I’m not ready to admit my failure on both leads to Adam or whoever is calling. To acknowledge that Jeremiah Dopney is fighting for his life and I have nothing to show for it.
“Give me a freakin’ second.” I grab my phone out of my bag and am surprised to see three texts from a blocked number:
GET OUT
NOW!!!!!
STAIRS TO YOUR RIGHT—RUN!!
I spin, searching for the threat or person texting me. But no one looks out of place. No one’s paying attention to me.
I snatch my bag and fling it around my torso.
I scramble for my scarf as I half run, half walk toward the exit sign. My chest tightening, restricting my lungs, I twist the scarf around my neck and chin.
Just as I get to the door, I freeze.
It’s a trap.
Someone wants me in the stairwell so I’m alone. So he can kill me. Throw my body down the stairs. Watch it ricochet off the railings three stories down.
I turn away from the exit only to slam into someone’s chest. It’s hard and muscular. He reaches around me, yanks open the door, and shoves me into the stairwell.
CHAPTER 10
I stumble, fighting to keep upright as I’m thrown into the stairwell. I grab the rail, catapult myself down the stairs, and take off sprinting.
He follows me. His steps hammer the cement. They ricochet around the concrete walls—drowning my thoughts, my ability to think.
I’m not fast enough. My feet are too tiny and weak. Four stairs from the landing, I jump, hoping to gain ground as I spiral down the empty staircase.
He does the same, landing behind me with a massive thud.
My heart sinks. He’s faster than me. I’ll never make it down three flights.
I round the stairs to the second-level exit. Willing my legs to move faster, be quicker, make it to the door. My life depends on it. I jump the last three stairs, hurling myself forward. Just as I grab the handle, he catches my wrist and yanks me back.
I start to scream. But his other hand reaches around and clamps my mouth shut.
He’s tall and strong. He locks me in an iron-clad grip impossible to escape. I kick at him, hoping to shatter his kneecap or split his shin, but instead I’m a cloth puppet dangling in his arms.
“Calm down,” he says.
His voice is deep and rough. He’s trying to soothe me. He needs me to stop fighting so he can break my neck or throw me down the remaining two flights of stairs.
He takes a step forward, trying to control me. Refusing to give in, I lift both legs and kick off the wall. He loses balance and falls back against the railing of the stairwell, grunting. I rock my shoulders, flailing hard, but he tightens his grip.
His breathing accelerates. But he steadies himself with ease. He pins my arms and presses my back tight against his chest. My toes brush the ground.
I rack my brain for what my self-defense instructor would tell me to do to incapacitate him before conceding I’m completely defenseless.
“Stop fighting.” He leans in as he talks, just like the boy from the pier. His cheek presses against my head. His lips brush the top of my ear, sending chills down my back, and I know without a doubt it’s him. He’s come to finish what he started Saturday.
“Swarm are all over this library. If they see you, they’ll find out why you’re here.”
I thrash back and forth. Without a doubt, this is the guy who threw me off Navy Pier.
“Did you use your own account?”
He sounds angry. A short temper must be a prerequisite for the Death Mob.
“To sign in,” he adds impatiently.
The fight in me deflates. My library card number. He’s right. If anyone checked my account history, they’d see how many computers I signed into, that I checked IP addresses, that I’d searched for the tweet that announced the attack. Those dots aren’t hard to connect.
I think of the articles that were shoved in my bag. They were meant to threaten me, prevent me from doing what I did here tonight. This is all they’d need to justify killing me. Once again, I’ve screwed myself over with my inability to think things through.
I nod.
My head spins, flashing through all the faces I scrutinized on the third floor. I combed that room. I didn’t see anyone after me. None of them fit the Swarm’s profile. Breathing becomes increasingly labored as I search for a reason he would lie to me about this.
He lowers me to the ground and loosens his grip on my arms and mouth. “I’m going to let you go.”
The second he does, I jump away and spin around to face him.
The boy with the steel-gray eyes stands against the chipped blue railing of the stairwell. I press my back against the concrete, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who’s helping you.”
I search his face for a sign of deceit, but his expression, half-hidden from the florescent lighting by a faded White Sox hat, remains emotionless and unreadable.
“I don’t believe you.”
His bulky hoodie—the one he wore the last time I saw him—masks the strength of his arms, which moments ago rendered me helpless. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Had you hacked into someone else’s account to check all those computers—maybe you wouldn’t,” he says, like I’ve somehow jeopardized him.
I’m tempted to lunge at him, punch him, kick him for throwing me off the pier. “You nearly killed me.”
“And you’re acting like you want to die,” he says, his voice intensifying as he echoes the same ludicrous thing my mom said to me yesterday. His square jaw sets. The muscles ripple beneath his skin.
I glance at the second-floor exit, assessing what it would take to escape, but he steps to the side and blocks my view.
“That couple you kept looking at?” His eyes narrow into crescent-shaped slits. “They’re part of the Swarm. You’re lucky they’re too into each other to notice you or what you were reading.”
It doesn’t make sense. They were out in the open, making a scene.
