone chimes, nagging me to check the incoming text. Theyre making you sound like a couple. I hope ur not still w him. Followed by, Dont ignore me. I got something for you.
Cullen’s phone buzzes too. “We’ve already made the news. According to Celia Green, I looked very attractive.”
??? I text. He must already have the IP address. My heartbeat thumps in my temples as I wait for Adam to fill in details.
Search Alligator?
I’ll ditch tonight!! Spill!
Even if the IP address doesn’t link to the guy in charge of organizing the attacks, it will at least tie to one of his lackeys. Maybe a house. Or apartment complex? Even an office building is a lead.
Cullen leans over like we’re exchanging secrets. “Did I look attractive, Lia?”
He runs a light as it turns red. Two cars honk at him.
I grip the door, bracing myself. “Watch the road.”
Adam texts, Took 42 minutes. New record.
Cullen accelerates. “Where to in Gold Coast?”
With one hand still clutching the door, I silently curse Adam for taking so long.
“Am I supposed to guess?”
Then at last: Snapchat from Adam Cohen.
Of course. He has to make this difficult.
Grabbing a pen from my purse, I tap the notification, half convinced they wiped my account for inactivity. It’s a picture of numbers. I scribble 24.192.0.28 to my wrist before the image switches to a scrap of paper with Adam’s handwriting: creepy demonic building ;) The second snap vanishes faster than the first.
In true Adam fashion, he’s ambiguous on purpose in case my phone isn’t safe, but I know exactly where he means. The Harold Washington Library. The giant Gothic owls perching along its roof freak Adam out. He calls them spawns of Satan, mostly because he knows they fascinate me.
“Change of plan,” I say. “Drop me off at the Brown Line.” It’s not the lead I’d hoped for. So many people use the Harold Washington Library computers each day that it might be another dead end. But it’s the only thing I have to go on.
Cullen scoffs. “I’m not a cab.”
He yanks the wheel to the right, shooting across three lanes of traffic. I brace myself as cars screech and swerve to avoid us. Cullen stops at a curb, in front of an Italian café.
“And you say I’m crazy.” I go for my buckle, but he clamps it down and holds it, trapping me in place.
A woman in a tight suit looks up from her patio table. She watches me as she sips her red wine.
“As I said, I am not a cab. I am, however, all about negotiating.”
“Let me go.” I claw at the straps of my belt.
“How did you know there would be an attack?”
He tries to pull off a playful smile, but there’s something sinister behind his narrowed eyes.
I grit my teeth and glare at him. “I didn’t know about the attack. It was a horrible, cruel, ironic fluke I was there. Now let me go before I give you a different reason to be on the news tonight.”
Cullen lets out a low chuckle and releases his hold on the belt. I unbuckle, fling open the door, and nearly jump out of the car, trying my best to look more pissed off than panicked.
Cullen shakes his head and puts on a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses.
“So many secrets, Lia. Don’t think I won’t get them out of you.” He leans across the passenger’s seat and drops his voice to a near whisper. “I’m pretty good at getting what I want.”
I slam the door as hard as I can, as if I can somehow hurt him. Instead, it draws the attention of the café’s half dozen patrons enjoying a late-afternoon meal.
Cullen cranks up the music before cutting off a car as he pulls away from the curb.
I swear I hear him laughing as he speeds away, leaving me behind.
Alone.
And even worse, exposed.
CHAPTER 9
I burst through the doors of the library. Rushing past the main lobby to the nearest staircase, I take the stairs two at a time to the third-floor computers and find an empty table in the corner. I throw my stuff down, slump in the chair, and release the breath I’ve been holding since getting off the “L.” Nervous energy prickles beneath my skin. I slide my hat off and unravel my scarf, keeping my hands busy so no one notices how badly they’re shaking.
After Cullen abandoned me in the middle of downtown Chicago, I concealed my face with the hat and scarf stowed in my bag. I kept my head low, watching for anyone trying to sneak up behind me. Stab me in the back. Throw me in the river. Toss me near the Metra tracks.
It took an hour navigating the two miles. I hugged storefronts and imagined all types of common accidental deaths: a mugging, getting caught in gang crossfire, a nudging into oncoming traffic. When I got to the “L,” I sat against the chain-link fence with my keys laced through my knuckles, ready to maul anyone entering the station to murder me.
I squeeze the sides of my head as if that will stop the paranoia. I need to focus. The computer that matches that IP address. It’s here. I need to find it. And once I do, I’ll figure out the very small detail of how that’s going to lead me to whoever sent the tweet.
Something has to come of this.