“We don’t walk around concealing our identities all day.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to let this guy make me feel stupid. How did he know I’d seen that couple? Or what I was doing here? “How do you know so much about me?”
“Anyone with a TV knows who you are.”
“Are you following me?”
He steps toward me as if to intimidate. “I don’t think you get the danger you’re in.”
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin, extending my 5′5″ frame. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Above us, a door rattles in the stairway. I jump at the intrusion. Before I have a chance to look up, he grabs me and spins me around to face the second-floor exit door. With one hand clenching my bicep, he stands over me almost like he’s blocking me from whoever could be coming. My back presses against his chest, only this time it feels oddly protective. My nerves thrum with adrenaline. We stare at the third-floor door hovering ajar.
“You’re seeing things,” a whiny female voice says on the other side of the door. “She’s not here.”
I think of the couple running through the bookshelves. Their silly little cat and mouse game.
“I don’t want to take the stairs,” she says. “C’mon.”
The door rattles.
And then just like that, it closes. No one is coming.
“Was that them?” My words come out as an exhale.
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Let’s not find out.”
He nudges me forward, but I plant my feet. “Why are you doing this?”
His eyes flit back and forth between mine. “I knew your dad,” he says quietly.
For a moment, his words tug at my heart and I believe him. “He’s dead,” I say in a near whisper. “There’s no way to prove that.”
Facing each other,
this guy towers over me, making me feel little and inadequate. He looks about my age, but he’s already proven to be stronger and faster than me. If he is lying and this is all some kind of trick to kill me, I don’t know how I’ll escape.
He glances at the floor before staring at me with an intensity that almost makes me squirm. “He helped me once.” His face remains hard-set, but there’s emotion behind his expression. For whatever reason, I can’t pinpoint what it is.
My dad was a prosecuting attorney for the city. Most likely—if this guy is even telling the truth—my dad cut a deal to get him out of whatever offense he’d committed: drugs, theft, murder.
Several seconds of awkward silence pass before he says, “We need to move.”
He’s right. That couple could change their minds and burst through these doors any second.
I dig through my bag, trying to settle the shake in my hands as I put on my hat, my scarf.
In one swift motion, he pulls his hooded sweatshirt over his head and holds it out to me. “It’s big, but you’ll be less . . .” He looks me up and down, making me self-conscious. “Noticeable.”
Something about putting on his sweatshirt terrifies me.
“This”—I gesture to my disguise—“has always worked for me.”
His lips twist into a scowl. “Consistency will get you killed.”
I grab his sweatshirt with reluctance and throw it on over my head. “Says the boy wearing the same shirt he had on last time.”
“You’re the most recognizable girl in the city. No one’s looking for me.” He scrutinizes my new look in his sweatshirt, which is so long it hits my knees. He’s once again expressionless. “You’re breathing loudly.”
His perception throws me. I’m paralyzed for several seconds before I dig through my bag, grab my inhaler, and breathe in the puff of cold mist.
He reaches out and pulls the hood over my head as I toss my inhaler back into my bag.
“Keep your head down.” He grabs my hand, which feels fragile in his calloused grip, and I follow him down the last flight of stairs.
“Where are we going?” I still don’t trust him. Whatever his plan is, I need a backup that includes running far away from him the second things look sketchy.
“The ‘L.’”
“Then where?”
“You’re going home.” He pauses at the stairwell exit. “You ready?”
I nod. He puts his head down, tightens his grip on my hand, and shoves the door open.
He walks with deliberate ease, but his strides are long. I need to skip every few steps to keep up. We snake our way through a large common area toward the atrium that marks the library’s epicenter. As we pass a cluster of tables, he swipes a backpack resting on the back of a chair. His movements are so fast I do a double take to make sure he grabbed it. Without slowing our pace, he slides it over my arm and onto my back.
I glance over my shoulder, but the chair looks undisturbed. No one seems to have noticed we just stole their belongings.
He tugs on my arm so I look ahead. “Keep walking.”
Again, I shuffle to match his pace. I want to search the tables, the groups lingering near the outer edge of the room, see if I can spot the Swarm’s attackers with a new lens. But I’m too panicked about looking suspicious. Instead, I keep my head down and think casual. Nonchalant.
We circle another long table. He swipes a baseball cap lying upside down on the table. His movements are so subtle, so expert, I can’t imagine people noticing. At the same time, stealing everyone’s stuff is hardly inconspicuous.
We leave the common area and enter the hallway. He grabs my 95 hand, pulls me into a mosaic alcove, and flips me around so my back is pressed against the tiled wall. I clutch my bag, trying not to brush his shirt as he shields me. He swaps my hat for the baseball cap.
“It’s too big.”
His fingers catch in my tangled hair as he tucks it beneath the hat. I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed it’s knotted or annoyed he’s so rough. His focus is tight, intense. I can’t look at him. I squeeze my gut and try not to shudder every time his thumb sweeps along my neck, my ear. He breathes through his nose. Short, rhythmic bursts. His breaths are accelerated, but not labored.
“I’m not sure if I should be more scared of someone recognizing me or of wearing their things you just stole.” I mean to break the tension, but my voice sounds strangled.