Standing, I flip my chair away from the table so it’s facing the center of the room, making it harder to sneak up behind me. As I do, someone slams books on a table. I grab my bag, ready to make a run for it before noticing some weedy-looking kid throwing his own little tantrum at an empty table near the edge of the room. It takes several seconds before I’m able to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the chair while Weedy Boy makes a big show of ripping open his book bag and yanking out materials in some passive aggressive way to get back at life’s unfairness. Any other day, the scene would be comical.
I exhale, trying to release the tension pulsing throughout my body. But as I scan the room, I notice the entire floor is packed. Eighty, maybe a hundred desktops—most of them occupied—line tables stretching across the center. Bordering the computers are smaller tables, also full, and on the far side of those, clusters of bookshelves.
Pressure squeezes my chest like a blood pressure cuff, cutting off circulation one second at a time. I didn’t expect so many
people. The low drone of their keyboard clicking becomes deafening, maddening.
And then somewhere from the middle of the pit, a phone rings. It’s piercing. Heads snap toward the intrusion. I watch for more chimes, more blue lights, more calls. I pore over the patrons to see who else is checking a phone and who is about to stand, spin, and swarm me.
I close my eyes, and lock my knees to prevent collapsing.
This is not Navy Pier.
Just a crowded room. A phone.
These people are not about to kill me. They are students completing homework, lone adults seeking quiet refuge, study groups carrying on like it doesn’t matter that the Death Mob reemerged and nearly killed someone a few days ago.
I push the fear back down the black, twisty tunnel. Get it together, Finch. I can’t flip out like this every time I see a crowd or hear a phone ring. I live in Chicago.
“You look so familiar.”
I swing my bag on instinct and find a man in a plaid shirt with a hooked, pockmarked nose sitting at a nearby table.
“Sorry.” He smiles derisively. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” His fingers curl like talons around his book. His eyes bug out like some predatory bird’s.
“It’s fine,” I whisper.
I can’t stop looking at his hands.
Bird Man tilts his head. “Are you an actress or something?” he says in a way that makes me suddenly thankful for the packed room. “I’ve seen you before.”
It isn’t a question. It’s awkward, intrusive. I tuck my stringy, whiteish-blonde hair behind my ear and am about to excuse myself when I notice the books on his table: Lethal Violence in Chicago, True Stories of Chicago’s Most Brutal Murders.
I take a step back as I read the title of the one he’s holding: The Psychology Behind Mob Mentality.
Bird Man’s eyes gleam. “Human psychology,” he says, tapping the book in his hand. “A crazed mob destroys our inhibitions so quickly, making us all do things we wouldn’t otherwise do.” He leans forward. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
My shoulders knot. Who is this guy? He doesn’t fit the Swarm profile, but I have a burning desire to put as much distance as I can between us.
He grabs his glasses from the table and draws out the act of putting them on. “I’ll figure out who you are.” He stares at me longer than he should before wagging his finger. “I always do.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and flee Bird Man and his creepy fixations before tonight’s news features my abduction by a child predator.
Heading toward the sea of computers where patrons stare at their screens like lifeless fish, I realize that checking the IP addresses of all these computers is near impossible. And even if I found the exact computer that was used, what good would that do?
That’s when I look up and see the security cameras hanging from the ceiling. If I find the computer, Detective Irving can access the footage and cross check it with the tweet’s time stamp. Irving will have the image of the guy who announced the attack, and I can somehow salvage the disaster I’ve created.
Excitement flutters in the base of my stomach, and I squeeze my gut. No need to get ahead of myself. I scan the room for where to begin. One kid, maybe fifteen, sits a few computers down wearing sunglasses. He’s bigger—muscular—and wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I walk faster, making a beeline for him, half expecting to see the Twitter account open on his desktop with a tweet about the next attack. But when I pass his computer, he’s reading a site on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He’s filled an open notebook with notes and lines of poetry in handwriting neater than mine.
Focus, Finch. It’s not like I’ve uncovered the Swarm’s hideout. I need to be vigilant, not neurotic.
Scoping my surroundings, I continue past him toward the far side of the room where fewer patrons sit. A murderous tweet wouldn’t be sent from a screen as visible as these to anyone walking by.
I stop at the first open desktop. Signing in with my library card, I navigate the system preferences to find the internal IP address. I pull my sleeve up and compare it to the numbers on my wrist. No match.
I inch along the row, trying four more computers, and fail. Just as I’m about to hit the fifth, giggling snaps my attention away. Two people are making out at the far end of the aisle I’m standing near. They have their tongues shoved so far down each other’s throats, it looks like they might choke each other.
That’s when I spot a set of ten computers tucked between rows of books, far removed from the rest of the room. If someone wanted to conduct nefarious activity on the third floor at the Harold Washington Library, these would be the computers to use.
I cut down the aisle and make my way to the island of desktops. The cubbies are empty, except for a faded Loyola sweatshirt folded over a chair and a green notebook resting on the keyboard.
Starting with the computer in the corner, I tap the space bar, enter my library card, and check the IP address. I move down the line—no match after no match—until I’m down to the final two. I shake the mouse, waking the ninth screen in front of the spiral notebook and hoodie. Someone’s signed in, with only six minutes left of their hour block.
I search for the user. No one’s lurking. This area, for the most part, is undisturbed.
Sitting down at the tenth desktop, I check its IP—another no match. I glance back at computer number nine. Six minutes is easy to waste. Booting up the Internet on the screen in front of me, I check my email—twenty-three spam messages and one from Emi Vega. I’m irritated before I even open it.
Hi, Lia! she begins, sounding like a high school student instead of a thirty-something professional.
I would love to sit down and chat with you.
I delete it, unable to read any more. She’s not getting an exclusive.
I scan the room for anyone paying too close attention to me. No one’s watching. No one’s sneaking up behind me. I’m ignored. And other than the sweatshirt and the notebook, I’m alone.
I search yesterday’s attack. The reporters at school mentioned CPD bringing someone in for questioning, like I should know about it. But I had no idea who it was.
The top story reads “Are Latin Royals Behind the Death Mob? Gang Leader Rafael Nuñez Brought in for Questioning.” It includes his picture, a mug shot, likely from a previous arrest.
Clicking on the link, I skim the article. The more I read, the more cynical I become. According to the article, Nuñez was brought in for his alleged involvement in Dopney’s assault after claims that dozens of Spanish-speaking, dark-skinned teenagers dominated the tip of Navy Pier just before the attack. Which is a lie. I don’t remember anyone Latino when the attack broke out. Certainly not dozens. Even with their faces covered, enough skin was exposed for me to know the Swarm was diverse—white, black, brown. The city’s always been quick to implicate gang activity, but they’ve never been specific about any one gang. They’ve never taken it this far.
I fall against the back of my chair. It’s a diversion. They’re pushing their only theory, that gangs are behind the attacks. And for whatever reason, they’re going after the Latin Royals. It feels like an attempt to thwart the investigation. But why? Why take it to this new level?
“I figured it out,” someone whispers in my ear. A bony hand slides over my shoulder.
I jerk around to find Bird Man peering at my computer screen.
“I should have known. You’re quite famous.”
I can’t breathe, or swallow. I can’t put enough space between me and his talonlike claws.
“Don’t worry.” Bird Man leans down and picks up the sweatshirt and the notebook. He tucks them underneath his arm. “Your secrets are safe with me.” He stares at my face, which I’m sure is pale and clammy and desperate. I scoot closer to the wall. My shoulder prickles where he touched me. Like spiders crawling on my skin.
Bird Man makes an attempt at winking and walks off—back to his books on murder. I swear the air grows colder as he leaves with—was it his notebook and sweats
hirt? Or was he simply collecting them as an excuse to taunt me?
I stare at the empty chair next to me, like it holds answers, before sliding into it and entering my library card number. A jittery rush races through me as I look up the IP address of the desktop Bird Man was using. I know before I read the numbers it’s going to be a match.
And it is.
I throw my hair into a ponytail with the rubber band around my wrist and access Twitter. In the early 2000s, when flash mobs shifted from innocent dances to teens looting stores and mugging tourists, Twitter was used to communicate. Whoever organized this last attack must have known that. I guarantee he thought his little nostalgic shout-out was clever.
But I’m clever too. As I try to type ZX_81412JT, my fingers shake. They slip on the keys, taking me three times before I get it right. When I do, the tweet is gone.
It doesn’t exist. I type in #13, wondering if I somehow screwed up the username. But the tweet’s been removed as if it never existed. There has to be a way to retrieve it. A stored cache on my computer or Adam’s computer. All I need is an image of it with that stupid time stamp. Why didn’t I print it?
But when I look around for the camera Detective Irving would access to cross-check the time stamp from the tweet, I can’t find one aimed at these computers. I spin in my chair, craning my neck, possibility sinking with every passing second. That’s why these computers were used. Whoever sent that tweet knew exactly what they were doing. I want to cling to the hope that they used their library card to sign in. But my instinct that it would be another futile pursuit is too strong.
I smack my palms against the keyboard. This can’t be it. There has to be something I’m missing.
My cell phone chimes in my bag.
Behind me, there’s cackling. I snap toward it and catch the couple who was making out earlier running through the shelves in a flirtatious game of chase. The girl’s hair, streaked with purple and dotted with metal barrettes, swings back and forth as she dodges her boyfriend. I roll my eyes as my cell chimes two more times.
Every Stolen Breath Page 7