His expression shifts from intense to cold, metallic. He stares at me for several seconds, letting me feel his glare. “It’s crucial no one recognizes you.”
My breath gets trapped in my throat.
He grabs my hand, scans the hallway, and pulls me behind him.
When we enter the Grand Lobby, his eyes shift around. An older, well-dressed couple circles the opening in the center of the room. They lean over the brass railing, peering down at the floor below. A few others sit on benches lining the wall. One woman takes pictures of the ceiling with her phone. Everyone here is too old for the Swarm.
As we pass the marble help desk, neither librarian looks up. No one here gives us a second glance. We walk down another long hallway, toward the “L” platform. I reach for my CTA card in my back pocket when suddenly he yanks my arm, swinging me through a glass door. We land in some empty conference room with long tables and chairs and no one to stop him or help me. He spins me around, and again I’m thrown against the wall, my back thudding. This time, he leans in. His forearms press the wall around my head. He drops his face near mine. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. My stomach flips. His lips start to move, and I’m hyperaware of the space shrinking between us.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
His head stays bent near my face, while his eyes watch the glass door. His breath, warm against my cheek, quickens. Just past the glass door, a group of people laugh and jeer. Four of them, at least—maybe more. Their voices come from the entrance near the “L.” His body tenses, his expression severe. The jeering gets louder as the group gets nearer and then seems to fade again as they pass.
His eyes flicker to mine, but I can tell he doesn’t see me. With his deadpan expression, he seems to listen for what’s happening outside.
He grabs his phone from his back pocket and flips through it. “There’s a Brown Line train coming in two minutes. Ready?”
I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.
We bolt through the glass door, down the hallway. He clutches my hand. I trail a step behind as we begin jogging.
When we hit the library’s exit and spill out onto the city sidewalks, the train is already rumbling above us toward the station. We break into a run—a half block to the train, up two flights of stairs. With each breath searing my lungs, I push legs that are threatening to collapse like my life depends on making this train.
It pulls in as we hit the turnstile. He runs toward the car, holds the door, and peeks inside, checking, I assume, for his friends. Then he straddles the platform and the train and waves me in.
As soon as I’m on, I grab a seat and put my head down by my knees.
I don’t even watch the “L” train doors close behind us.
CHAPTER 11
We sit across from each other, but don’t speak. A cold chill creeps down my spine as I consider everything this guy seems to know about me. I don’t even know his name.
We ride around the Loop, rocking back and forth each time the train jerks and turns. The city blurs by. Parking garages. Offices. A patchwork of sleek black windows taped together with stone and steel. Commuters pour in at each station. They huddle around me, clutching the bar overhead as my knees knock into their legs.
I concentrate on breathing and try to ignore the claustrophobic sensation clawing at my throat.
Scanning the passengers flipping through their devices, I remind myself they are harmless—everyone except him. He’s a part of the Swarm—the epitome of everything I hate and want to destroy. And for whatever reason, he’s helped me. Twice. It doesn’t make sense.
I don’t trust it.
Being in the right place at the right time, knowing my name, my phone number, where I live, telling me he knew my dead father, which I have no way to confirm—it’s all too convenient.
Our train rounds the corner, past Trump Tower, toward State and Lake. People make way as he maneuvers across the aisle. He grabs the backpack at my feet and the baseball cap from my head in one swift movement. His moves are so subtle, I might not have noticed he’d swiped the hat if it weren’t on my head.
“Let’s go,” he mumbles without looking at me. “Take the stairs to the Red Line. You lead.”
Grabbing the nearest pole, I pull myself to stand. The train slows as it nears the station. I squeeze my way toward the doors, steadying myself as I walk, while noticing he looks perfectly balanced without needing to hold on. When I get to the exit, I grab my hat from my bag and adjust it in the reflection of the train doors. I smooth the hair along the sides and twist the rest so it falls like a ponytail down my neck and into the sweatshirt. My hair is too white, too recognizable. I don’t need that kind of attention.
The train shudders, jerking me sideways. I grab the pole again to steady myself.
He stands behind me, his reflection in the darkened glass towering over mine. His T-shirt isn’t exactly tight, though it hugs the muscles in his arms and chest. I keep my eyes hidden beneath the lid of my hat. I can’t stand the thought of him seeing me look at him. Even in the reflection, his eyes are unmistakably bright.
I shift my gaze to an advertisement above the train doors. It’s a panoramic view of Chicago at sunset showcasing six of the eighteen million-dollar mansions lining the lakefront. I can just make out the mayor’s house. It’s farther from Navy Pier than I thought.
The train doors open, and I step onto the platform. He tosses the backpack and baseball cap into a trash can as he walks by it and waits for me to go ahead.
I fall in line with the crowd heading down the stairs to the street and the Red Line—one of the actual subways in the city. It’s late, but plenty of commuters are still heading home from the business district, making the station thick with passengers. The place rattles with trains coming and going. A chorus of chimes and automated voices on the overhead intercoms blur together into loud, indistinguishable background noise.
Every Stolen Breath Page 8
